In The Shadow Of Death - And The Grace That Meets Us There

As the debate about assisted dying continues here in the UK, I find myself… well, less interested in arguing, and more aware of the fears underneath it all.

They’re not overly dramatic fears. They’re ordinary. Human, quiet, gnawing fears. They’re sometimes my fears.

“I don’t want to suffer.”

“I want to die with dignity.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“I don’t want my family to remember me like that.”

It isn’t weakness. It’s honesty. And really… it’s what most of us actually think, even if we don’t say it out loud.

Most of us have stood beside a hospital bed long enough to understand. The constant, rhythmic beeping. That weird semi-sanitised smell - just enough to remind you this is a hospital, not a home - but not enough to mask what’s really there. Hands that once lifted children, fixed shelves, carried shopping… now trembling as they lift water in plastic beakers. Minds once sharp now struggling to string a few intelligible words together. It does something to you.

And if we’re honest, some of us are starting to notice it in ourselves. Little things. Nothing dramatic. Sitting down sooner. Can’t quite catch our breath some days. Misplacing reading glasses… again. A body that doesn’t quite climb the stairs the way it used to.

It’s often not death itself that shakes us. It’s the process. That slow surrender of control. That creeping dependence we never thought we’d face.

A diagnosis arrives, “it’s just part of growing old” we say, and at first, we adapt. We all do. Routines shift. Small allowances are made. Limits are learned. We pretend they don’t matter much. Adjust expectations. Change plans. But at some point… dependence stops being an inconvenience. It becomes loss. And that… well, that can be terrifying.

Christians shouldn’t have a blasé attitude here; we are never called to look at suffering and loss with any kind of indifference. Our Lord set us a wonderful example….He stood at a graveside and wept. John 11:34-36

He didn’t dismiss grief; He entered into it…..He shared the pain and heartache that accompanies loss. He didn’t rebuke sorrow. He showed us that people’s fear and sorrow is something to be handled with honesty and empathy.

Of course, not everyone believes in God. Many don’t. But death has a way of pressing past belief. It pushes questions into us whether we like it or not. About meaning. About justice. About whether there’s someone beyond ourselves we answer to.

The Bible says death isn’t just biology….it’s not just the last process. It carries weight. Eternal weight. And maybe that’s why it feels so heavy. 2 Corinthians 5:2-4

For Christians, the gospel speaks directly into that unease….into that heaviness.

Jesus didn’t stand a distance from human suffering, simply giving us advice. He stepped into it all; Exhaustion. Betrayal. Misunderstanding. Physical pain. Abandonment. He didn’t sidestep suffering. He went through it all. That may sound strange, but it’s actually love in its clearest form. Death was the problem that needed to be faced, and only a human could face it. So, the Son of God became one of us, not just to live among us, but to die for us.

Christians believe his death wasn’t just a tragic miscarriage of justice. His death dealt with guilt and judgement - not by ignoring justice, but by taking it on himself.

Even if you don’t believe that, you know something about costly love. Parents who function on almost no sleep for years. Friends who rearrange their lives because someone else is in crisis. A husband or wife who stays when leaving would be easier. Love that costs - comfort, time, money, security - that’s the kind of love we trust…because that’s true love.

We honour it instinctively. We give medals for it. Award titles for it. Write books about it. Something in us recognises real, self-giving love.

Christianity says God’s love is like that. Not distant. Not theoretical. Costly.

In Jesus’ death, Christians believe the penalty for sin was paid by Christ. He took on our sin. We took on his righteousness. The Bible calls this the great exchange. Death’s fear faced. Guilt answered. Penalty paid.  2 Corinthians 5:21

You may not accept that. But it asks a question anyway: what if our deepest problem, our sinful nature, can’t be fixed by trying harder? What if self-improvement doesn’t solve the problem. What if it requires someone willing to carry the cost?

Christ was willing and Christ did carry the cost.  In flesh and blood and frailty. He didn’t save from afar. He suffered. Was accused. Abandoned. Died. And in that death, he absorbed all the wrath that should have fallen on the sinner.

For Christians, death is no longer a doorway into condemnation, but into Christ’s presence. Still an enemy - yes. But a defeated one.

Sometimes I wonder if the obsession with controlling death shows how little this glorious hope is known. If it’s just a medical event, it would be easy to see how controlling it would look like a type of salvation…a relief.              

Schedule it. Manage it. Contain it.

But if death is the last enemy already faced and broken by Christ, if our sin no longer has the power to condemn that it once had, something else becomes possible.   Not control. Trust.

That doesn’t mean believers are fearless. We aren’t. We may know death has lost its sting but still dread the slow decline beforehand. We can still picture ourselves frail, and anxiety rises anyway.

But…and there’s aways a "but" from God…but here’s the quiet comfort from Hebrews. 2:18

Jesus was tempted in what he suffered. He knew the pull toward despair. He felt abandonment. He stood at the edge of human endurance - and didn’t pretend it was easy.

So, when we’re tempted in weakness - to complain, to rail at God, to ask “why me,” to snap at helpers, feel sorry for ourselves, to move away from God and fall into self-pity, quietly resenting what we’ve lost - we aren’t surprising him. We have a merciful and faithful High Priest who has walked that path. He understands the pull of those temptations from the inside.

And he doesn’t keep his distance. He helps. Not by giving twenty years of strength upfront. Not by handing us grace for imagined futures.

Tomorrow’s grace won’t help today.

But when tomorrow comes, so will the mercy we need. Grace that carried us yesterday was enough for yesterday. Grace that meets us in frailty will be enough for that hour too.

We aren’t promised control.

We are promised Christ.

And Christ is enough.

When the time comes — in strength or in weakness — He will give his people what they need to endure. Not before. Not after. But then.

Hebrews 2:18

“For because he himself has suffered when tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted.”…….…he is able to help you.