The Death of the Cicadas

A rare species of cicada has recently invaded our little part of the bluegrass. The noise that these swarms create can be deafening. Lydah and I have had a fun time marveling at their beauty although she didn't particularly care for it when one landed on her bare foot. This particular species has red eyes and a black body and, if what I've been told is correct, they only appear every seventeen years.

Today we returned home after two days in Indiana to find that all of the cicadas are now dead. Their brief lives had served its purpose and now the once mighty roar of the swarm has fallen silent. Lydah saw one of the dead cicadas on the ground today and asked me to pick it up and throw it into the air so that it would fly away (one of the games we had played in the preceding weeks). I tried to explain to her that they were dead and would no longer fly, but she didn't understand. So I picked up the dead cicada whose red eyes had faded to brown and threw him into the air. Lydah watched in disappointment as it thudded to the ground and, giving up on this form of entertainment, was quickly distracted by a nearby bird.

Are we humans like these cicadas? Do we appear briefly on this earth, make some noise, procreate, and then die off almost as quickly as we came? Are we just a blip on the timeline of the universe just as this species of cicada passed through birth, life, and death within a few weeks and then disappeared? Surely, if this is the human story -- if we are cicadas and nothing more -- then all hope is lost, all efforts to improve humanity are in vein, all striving after God and goodness and love is entirely meaningless. Please pardon the sacrilege here, but if this is the human story then can we really call the holocaust or the current crisis in Darfur a tragedy? Are these not simply brute facts and somber reminders of the fate of us all?

Some will argue that meaning can be found even if our lives are like those of the cicada. I cannot find it. Dust that breathes a few breaths and then returns to dust is hopeless, pointless, and worthless.

This is why the resurrection of Christ is the linchpin of the entire Christian faith. It reminds us that this dust which presently constitutes our bodies will one day be reconstituted into an incorruptible form. What God did for Jesus, He will do for us all. Our story is not the cicada story and Christians around the world rejoice in this fact as they declare the mystery of their faith:

"Christ has died, Christ has risen, and Christ will come again."