The Sting That Killed the Stinger

Every beekeeper knows the peculiar vulnerability of the honeybee. Unlike wasps or hornets, a honeybee can only sting once. Its barbed stinger lodges deep in the skin, and as the bee pulls away, the stinger rips from its abdomen, taking the venom sac and part of its digestive tract with it. The bee delivers its wound and dies in the act. The very attack that makes it dangerous is the thing that destroys it.

On a Friday afternoon outside Jerusalem, death drove its stinger into Christ. The venom of every sin ever committed — past, present, and future — was injected into the Son of God. And for three days, it looked like death had won the only fight that mattered. The disciples scattered. The tomb was sealed. The sting had landed.

But on Sunday morning, the stone rolled back, and the world discovered what had really happened. Death had stung the One it could not kill. And like that honeybee, death pulled away and left its stinger behind — embedded in an empty cross and an empty grave. The weapon was spent. The venom was absorbed. Death had destroyed itself in the act of attacking the Author of life.

This is why Paul could taunt death like a defanged serpent: "Where, O death, is your sting?" It is not bravado. It is biology — resurrection biology. The Almighty took the worst death could deliver, swallowed its poison whole, and handed us the victory. Death still buzzes around us, but the stinger is gone forever.