Death Hurts

The pain of death

Death hurts.

Many years ago, at a friend’s invitation, I went to a Good Friday service at a liberal church. Throughout the evening, the entire mood was one of pain and grief. At the end, we were told not to smile cheerfully at each other as we went our separate ways, but to maintain a solemn silence. When we returned to gather on Easter morning, then we could greet each other with joy as we proclaimed, “He is risen!” We were encouraged to keep the sadness of Good Friday in our thoughts until Sunday.

In contrast, most of the evangelical Good Friday services that I attend close with the uplifting hope of Easter. They downplay the very real pain of Jesus’ death and quickly move along to the joy of His resurrection, rather than remaining in the between-time of intense grief that the earliest Christians suffered through.

But death hurts.

My neighbor, Matthew, and I were more like acquaintances than friends. We’d exchange greetings when we saw each other out front. Once in a while we’d extend that to a brief conversation, with comments on the weather or the latest sports scores.

Our encounters were short and shallow, not enough for me to form an accurate view of his character. But over time I grew to respect him because of what I saw in him outside of our conversations and what I heard about him from others.

He was kind and gracious to everyone, with a ready smile and laugh. He was a hard and steady worker who, at about 40 years old, was struggling financially through no fault of his own, but who never expressed any bitterness or resentment about it. Matthew was a good guy.

And then, one day recently, he was suddenly gone. A heart attack took his life.

I didn’t shed many tears, because I’d never been very close to him. But it hurt more than I would’ve expected.

I thought I was hurting for his grieving parents, although I’d never met them. I’m sure that was a big part of it, but it went beyond that.

I thought I was hurting because he was no longer there to say hello when I expected him to be. I did miss him a bit, but it went beyond that.

There’s something about death itself that just plain hurts. For most people, the death of a loved one will trigger emotional pain beyond any other suffering that they ever go through.

Death hurts.

I was a teenager when President Nixon resigned. I remember the anger and hatred people felt toward him for his devious character and illegal actions. But I also remember the change when, not too many months later, he experienced a potentially life-threatening medical crisis. Hard hearts were suddenly softened. Voices that had been raised in anger were hushed. The possibility of death was looming in front of us, and we felt the hurt. Even for this man who had caused so much pain.

Death hurts.

Even if we didn’t know the person very well.

Even if we didn’t like him.

The pain of Good Friday

We need to allow ourselves to feel that hurt. Even on Good Friday. Maybe especially on Good Friday.

All of Jesus’ followers were deeply hurt by His death. Shouldn't we be, too?

It’s easy to assume that the only reason for their pain was their lack of faith. Jesus had told them many times that He would die and rise again (e.g. Mark 8:31), but those foolish, blind followers of His refused to believe Him.

Some Christians seem to think that if the disciples had accepted the truth He’d graciously revealed to them in advance, they wouldn’t have felt any pain or grief at all at the cross. Maybe they would have rejoiced that God’s will was being done, and eagerly looked forward to His resurrection on the third day.

But would they?

Or would their hearts have broken anyway? In sympathy for His physical and spiritual suffering. In grief for their loss of His bodily presence. In anger at the injustice. Or just because death hurts.

Jesus cried at the death of Lazarus—even though He knew that He would soon bring him back to life and that God would be glorified as a result (John 11:4). Jesus wept at something that He knew would bring glory to both Father and Son.

Death hurts.

The joy of Easter

And that makes the wonder and joy of Easter so much greater. Death itself has been defeated. That most painful suffering that many of us experience was conquered by God through Jesus’ death and resurrection.

The contrast between the terrible pain of the crucifixion and the great joy of the resurrection is similar to Paul’s comparison in 2 Corinthians 4:16-17: Through the disciples’ light and momentary troubles on Good Friday (as real and deep and intense as those troubles were), God achieved an eternal weight of glory on Easter Sunday that far outweighed them all. It was far more real and deep and intense.

Easter doesn’t mean that we’ll never hurt. It means that even the most serious pain we’ll ever know can be healed through the crucifixion and resurrection. (This isn’t usually instantaneous. It often takes a while. Maybe that’s one reason God allowed some time to pass between the two events—so we won’t expect instant relief.)

And we won’t just be healed, leaving us pretty much the same but with a few fresh scars. We’ll be redeemed, transformed, made new, brought into a kind of life that includes pain but that far outweighs any and all suffering that the evil one can ever inflict on us.