Death of a King

I promised that I would only blog about Michael's death after I have shed long gushing, pregnant tears over his passing. And I just did.

Michael Jackson died two weeks ago. At age 50, he was both mocked and revered by the world. He lived a full cycle of life. As a child he aimed to please. As a young man he lived to belong. As an adult he lived as he deserved. In his death, he unified the world.

The world loved him for his music and genius. Not for the color of his skin. But he was too human not to be drawn to the vice of the age - beauty. The world made him believe that white is beautiful. That pinched and high-bridged noses and thin lips are the only acceptable shapes for those. It is the same world that Karen Carpenter believed in when it said beautiful is thin.

Of course, we cannot second-guess the reasons for his actions. Could it be a matter of cutting off one's nose to spite one's face? Hurting yourself to hurt those you cannot?

We hated that his wax versions look more human than his real self. We cursed him for hanging his own child down the balcony of his house. We were repulsed by the news of his child molestation. We detested his pseudo marriages. We doubted that he could father a child, much more three children.

But where did those hatred and revulsion come from?

We read the news and we hold it as the sacred truth. We look at his distorted pictures in magazines and internet sites and we criticize him for his vanity. But this man was not supposed to be just looked at. He was born to be listened to. God sent him to sing to us, for us, of the love we can give, of forgiveness we need to dispense, of healing the world, of loving the world, of minding that there are people dying who need our helping hand, telling us that love needs expression, that we are not alone. God sent him to sing for us because priests and pastors and popes and ministers of the world can never put across the exact meaning of praises and love and hope and prayer which are all beyond words. Because these cannot just be limited behind pulpits and churches and chapels and cathedrals and mosques. Because when something is beyond words, we need angels as translators.

You need only see him sing and dance, yes, even that seemingly scandalous Billy Jean moonwalk and crotch-grabbing dance, to appreciate God's grace to bestow power that does not need to destroy to be called strong. One needs only see and hear Michael Jackson sing and you get the idea of heaven when angels sing.

MJ is dead. And the king is now with his King.