I’m a Christian. But I still don’t want to die…

It’s a future event, one that is almost certainly going to happen. It’s not currently listed in my schedule, and I approach it with the same trepidation I feel when meeting my dentist, who is armed to the teeth (pun intended) with a wide assortment of steel instruments.

I’m talking about dying. Despite what I believe about the sting of death being removed (1 Corinthians 15:55), it still looks like a rather tetchy scorpion to me. I’ve met a few Christians who say they are delighted at the thought of meeting Jesus face to face. But despite the Bible’s assurances, I feel guilty that I’m not always thrilled about meeting my Master because, unless He returns (which would be infinitely preferable) I will have to navigate the shadows of death first.

Paul’s attitude doesn’t help. He told his friends in Philippi: “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21). While I’m delighted Paul was able to stare down death because of his sure and certain hope in Christ, I’m not able to say I view my forthcoming demise in such positive terms. Perhaps I’d think differently if I’d experienced what Paul did: imprisonment, beatings, a stoning, three shipwrecks, multiple threats, exhaustion and near destitution.

Navigating those challenges would certainly make the thought of heaven more compelling. When your presence triggers a riot everywhere you go, maybe you yearn for the safety of being home with Jesus. But in my own journey of life, the closest I’ve come to a shipwreck was a choppy crossing on the Isle of Wight ferry.

I think we need to be a little more honest about our concerns regarding death. Personally, I find myself echoing the thoughts of Woody Allen: “I’m not afraid of death. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

And let’s be careful with those ‘helpful’ Christian comments when comforting the grieving, too. A recently widowed friend was told: “You shouldn’t be sad: they’re with Jesus now.” Yet the Bible never suggests we do not grieve, but rather that we don’t grieve without hope, as the tearful Jesus modelled when His friend Lazarus died. It’s OK to be sad that our loved one has gone to be with Jesus - which necessarily means they’re no longer here  with us.

Another line that surely belongs in the book, Unhelpfully Helpful: Comforting comments from Job’s friends is: “They’ve gone to a better place.” Tell that to a mourning spouse and they might reply that the place they shared together for decades was really rather nice, thank you very much.

And then of course there’s: “Well, it was his time”, a comment based on a loose reading of Solomon’s meanderings in Ecclesiastes. But if the time of my departure is fixed, rather like a Swiss train, then healthy choices around food and exercise are worthless, because whatever I do, the train is always going to depart at the predetermined moment anyway. More seriously, does that mean if a despairing person takes their own life, it was their predetermined moment of self-inflicted exit?

So here’s where I am: I don’t relish death. I want to tiptoe rather than thoughtlessly plod around those who grieve. But I also want the hope of what is to come to influence my here and now. It’s often been said that some Christians are so heavenly minded that they’re of no earthly use, a snappy little quote, except that I’ve not yet met a Christian who was so heavenly minded that they were of no use on earth.

On the contrary, we realise that Christ has beaten death, robbed it of its sting and offered us a glorious forever. And although we will all have a potentially nerve-racking appointment with our last breath, Jesus will walk us through it, and into the garden beyond.