What Michael Jackson's Death Says About My Heart
“He wasn’t breathing.” Something about reading those words in a news story made me instantly regret the wealth of off-color jokes I had made or enjoyed at Michael Jackson’s expense. I know that’s an easy thing to say now. We’re all pretty good at revering dead celebrities, but I write this with all the authenticity I can muster: I’m sad that he’s gone.
In my mind, nothing humanizes even the most peculiar of individuals like an unexpected death. Somehow, it made me remember that no matter how strangely he behaved or how deplorable some of his actions were, Michael Jackson was a human being. It’s easy to forget that when I only ever met him through my stereo or television screen or on the cover of a tabloid. Nevertheless, he was made in the image of God. His lungs were once filled with God-given breath. And most importantly, he was fearfully and wonderfully made.
Yet it seems that he never came to that conclusion himself, which is hard to grasp since he was so talented. I think it’s safe to say that Michael struggled to create by human means a face with which he could live. And what surgeries lacked, he covered up with lifestyle. A large, amusement-filled estate. Clothes. Antiques and rarities. Lavish living is usually a telltale sign of insecurity and discontent with God’s creation and purposes.
And therein lies my sorrow. Though he led a more remarkable life, Michael Jackson and I were born with the same innate desire to suppress God’s truth about where we come from and why we’re here. That desire is the birthplace for all the sin in our lives. It is the place where we say, “No, god,” and “Yes, Self!” And most pointedly, it’s the place where we decide that others’ sins are heinous and laughable, while our sins are justified and admirable.
Would Michael Jackson have made jokes at the expense of my insecurities and foibles? I don’t know. Maybe. But his death has reminded me of my need to be more like the One who will never cast out those who come to him… the One who promises rest to the weary… the One who takes no pleasure in the death of anyone.
In my mind, nothing humanizes even the most peculiar of individuals like an unexpected death. Somehow, it made me remember that no matter how strangely he behaved or how deplorable some of his actions were, Michael Jackson was a human being. It’s easy to forget that when I only ever met him through my stereo or television screen or on the cover of a tabloid. Nevertheless, he was made in the image of God. His lungs were once filled with God-given breath. And most importantly, he was fearfully and wonderfully made.
Yet it seems that he never came to that conclusion himself, which is hard to grasp since he was so talented. I think it’s safe to say that Michael struggled to create by human means a face with which he could live. And what surgeries lacked, he covered up with lifestyle. A large, amusement-filled estate. Clothes. Antiques and rarities. Lavish living is usually a telltale sign of insecurity and discontent with God’s creation and purposes.
And therein lies my sorrow. Though he led a more remarkable life, Michael Jackson and I were born with the same innate desire to suppress God’s truth about where we come from and why we’re here. That desire is the birthplace for all the sin in our lives. It is the place where we say, “No, god,” and “Yes, Self!” And most pointedly, it’s the place where we decide that others’ sins are heinous and laughable, while our sins are justified and admirable.
Would Michael Jackson have made jokes at the expense of my insecurities and foibles? I don’t know. Maybe. But his death has reminded me of my need to be more like the One who will never cast out those who come to him… the One who promises rest to the weary… the One who takes no pleasure in the death of anyone.
posted by Chase Abner at 12:26:00 PM
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