We All Fall Down

by Clint Wagnon


[Note: This article was originally published on September 10, 2001 just hours before the terrorist attacks on the United States.]

I once heard Charles Swindoll tell of the great plague that swept through Europe during the 17th Century. It was known as “Black Death” to those who watched it ravage through the countryside like a sadistic serial killer at night. It received little press when first reported in May of 1664, but by May of the next year over 600 people had died. A month later, 6,000 were dead. By August—31,000. In the end, over 25 million Europeans fell victim to the plague.

It was called “Black Death” it is thought, because of the big black splotches that appeared on the victims’ bodies and because of the blackness of ignorance that surrounded its cause. Many suspected it was caused by polluted air, but we now know it was carried by fleas on rats. Bizarre rituals were developed to treat those infected with the plague. Because it was believed that the polluted air was the cause, the sick were led to walk in circles around gardens of roses, hoping the fresh fragrance would flush out the diseased air in their lungs. Doctors placed posies in their patients’ rooms. For those near death, petals were burned and ashes placed near the nostrils, hoping it would cause the victim to sneeze out the pollution. Oddly enough, historians tell us that during this period birth was given to a nursery rhyme that is still sung by children today. It is reported that those pushing the death carts through the streets of London collecting corpses could be heard chanting the words:
“Ring around the roses. Pocket full of posies.
Ashes, ashes. We all fall down.”

Morbid isn't it? But absolutely true. We all fall down. That dry fact is utterly inescapable. Although none of us enjoy the thought of it, there will come a day when the last pen stroke is made in the story of our earthly lives. The nursery rhyme is sobering.

Usually, we do not deal with death unless some terrible tragedy jerks us violently back to the reality that we live in a fallen world, on a raging planet, where it rains on the just and unjust. Some senseless slaughter or natural calamity shocks us to our core and we are reminded of the heartbreak that God tastes every day as millions slip into eternity. This great enemy called death is the natural consequence of the fall... and because of it, we all fall down.

In one of my favorite movies, Braveheart, there is a gripping scene where William Wallace, confronted with his own mortality, makes the remarkable statement, “Every man dies. Not every man really lives.”