The Mystery of a Butterfly

Recently, I received an unpublished essay by an author struggling with the sudden death of his first wife while they were on vacation in Mexico many years earlier. He honored her request to be cremated at once and now struggled with the mystery of what happened and its meaning in his own life.  What had become of the molecules and atoms that once comprised her body?

I will not attempt to emulate the beauty and profundity of that author's writing—he is a newspaper man with a working knowledge of modern scientific theories. He is also a Christian with a deep faith. 

His questions: 

• Is this universe all a matter of chance? 
• Or is there an omnipotent, all-knowing Creator who has designed it all? 
• What hope lies beyond death? 
• Is there some kind of parallel universe to which the dead go? 
• How does the promise of resurrection differ from reincarnation and the recycling of matter?
• Why do these mysteries demand humility?

Strange, but these seem like springtime questions, questions that return with the celebration of Easter and the return of life all around us. Like him and probably like you, I also ponder them. But I cannot cram them into one or even two short pieces in this Blog. Perhaps over the next week or so I'll be able to poke at them, point to some things written by people with more knowledge and skill than I have.


For today, I ponder the mystery of the resurrection. Like my unnamed essayist, I too am awed by the mystery of a butterfly. He mentions this analogy a couple times. The most moving was when he told of how Jews in Nazi concentration camps in Belgium had scratched butterflies on the walls, symbols that spoke of the hope in their hearts. Butterflies as images and the subject of poems were found in many Nazi concentration camps. Reflecting that, the Apostle Paul wrote: 

"Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed" (1 Corinthians 15:51-52).


Paul frequently refers to mysteries. He calls them secrets, hidden wisdom of God, part of a plan reaching back before the 'ages' began (1 Cor. 2:7). Like all men of faith he believes in a universe ordered by God's wisdom, a wisdom so profound, so deep and comprehensive that no eye has ever seen it, no ear heard it nor has it ever entered the heart of any man (Isaiah 64:4).

This mysterious wisdom is bound up in the story of Christ. He is, in truth, the wisdom of God, far more profound than any human science or philosophy. Before him all the scholars, philosophers and scientists who flaunt and debate their insights and knowledge must bow (1 Cor. 1:17-31). He is the source of our life since he is the reason why God has declared us sinners righteous and forgiven, holy and redeemed in His sight (1 Cor. 1:30).

Yesterday as I walked the streets of our neighborhood I suddenly stopped. There before me on the street was a marvelous yellow and black butterfly. I had almost stepped on it. As I reached down it took off and flew away into the yard beyond. I followed it for a time, but soon lost sight of it. I did not see another that morning. Here's a poem written by Pavel Friedman who died in Auschwitz on September 29, 1944. It's called simply "The Butterfly." 

The last, the very last,

So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.

Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing

against a white stone. . . .

Such, such a yellow

Is carried lightly 'way up high.

It went away I'm sure because it wished to

kiss the world good-bye.

For seven weeks I've lived in here,

Penned up inside this ghetto.

But I have found what I love here.

The dandelions call to me

And the white chestnut branches in the court.

Only I never saw another butterfly.

That butterfly was the last one.

Butterflies don't live in here,

in the ghetto