As we go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
A Reflection on responding to a Death by One’s Own Hand
This is one of the most complicated, painful, and traumatizing subjects we can talk about as a church. I do not raise it lightly. I know that even hearing the words may reopen wounds or stir up memories that sit just under the surface. And yet, I believe that the Church’s silence about suicide is even more traumatizing than the awkwardness or discomfort of speaking plainly.
The truth is, very few of us have not been touched by this reality in some way. Many of us have walked with a friend, a family member, a co-worker, or even ourselves through the chaos and pain that self-harm leaves in its wake. Silence only deepens the stigma. It tangles the heartbreak into tighter knots. It can make those who are hurting feel even more alone. I need to talk about this—not because I have easy answers, but because pretending it is not here will not make it go away.
Christians throughout history have wrestled with how to reconcile the suddenness, violence, and short-sighted despair of taking one’s own life with the boundless mercy and grace of God. This is not a theoretical struggle for our community—it is part of our own parish story right now. We have lost people we loved. We have sat in the tension between grief and questions. And we have wondered where God is in all of this.
One place we find some of our answer is in the story of Mary, Martha, and their brother Lazarus in John 11. Lazarus has died, and when Jesus arrives in Bethany, He is met by grief and disappointment: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” These are not polite words; they are the raw truth of love and frustration mixed together. And Jesus does not scold them for their honesty.
Instead, He enters straight into the reality, pain, and stench of death. He does not stand back or shield Himself from its ugliness. He does not shrink away from the gut-wrenching grief or the accusations. He does not offer trite platitudes. He tells them that the glory of God will be revealed through resurrection—but before He shows that glory, He weeps.
For me, that moment gives all the reason I need to believe that in the act of self-harm, Jesus is there too. Jesus is with those who are so trapped in despair or pain that they see no way out. Jesus is with those who, in unbearable darkness, act against their very life. And Jesus is there still—when they stand before the throne of God in resurrection. His compassion is not withdrawn at the moment of our greatest weakness. His presence is not revoked because of the depth of our pain.
The same Lord who called Lazarus from the tomb still calls us by name—not because we have avoided every pitfall, but because we belong to Him. Even in the shadow of death, Jesus shares our grief, holds our tears, and proclaims that death will not have the final word. In that promise, I take immense comfort and hope.
Because the Church has too often been silent, and because the stigma of suicide can deepen the shame and despair of those who sit in the aftermath of such an act, we have a holy obligation to speak. We are called to be a people who offer comfort, compassion, and care.
We are called to be a refuge—to be the kind of community where those teetering on the edge can come and find safety in the image of Christ that dwells in us. We are called to stand alongside those who are asking the most obvious and unanswerable question—“Why?”—and to let them know that we do not need that answer in order to love them and their loved one fully and without reserve. Their very presence is more than enough for us to care and grief with them, as Jesus grieved with Mary and Martha.
When the worst does come to pass, and when there has been a loss and tradgedy, we are called to help reshape the memory of a beloved child of Christ, not solely in the moment of despair’s desperate end, but in the fullness and beauty of the life they lived—their laughter, their loves, their gifts, their quirks, and the imprint of God’s image they carried.
This is not simply pastoral care; it is the Gospel in action. It is our witness that nothing—neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come—can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38-39).
For God is love (1 John 4:8). And love never ends (1 Corinthians 13:8).
Pax et Bonum!
Fr. Ben +
