A word against death

Death is heavy around here right now. I'm finally writing this because I was inspired by the post of a facebook friend announcing that her mom, who has been battling cancer, is going on hospice. This on the tail end of a week which included three funerals, one of them for a couple who died in an unexpected accident, as well as the uncertainty of one parish member's last days in his battle with cancer, and another whose poor health has led him into surgery which he may not survive. Add that to my dad telling me about a stillbirth he tended this weekend, and let me assure you, I have no illusions about mortality. I apologize if I'm not particularly astute or eloquent right now, but this word is for me, because sometimes the preacher needs to preach to herself. But I hope that if you're reading this and the weight of death is hanging around you, that this Word touches you as well, and gives you hope to carry on.

There is no good answer to death, whether it's an expected death of a 96 year old, like one of last week's funerals, or the shocking death of a suicide or a school full of kids. Today at our weekly text study, one pastor admitted that he often reads Psalm 43 for his own comfort, to remind him that even in the midst of all the crap that we wade through, God is with us. "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze." It's nice to know that God is walking with us in our suffering, because just feeling like somebody else is there is sometimes the best comfort. But often it's not. If God is with us, why isn't s/he doing something? Why doesn't God intervene to fix it, to help us, to make it go away? Why does cancer get victory? Why does accident or weakness or age win? Why does it feel like we're fighting against mortality, and always losing? It makes me angry sometimes, and I'm sad and lonely and stricken for the unfairness, for the pain that lovely, wonderful people go through, and the pain I go through too.

There's no easy answer to our suffering right now. The Thessalonians faced this problem. They were promised a savior, they were promised a king, and yet their loved ones were dying. Where do you find hope for life in the midst of death? How do you believe in the resurrection when all you see is death? I'm not really sure, but I know that faith is all about uncertainty. Faith is all about trusting the word of the one who keeps promises, even when it's hard, even when faced with all evidence to the contrary. Faith is about hearing that word declared to you again and again so that it sustains you, fills you, and carries you through grief in the most impossible times. Because faith is foolishness. But it's exactly because it's foolishness that it is so defiant toward death.

I think we defy evil with hope, and I want it to know exactly how much I defy it tonight. I also want you, whoever you are, whatever deaths (of dreams, of opportunities, or of loved ones) that you're facing to hear this word too: There is life. There is life beyond our pain, and there is life beyond our grief, and there is life beyond our death. Death is the insidious consequence, that which decays us, separates and breaks us, and steals our hope. But Christ is the life which triumphs over it. This is the God who promised to free Israel from slavery, and did it. This is the God who promised to bring Israel out of captivity, and did it. This is the God who promised a savior, and did it, and this is the God who promised life in the midst of death, and not only did it but is doing it today. It means that death never has the last word. It sucks. Death is horrible, and the suffering is unbelievable. But it's not the end. The end is the redemption. The end is the fulfillment of the promise. The end is the resurrection of the dead, of Christ, of your mother or father or friend or child, of me, and you. Amen. Amen amen amen.