Death is an outrage. We try and reassure ourselves with assertions that it is just a natural part of life, but this is nonsense. Death is nothing less than the end and destruction and absence of a life, not a proper part of it. And so what if it is natural? Lots of things are natural, and they are no less awful for being so. Death is an outrage, and so are feeble-minded attempts to deny or sugar-coat the stark and awful fact that, one day, we will all die, and—worse still—chances are that some of the people we love most will die before we do, but the world will just carry on until the universe itself eventually peters out into the cold stagnation of maximum entropy. It is almost enough to make a person wish the world away, to curse the God who gives and takes away, as if the giving were some kind of cruel joke.
I do not pretend to know how his mother felt about this whole sordid business, but this I do know: that parents should never have to survive their children. They so frequently do—it is a story tragically often told: the story of young death by disease or desperation or deprivation or destructive violence—but it shouldn’t be so. It is a story often told, too often told. 40 out of every 1,000 babies born die before they turn one; suicide is among the top three causes of death among adolescents in most Western democracies; and nobody really knows how many thousands of young men and women perish in areas of armed conflict every year. And so, always and everywhere, mothers and fathers weep and gnash their teeth, and ask why?
There is, theological casuistry aside, no why, no good reason for the kinds of suffering that go on and keep going on. It is almost enough to make a person wish the world away.
There is no good reason for the kinds of suffering her son went through. There are causes, to be sure, and political historians and psychologists can and do tell about how it came to pass that in such a time and place, a would-be messiah was abandoned by his own people, scared and insecure, and executed by imperial forces, a political criminal on trumped up charges. But to think that there are reasons, that it somehow makes sense for a young man to be mocked and beaten and hung up and killed even for the sake and salvation of the whole world is to commit to a perverse economic logic in which means justify ends. The answer to the question, “Why did Jesus have to die?” must be, if we have souls left to save, that there is no answer. It is a damned thing, what happened to him. It is a damned thing, what happens in the world everywhere and every day, to the innocent and the guilty alike, at the fickle mercy or cruelty or indifference of physics and politics and personal human action and apathy, yours and mine, in our own ways whispering, “Crucify! Crucify!”.
Who knows what solace she took from believing, if indeed she believed, that her boy was in a better place now? Who knows what solace anybody takes from talk of heaven? Who knows what comfort is provided by our pious assertion that her son, who is gone, is yet strangely present when we gather to break bread and eat in his name? But this conviction is what we have, is what we have been given. The Christian faith and gospel provide no quick solutions to grief and loss and death. Instead, our affirmation is that he who conquered death by dying himself is himself living and present in our sharing of the symbols of sustenance that are our sources of salvation. We have no conjuring tricks up our sleeves, no pastoral platitudes to offer. What we do have are these mysteries: the sacrament of the broken body that calls us to die to the sorts of sinful desires that perpetuate the suffering of others, and instead to share life with others, which—as we remember this and every Good Friday—is the only way to conquer death.