The Sting of Death

When we talk about the early 2020s in decades to come, those younger than us may be surprised to learn that death never lost its sting, at least, not in the particulars. “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.” Allegedly Joseph Stalin said that, a man who created plenty of tragedies and statistics in his generation. As our generation’s horror—the COVID-19 pandemic—nears its statistic of a million deaths in the United States, this loss en masse has done nothing to inure us to the single serving stories of the end of life.

Yesterday we learned that Roger McGee, Minister of Music at Alexandria First Baptist Church, was released from the equipment keeping his body alive and into the glorious presence of Jesus. Or perhaps he was already there once his brain functioning ceased. I don’t know how it works exactly. We asked the same questions when Silvia Escamilla lay at INOVA Fairfax a month and a half ago on a breathing machine. Silvia, in her mid-30s, was there because of a brain aneurysm. Roger, in his mid-60s, was at a family cookout the Friday before Holy Week and had a choking episode. Now they—by which I mean their spirits, that intangible essence that defines them more than hair color, country of origin, or occupation—are with Jesus.

My personal experience of Roger McGee might be called a friendship made in heaven. I never sought Roger out but God in his providence brought us together with surprising frequency. We bumped into each other as he cycled through Old Town and at denominational meetings in different parts of the Commonwealth. We shared stories about the Samford University School of Music from which we both graduated, albeit 20 years apart. Once, when I was at an emotional low point, we saw each other at the drug store. He took time to listen, encourage, and envision a better future for me. Just last month he spent time with our praise team during rehearsal and gave feedback that was as inspiring as it was instructive. His joy and generosity knew no bounds.

These are the particulars that make death sting. Roger was full of life, until he wasn’t. Silvia was planning her wedding, and a few days later we were planning her funeral. “I was cheated,” Doris Overton told me about the tubal pregnancy that endangered her life and ended her hopes of bearing children. The sting was still in her voice 80 years later. Perhaps that describes how we feel when the Rogers and Silvias are taken from us. Cheated.

I wonder if Jesus felt some of this at Lazarus’ funeral. Before John tells us that “Jesus wept,” he records the Savior’s reaction to the weeping of Lazarus’ sister Mary and those around her: “he was deeply moved in his spirit and greatly troubled” (John 11:33). That milquetoast translation does little justice to the strong Greek verbs that, in the broader literature, describe the snorting of horses and the outrage of humans. We cannot pretend to know all that Jesus was furious about at this funeral, but his maelstrom of emotion normalizes our angered sense that something is terribly wrong when we feel the sting. It tells us that we are not alone, that God the Son inhabited a body not only with skin and bones but also with a neurological infrastructure and tear ducts so the Divine might give expression to our loss with us.

Indeed, the astonishing truth that “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14) anchors us through the storms of grief. Jesus not only wept with us, he himself succumbed to the death that awaits us all. He proffered no platitudes or easy answers in the company of those who felt cheated out of Lazarus’ better years. “I am the resurrection and the life,” he said, inviting the bereft to believe not in a doctrine or ideology but in himself. As we think of Roger or Silvia lying inert on a gurney with so many years of life ahead; as we think of Doris and Aaron and Wilda and Rachael’s Granny in their caskets, all with more than 90 years behind them; as we each of us ponder our inevitable end, we can, if nothing else, cling to Jesus. We cling to the Jesus who feels the sting. The Jesus who died for our sins. The Jesus who burst forth from death’s grip in Resurrection power. The Jesus who will make Roger’s and Silvia’s and our bodies new.

We cling to the Jesus who promised, “Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die” (John 11:25–26).

We sting and snort and weep and wail and hurt and rage and ask all the questions. And we cling to the One who brings us through it all, who will never leave us nor forsake us.

We cling to Jesus.

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