Matt Chandler - A Good Death

Well, good morning! It’s good to see you. I’ve taught my daughters since they were young to never trust a man who won’t wear pink. Uh, so I felt like I needed to embody that for them today and just boldly layer it—pink on pink. That’s what’s happening here. I do feel constricted in this; please do not get used to this. Uh, this is for the resurrection of Christ and my daughters, and that’s about as far as I’m willing to go. If you have your Bibles, go ahead and grab those. I’m not going to be long; I just want to lay out for you really an offer that’s on the table. Uh, it’s for you; it’s for me. Uh, and then we’ll see what the Lord wants to do with that.

In 2019, there was a man named Donald Cash, aptly named apparently because he took early retirement in his mid-fifties in order to check off one last thing on his bucket list. You know that mythical bucket list—these are the things I want to accomplish before I die. Well, Donald had already lived quite a life; he had climbed six of the highest peaks on six of the seven continents, and he had just one climb left: the mother of them all, Everest. So he takes early retirement as a software engineer, trains, and heads to Everest. He makes it to the clouds part; he makes it to the top of the world and stands at 29,029 feet, taking in a view that few human beings will ever see. Pictures, no matter how awesome cameras get, will never be able to do justice to the view.

As high as he is, with oxygen as scarce as it is at that level, he begins to get dizzy. His Sherpa guides begin to walk him down the mountain to a place called Hillary Step. Hillary Step is just about 2,000 feet off the summit; it’s finally like a flat-out jetty where we could stop and rest for a second. It’s on Hillary’s Step that Donald Cash, having checked off the last thing on his bucket list, has a heart attack and dies.

Now, this story becomes a topic of conversation over coffee between Lauren and me. I looked and read that story in the New York Times, and I thought to myself, «That’s a good death. I would like a death like that.» My wife didn’t quite land there; she didn’t like to talk about good deaths. But here’s this man who had given his wealth, his time, his energy—kind of the zeal of his life—to conquering these difficult spaces, getting to these heights, and drinking it in. And he did it. Upon summiting the tallest, most difficult, most miserable place—where you’re freezing and can’t breathe—and I don’t know why anybody would want to do it, he makes it, drinks it in, and then dies. I’m like, «Yes, please!» It’s just a good death.

And maybe you don’t know what to do with my little phrase, «It’s a good death.» Ten years ago, I was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. I had a resection of my right frontal lobe, spent a couple of weeks in ICU and neuro rehab. If you’re a doctor or a nurse, praise God for you. I love what you do; I love your gift of common grace to humankind. But right after the hospital takes your money, they take your dignity. I don’t know if you’ve spent any time in there. Because I was a little bit janky after my surgery, they did not trust me to do anything on my own. So for a good few weeks, I was taking a shower with another man. He didn’t like that he was in there; I did not like that he was in there. It was uncomfortable for everyone involved, and yet there we were because they did not trust me to be able to stand on my own or stay standing. They thought I could fall, and if I fell, it’d be a terrible deal.

So here I am, showering with another man at Baylor Downtown. He didn’t like it; I didn’t like it. Not a good death. So I want a good one. Lauren and I have had this talk; she does not like having this dialogue. I want a good death. I don’t even know what I’m talking about; I just know I don’t want to wither away in a hospital. I know that I don’t get to control that, but I want a good one. I don’t even know what that means. Maybe I come across a bear in the wild, like Tristan—maybe that’s how I get to go out. Some of you are with me; some of you are not. Maybe I see some act of injustice, and I get to pounce and get myself killed doing it. I don’t know; I just would like a good death.

Now, here’s the offer that’s on the table for you and for me: a good death. Now, you might be thinking, «Pastor, I don’t want to be the one to correct you, but this is Resurrection Sunday. That was Friday; you should have used this one on Friday and just given us the resurrection.» Yet, here would be my argument: I can’t get you to resurrection if you don’t understand you have to die to get there. Like, I can’t help you with the resurrection that Christ has for you if you’re not willing to die to yourself. And so the promises of the resurrection, which are vast, the promise of…