Two deaths, two lives, one Easter

This Easter has been shaped for me by two deaths and two lives. I say "shaped for me", because God has caused these two deaths and lives to echo through my mind this Easter time, teaching me many things. I hope he's been teaching you too.

I'll start with the two deaths: both are utter tragedies, two boys' lives cut horrifically short. I heard of the first one the night before Good Friday, as I was travelling on the bus to Cape Town to spend Easter with my family. A nine-year-old kid from our church, Timmy Fick, was killed in a car accident; his parents and big brother are recovering from many physical injuries. I can't even guess at the deeper emotional injuries they must have. When the news was SMSed to me, I let out a howl and started sobbing right there in the bus.

The second death was soberly announced in the Easter Sunday services. A teenager, a regular at the youth group of my parents' church, had committed suicide just the day before Timmy passed away. I don't know if I ever met him, don't know what drove him to take his life. I also can't even guess at the anguish his family feels, and their unanswered questions.

But there's one thing I know for sure about both these boys: if they had put their faith in Jesus to take away their sins, "There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus" (Romans 8:1). That's the incredible gift that Jesus gave us at the first Easter, when he died for our sins. I don't have words to describe how horrible their deaths are, but I also don't have words to describe the joy I have in knowing these simple facts about salvation.

Still, I find the contrast between these two boys striking: Timmy, at nine years old, had a great lust for life and a bright-coloured, clear-cut faith in Jesus. The teenager, just eight years older, just couldn't find enough hope to carry on living life; perplexity had turned his world to grey. How can just a few years do that to us? Why do we have all the answers, and all the hope in the world, at nine, and none of it left at seventeen?

This brings me to the two lives I've thought about this Easter. The first one is that of my Saviour and friend, Jesus Christ. He, after all, is who it's all about. And he's alive, unmistakably, irrevocably, outrageously alive. And he said "Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it." (Mark 10:15). I now know exactly why. We often think of Christmas as a time for children, and Easter as a time for being grown-up, for being serious and thinking of the great, weighty implications of Jesus' death. And that's all right – for Good Friday. But Easter Sunday is easily as much a day to act like a child as any other. What better response is there to the incredible news of Jesus' resurrection than to go absolutely ballistic, dancing and singing and screaming and shouting with joy, just like a kid?

And so, to come to the second life that's been on my mind this Easter, my own life, that's exactly what I've done. As we came home from the Sunrise Service on Easter morning, we must have all been in a similar, jubilant mood. My Mom and her friend Gwen heard a song they loved on the radio, and turned it up so that half the neighbourhood could hear. When we got inside, I turned on the music loud again, and we kept singing and laughing over breakfast, right through to the morning service.

And that's not where I intend to stop. I've been given a message of joy to spread, and the gift of life to the full (John 10:10). I've been a child before, and I've been a teenager. I know that there are plenty of perplexing and depressing things out there in the world. I don't intend to be naive. But my best friend conquered the grave for me, and he knows the answers to all the perplexing questions I may have. So right now, the most reasonable thing I can do is leave those questions with him and enjoy the eternal life he's given me. Yes, there will be suffering, and I'll have to put to death parts of me that don't fit in with his plan. But the joy I'll have as a result makes the pain seem insignificant. There are beautiful mountains to bound over, roads to whiz along on my bike, and people to see come alive. It's my way of honouring the memory of these two special boys who died. And more importantly, it's my way of glorifying my best friend Jesus.