The Bee That Lost Its Sting

Margaret Chen had been terrified of bees since she was seven years old — the summer a yellow jacket crawled into her Kool-Aid and introduced itself the hard way. For forty years, every buzz near her ear sent a cold electric shock from skull to spine.

So when her grandson Tyler showed up one August afternoon cupping something in his hands, she nearly knocked over the porch furniture backing away.

"Grandma, it's okay," he said, opening his palms slowly. A fat bumblebee sat in the crease of his hand, grooming its legs. "It's a drone. Male bees can't sting. There's nothing in there."

She didn't believe him — until he let it crawl onto his finger and held it right up to her face. All the machinery of terror was present: the black and yellow bands, the buzz, the bulk. But the weapon was gone. The bee could land on her skin, and there was nothing — absolutely nothing — it could do to destroy her.

That is precisely what the resurrection accomplished. Death still shows up. It still buzzes around every bedside, every graveside, every midnight fear. The shape of it hasn't changed. But the Apostle Paul stares it down and taunts it like a man who has already seen inside the empty tomb: "Where, O death, is your sting?"

Sin gave death its power — and Christ absorbed that sin completely on the cross, exhausting its curse in His own body. The stinger has been pulled. What remains is only the appearance of something that can no longer finally destroy us.

Thanks be to God, who gives us the victory.