One of my favorite songs by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band is Like a Rock. Many of us see our own lives reflected in those words sung so wistfully and mournfully. Old men like me look back through the eyes of memory and remember those days when we were convinced we would live forever. We willingly tackled any challenge because there seemed to be nothing we couldn’t do and no obstacle we couldn’t overcome. We were, as Seger sings, “like a rock.”
( Songwriters: Bob Seger, Like A Rock lyrics © Gear Publishing Company Inc, Gear Publishing Co. Inc. )
Stood there boldly, sweatin’ in the Sun
Felt like a million, felt like number one
The height of summer, I’d never felt that strong
Like a rock
I was 18, didn’t have a care
Working for peanuts, not a dime to spare
But I was lean and solid everywhere
Like a rock
My hands were steady, my eyes were clear and bright
My walk had purpose, my steps were quick and light
And I held firmly to what I felt was right
Like a rock
Like a rock, I was strong as I could be
Like a rock, nothin’ ever got to me
Like a rock, I was something to see
Like a rock ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMIJuuk1SFs )
When Seger sings those words, he is not merely celebrating youth; he is remembering it. The song itself is an acknowledgment that the strength of eighteen cannot be held forever. The years move on. Muscles weaken. Energy fades. The confidence that once seemed unshakable slowly gives way to a sobering realization: we are not as solid as we once thought.
Now, with the weight of years upon me, I know—and many of you know—that rushing toward us with unstoppable certainty is the great enemy: Death.
Most of us, when we sense death drawing near, instinctively recoil. We try to push it away, as though we could keep its cold hand from touching us or those we love. Yet death enters every room eventually. Sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes after a long warning, but always with the same certainty. Whether it comes for us or for someone we love, we feel its presence in the darkest corners of our thoughts.
As Tuan, the white man, and Arsat await the death that is approaching the lonely hut outside which they sit, Joseph Conrad, in his short story The Lagoon, writes: (https://americanliterature.com/author/joseph-conrad/short-story/the-lagoon)
“The white man gazed straight before him into the darkness with wide-open eyes. The fear and fascination, the inspiration and the wonder of death — of death near, unavoidable, and unseen, soothed the unrest of his race and stirred the most indistinct, the most intimate of his thoughts.”
Conrad speaks of the fear and fascination, the inspiration and wonder of death. We certainly understand the fear. But fascination? What is there about death that fascinates us?
Perhaps it is because death remains undefeated. We have spent billions of dollars and devoted countless hours to medicine, science, research, hospitals, surgeries, and treatments. We have prolonged life, improved life, and eased suffering. Yet we have not conquered death.
Humanity has even attempted to stop death through war. During World War II, unimaginable destructive power was unleashed in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Hundreds of thousands perished, and the war came to an end. Yet nearly all of those who celebrated that victory have themselves passed away. The weapons were silenced, but death was not defeated. The bullets stopped flying, but death continued its relentless march.
Perhaps that is part of the fascination. Death is the one enemy that eventually stands before every person who has ever lived.
Conrad also speaks of the inspiration of death. That may seem strange until we consider what happens when we honestly face our mortality. Philosophers call it an ontological confrontation—the recognition that we are going to die. When we acknowledge that reality, we begin asking questions about meaning, purpose, and value. Death forces us to think seriously about life.
And contemplating death should also inspire us to think about eternity.
Many believe that when we die, we simply cease to exist. I believe otherwise. Death is not the end of existence. For those who belong to Jesus Christ, death is not a master but a servant. It carries us into the presence of the Creator.
Jesus told the story of a rich man and a beggar named Lazarus. Luke records that when Lazarus died, he “was carried by the angels to Abraham’s side” (Luke 16:22). Death took away Lazarus’s earthly life, but it did not end his existence. The rich man also died, and he too entered eternity.
The story raises an important question. What determines where we spend eternity?
The rich man may have believed that his wealth was evidence of God’s favor. Many people today trust in accomplishments, morality, reputation, influence, or generosity. Yet life cannot be purchased. It does not matter how much money we accumulate, how talented we are, or how many good works we perform. Eternal life cannot be bought.
This brings us to the problem of sin.
We often read Romans 6:23—”For the wages of sin is death”—and immediately think in terms of payment and punishment. But Paul paints a vivid picture. Sin is personified as a master paying wages to its servants. The wage Sin pays is death. Death is the inevitable consequence of serving sin.
And what is the solution?
Not payment. Not human effort. Not religious achievement.
The answer is forgiveness.
If you can read the Scriptures with a vivid imagination, place yourself near the foot of the cross. See the blood flowing from His brow, His hands, and His feet. Listen above the noise of the crowd. Hear the words spoken by the One who hangs there dying:
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
What is God thinking as He hears those words? What does the cross reveal about the heart of the Father?
The answer is found in one of the most beloved passages in all of Scripture:
“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16, ESV)
Once I was eighteen and thought I was like a rock. Now I know better. Rocks weather. Bodies weaken. Time leaves its mark on all of us. Yet because of Jesus Christ, death does not have the final word.
The rock of youth eventually crumbles, but the promise of eternal life does not.
That is why I can face the future—not because I am as strong as I once was, but because God’s love is stronger than death itself.