When and why and how to die—I am always swimming in these waters, wondering. When do I sacrifice myself for the people around me? Is martyrdom always virtuous? What’s the difference between martyrdom and suicide? Is the Christian life only always cruciform? When does dying become selfish or striving or a kind of begging humiliation unfit for a daughter of the King?

Maybe this death stuff isn’t your jam. I understand. But thinking about dying is important in a faith authored by a God-man who famously died and then invited His people into His death.

This episode asks the question, “Does God want His children to die?” The answer isn’t simple. Yes. No. Yes and No. Sometimes yes. Sometimes no.

Jesus dying on the cross is the most obvious Yes.

Jesus rising from the tomb is the beginning of a No.

Here’s Chapter 7. I hope it gives you life.

Does God kill his children?

If you’re anything like me, when you hear my Papa say the words, “God doesn’t kill His children” you immediately think of two stories: 1. Abraham and Isaac and 2. Jesus on the Cross.

It’s worth acknowledging that in the first story God does not have Isaac killed—he’s saved in the appearance of a ram. The big takeaway from the story of Abraham and Isaac is the promise of a coming sacrifice to take the place of our children, a way to prevent their deaths. And then Jesus comes as that sacrificial ram, dying for us so we might have abundant life.

And the cross? Yes, Jesus is God’s child. But Jesus is also God. To further complicate things, it would be inaccurate to say, God killed Jesus. Humans killed Jesus. God allowed the death on the behalf of His many other children—so that they might live.

Why bother parsing all of this?

I think for me, the real question was whether or not God loved His children in actual practice—not just in general theory. I needed to understand the cross as kindness and not death sentence.

The idea that God might want more for me than I’d ever thought to want for myself has been a hard truth to receive. To this day I find myself struggling to receive God’s good gifts. Sometimes it feels like all I know how to do is die.

But I’m learning. God is not the sea. He isn’t drowning me. He’s teaching me to walk on water.

For the very best account I’ve ever heard in my whole life of the story of Abraham and Isaac, you should 100% listen to The Provider and the Patriarch over at Holy Ghost Stories. Based on feedback, I’d say it’s been one of the top three most affecting episodes we’ve ever made.

The Slavery of Death

I want to be sure I say this out loud: Christians should die for others. That’s our calling. We exist to give our lives for neighbors, enemies, friends... What we often miss though is that you have to have life to give life. Living in Christ means being so full of life and love that you can pour it out endlessly. Every emptying becomes an opportunity for filling; what without Christ would be certain to exhaust and deflate us, instead does the opposite.

If you’re interested in all of this, might I recommend Richard Beck’s book, The Slavery of Death? Maybe I’ve recommended it already. I’ll probably recommend it again.

Atheism, Not for Me

Just in case you’re interested in the book that strangely boosted my faith, here’s a link to Bertrand Russell’s Why I Am Not A Christian. Don’t buy it. Read it on Libby.

If you’re looking for a good resource on the case for the Gospels as reliable historical documents, I really like this book: Can We Trust the Gospels? Short and thoroughly researched.

Oh, and Disappointment With God—it’s great. By Phillip Yancey. If you haven’t tackled Yancey’s catalogue, his writing exists for the curious and skeptical reader who’s fully aware of the darkness of life. He’s a very good guide. I also like The Gift of Pain and Where Is God When It Hurts?

It Happened This Way

That moment on the balcony with my husband actually happened. My 14 year old noticed him loving me and snapped a picture.

From London

London’s song this week is a lament from one of my favorite joy bands: Rend Collective.

These lines particularly jumped out at me:

“Turn my lament into a love song From this lament raise up an anthem.”

That’s the whole heart behind The Happiest Saddest People.

Questions welcome, as always.

-JL