Celebrity

I was shocked and saddened to learn of the death of Michael Jackson last week. Like millions of little girls who grew up in the 1970s I had a crush on the littlest member of the Jackson 5. I memorized every lyric and audible gesture on his Off the Wall album that dominated the eight- track player in my parents car. I watched in amazement as "the gloved one" effortlessly glided across the stage at Motown 25 introducing the world to the moonwalk. And, I squinted with one eye open at the horror that was Thriller. He was a spectacle to behold.

In spite of this, my grief doesn't stem from the loss of a childhood heartthrob or the realization that I will never again see his fluid movements grace a stage. In fact, my grief for Michael Jackson began long before the news announced that he had suffered fatal cardiac arrest. Deprived of a childhood and lacking a Godly foundation his life had become a slow-moving train wreck. The ongoing voluntary mutilation of his face provided visible evidence of a deeply trouble soul. I have grieved for Michael for a long time.

But now I grieve the fact that I was unable to tell my childhood friend that the metamorphosis that he sought couldn't be found in the hands of even the finest plastic surgeon on Earth nor by willing the "Man in the Mirror" to change. This transformation that he needed and longed for is found exclusively in the surrender of power, not in its pursuit, to Jesus. I grieve that he didn't experience the rebirth that is possible when one comes to know Christ as Saviour and Lord. I am saddened that Michael was unable to realize the unconditional love of his Heavenly Father, in who's image he was created. And I am incredibly saddened that the shallow, temporary, fame and fortune of this world are of absolutely no value to him in the end, no matter how many fans pay tribute to him now that he is gone, "for what does it profit a man to gain this whole world and lose his soul?" Mark 8:36