Death is coming. We notice it in the signs and stories of Lent. We feel it in the pleas of the psalms. We brace ourselves for it in the building drama of Holy Week. Death is coming.

But death takes its definition from life. Without an experience of life, death loses its relevance. Without a vision for the life that was and the life that could be, the tragedies of life “as is” lack urgency. If we do not remember the summer and hope for the spring, we might make peace with the frozen grave of winter.

In the wake of the death and devastation of the Babylonian exile, Isaiah reminds the exiled people of interminable life. The promise of life after exile is made by the same God who first gave the people life and breath. The temporary death of their freedom cannot overcome the life already given and still to come. The hope of a leader who will cultivate justice is extended by the same God who unfurled the earth so it could bear fruit. The promise of a beacon to relieve despair is made by the same God who stretched stars across the heavens. Death and darkness cannot extinguish them. Death’s poison cannot taint life’s growth.

Yes, there has been death, sings the prophet, but remember the breadth and beauty of life. Remember the holy wildness from which life sprouted. Remember freedom that beckons even from a dimly burning lamp. Remember the promise that God holds us and keeps us.

Yes, death is coming this Holy Week, but remember that God’s love is already stretched out to the heavens. God’s faithfulness is already whispered between the clouds. Like perfume poured out extravagantly over dusty feet, God has poured the fullness of life across our dusty selves with the promise that more life is still to come.