The Heidelberg Catechism starts with the question: “What is your only comfort in life and in death?”
The answer: “That I am not my own, but belong – body and soul, in life and in death – to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ. He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood, and has set me free from the tyranny of the devil. He also watches over me in such a way that not a hair can fall from my head without the will of my Father in heaven; in fact, all things must work together for my salvation. Because I belong to him, Christ, by his Holy Spirit, assures me of eternal life and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready from now on to live for him.”[1]
The gospel is our only hope in life and in death. Christ is our comfort in living and in dying.
This came alive to me as I stood with my husband at the bedside of a dear friend who is in hospice care. She had a stroke a couple months back and is slowly and painfully going through the process of dying. She was in pain. She couldn’t remember many things. She was overwhelmed with emotions she didn’t know how to express. She looked ghastly. Her voice had changed.
But she remembered Jesus Christ. She remembered the beloved hymns. We read scripture and I believe it brought her comfort. She remembered the gospel and that brought her hope.
At the end of our visit as we prepared to leave, she said something about being sorry that we had to see her like this and then: “But I will get better” (or something to that effect). My husband said, emphatically: “Yes, you will. You remember Jesus Christ? You remember the gospel?”
With an outburst of overwhelming emotion, she cried, “I do! I do remember! I forgot a lot of things, but I do remember that!”
As she lies on what is surely her deathbed, what hope does she have? Hospice is intended to make one as comfortable as possible as they die. But is her true comfort in pain medication, hospital beds, and around the clock care? Do these things provide an anchor for her soul as she crosses the final river?
No, her hope is anchored in the gospel. The gospel tells her that this is not the end. On the other side of the pain and suffering she is going through now is an eternal weight of glory. She will be with her lord who will wipe away every tear from her eye and there will be no more pain. She will have a restored, glorified body.
Christ is her hope in life and death, in living and dying. She belongs to him and she can take comfort in that even as she suffers – comfort that is far greater than any hospice can provide.
At the same time, my Papa is suffering through pancreatic cancer. It’s been about a year now since his initial diagnosis. He’s gone through chemo, radiation, and now as the cancer seems to have spread they are considering a different treatment. Yet even as he has suffered pain and discomfort and hair loss and nausea and all the other side effects of the cancer treatment – he too has the hope of Christ and the gospel. He remembers Christ. He remembers his faithfulness and his promises that there will be a day with no more pain.
Christ is his hope in life and in death, in living and in dying.
For our dear friend, at the place of suffering she is in now, Christ is her only hope. Christ is really all that she has left to cling to. For my Papa, the treatments can feel like a ray of hope to cling to. But really, treatments fail. Cancer spreads. Death comes. The only thing he really can cling to is Christ.
What about me? In one sense, death is always looming for all of us. In another sense, in my mid-twenties it feels like my life is ahead of me and death is far away. I understood as I stood by our friend’s bedside that Christ really is only hope in death. But is Christ my hope in life and in death? It’s easy to say or sing the words, but do I really mean it? Do I cling to Christ above all the other things that could bring me hope or peace or comfort in this life? Is the gospel my sure and steady anchor through whatever storms and suffering may come my way?
Or do I seek hope and comfort in the things of this world? I am tempted to find security in the fact that we stayed within our budget this month. Or that my husband and I didn’t get into an argument today. Or that the baby slept through the night. But even if all those things were stripped away, would I cling to Christ? Would I be able to cry out like our friend and say “I remember Jesus Christ!” Would I be able to recount his faithfulness like my Papa? Would I find my hope and comfort and anchor in these things, no matter the trials of life?
[1] From https://www.crcna.org/welcome/beliefs/confessions/heidelberg-catechism
