We knock and listen so we are prepared for the day—the inevitable day—when the gates will open to receive us to new life or a second death, to the bliss of heaven or the horrors of hell. We knock to ensure we are waiting, to ensure we are ready, to ensure we will go to be with the Lord we love.

There is a sense in which we are less familiar with death than our forebears, more insulated from its horrors. Of course the death rate in the twenty-first century is identical to every century before and every century to come—“it is appointed for [each and every] man to die once, and after that comes judgment.” So perhaps it is better to say we are less familiar with what we consider premature death—the death of infants, children, and young adults.
Because we are less familiar with death, we tend to prepare less for its inevitable encroachment. With the average lifespan now extending well past the promised threescore and ten, it is easy enough to set death alongside retirement, pensions, and inheritances as matters that should concern us sometime in the future, but certainly not right now.
But it was not always so and there are lessons we can and should learn from previous generations of Christians, for they had a heightened understanding of the importance of being ready. They had to. Like first responders, they had to be in a state of constant preparation, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice. Like servants, they had to be dressed and ready for the moment they were summoned into the presence of the king. They did not have the luxury of associating death with a life well-lived to a ripe old age. Death could come quickly and at any time. It commonly did.
In reading the Puritans and their successors, I’ve often come across a captivating little phrase: “knocking at the gates of the grave.” Jeremy Taylor wrote a whole book about Christian dying and said, “He that would die well must always look for death, every day knocking at the gates of the grave; and then the gates of the grave shall never prevail against him to do him mischief.” Theodore Cuyler sometimes recounted strolling through Greenwood cemetery where three of his children had been laid to rest—two as infants and one as a young adult—and using his time there to metaphorically knock at the gates of the grave, “to listen whether any painful echo comes back from within.”
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Victory comes through suffering. Real authentic, painful, soul-crushing suffering. And it’s not a lack of faith to sometimes quake at that reality. Daniel did. His alarm doesn’t negate his redemption, though. And that’s why even if we do grieve with Daniel, we grieve as those who have hope.

There’s a sermon illustration that I love. I think it first came from Randy Alcorn. It involves intricate marching bands. You ever see those? The marching band comes together and looks like a giant football player kicking a field goal. (Here is an example).
They are super awesome. But I bet they don’t look so cool when you’re on the field and view things from that perspective. When we view things from the ground instead of the grandstand we often miss the beauty and brilliance of what is going on. The same is true of life.
If you can see the whole picture, or know the end of the story, then it creates a bit of calm for us today. I think about this illustration as I’m preaching through Daniel. I’m convinced that those visions are given to the prophet in order to provide a bit of comfort as they go through exile. I suppose its a similar thought which leads Iain Duguid in his commentary to say about Daniel 7:
After all, the purpose of the passage is not to give us nightmares but to calm our nightmares. The focus of Daniel 7 is rather on the coming day of divine judgment, when these monsters will finally receive justice and God will win the final victory. (Duguid, Daniel REC, 112)
We know the end of the story. Jesus wins. God reigns, not whatever scary monster we are facing. Relax. No panic. No alarm. Don’t be anxious about the days ahead.
One Problem
As I was preaching through Daniel 7 last week that is the path that I wanted to take. But I couldn’t do it, not entirely. There was just one sticky little problem. Daniel 7:28,
Here is the end of the matter. As for me, Daniel, my thoughts greatly alarmed me, and my color changed, but I kept the matter in my heart.
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Are you desperate for victory? Over sin? Over despair? Over loss? Bow down and worship. “Draw near to the Lord and he will draw near to you,” (Jms. 4:8) James admonishes. “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise,” (Ps. 51:17), David echoes. This is not a promise of victory in our way and in our timing. God’s victories often look very different than our version. But God’s glory is made manifest when our hearts draw low in worship.

We’ve all had moments in our lives where it seemed like all hope was lost. I remember sitting at my desk in high school, staring at an AP Chemistry test that might as well have been written in Latin. I felt so doomed. My mind spun. I was going to fail this test. I was going to fail the class. Would I have to take summer school? Would I be able to get into my dream college?  I had catastrophized this one test into determining the trajectory of my future years.
We’ve all experienced failure and hopelessness: the creeping dread of loss.
Why does God allow us to fail? And how can God bring victory in hopeless circumstances?
In Judges 6, fear is spread like a blanket over the hearts of Israel. The Midianites have “overpowered Israel,” scattering the people of Israel into dens “in the mountains and the caves of the strongholds” (Jdgs 6:2). Israel cannot even harvest crops, “For whenever the Israelites planted crops, the Midianites and the Amalekites and the people of the East would come up against them” (Jdgs 6:3) and “leave no sustenance in Israel and no sheep or ox or donkey” (Jdgs 6:4). The Promised Land, flowing with milk and honey, had become a barren graveyard.
In their despair, “the people of Israel cried out for help to the Lord” (Jdgs 6:6).
And God responded in the most unexpected way. He sends an angel to a fearful Gideon who is beating out grain not on a true threshing floor (where wheat was usually threshed), but to a Gideon who is tucked into a winepress (traditionally carved into a rock) away from Midianite eyes. Without proper access to wind which was needed to carry away the chaff, the return for his efforts must have been nearly inedible grain: as much chaff as wheat.
“The Lord is with you, O mighty man of valor!” (Jdgs 6:12), the angel of the Lord greets Gideon.
Gideon’s head swivels, his heart thumps. Where did this intruder come from? What did he want with him? Gideon wants to run, but freezes instead.
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