Death Hurts
Death. Even as I glance at the word on the page it looks so sinister, so foreboding. It’s a word that gets caught up in the back of your throat before it passes through your lips. No wonder we’ve invented euphemisms that allow us to speak of death without actually using the word. “He passed away” seems less pungent than saying, “he died.” “Now she rests in peace” seems so much more palatable than saying, “she’s dead.”
Even doctors avoid using the word “death” by saying a person has “expired.” What a poorly chosen euphemism! Library books expire. There are “expiration dates” on milk cartons. People don’t expire - they die; and in most cases their expiration dates are visible only to the eyes of God.
As a pastor, I deal with death more often than most. Each year the chill of death regularly sweeps across my soul, and while I do not fear it, I am always pained by the sting it leaves on those who must grasp its consequences.
Since this time last year, over 500,000 Americans have died as a result of the coronavirus. Worldwide, over 2.5 million mothers, fathers, children, and loved ones have drawn their last breath, many who did so without the presence and support of a loving family member at their side. These statistics are unfathomable and the pain and grief left in their wake are beyond mortal comprehension.
News agencies have done their best to help us grapple with the reality of this massive death toll. They remind us that the coronavirus has exacted more casualties than all the casualties of World War II, Viet Nam and the Korean War combined. In addition to these gruesome statistics, we watch personal interest stories that tug at our heart and bring tears to our eyes. Still, I suspect the only ones who begin to fathom the unfathomable are those who have experienced personal loss, those who stand weeping at the graveside of someone they will never see again.
As I read what I’ve written, I realize how morbid it sounds. Thankfully, the Bible is not nearly so morbid when it talks about death. The Bible speaks of death with words like “eternal life” and “heaven.” Even “victory” is used to speak of death. The Psalmist reminds us that our loving Father is with us even when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death.
So why would I take this occasion to speak so candidly of death’s pain. I do so because we Christians are, at times, too glib when we address death’s pain. By using our faith language to gloss over death’s pain, we leave the impression that death should not hurt; and that’s just not fair to the grieving folks who suffer. Death hurts, even when faith is strong. Death hurts, even when eternity is forthcoming. Death hurts, even when we know death is not final. Faith that glibly glosses over death’s deep pain becomes little more than a euphemizing faith.
Indeed, when death invades our ranks there is a time and place for faith words – God help us if we did not have them! Still, sometimes the best words are words unspoken, tacit silence that gives permission to go ahead and hurt. Yes, sometimes, the best words are those written out in the tracks of shared tears.
