Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven, but Nobody Wants to Die
The Space Between Grief and Hope: A Meditation on Luke 9
“Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.”
That old spiritual is old and familiar, but it names something we all instinctively feel. We long for the promise of something more, but we resist the path that leads there. I want to go to heaven, but I am in no rush to die. In fact, I like to keep those two things, glory and death, in separate compartments.
On one side, I carry this hope: that one day I’ll experience something beyond what this world can offer. The glorified kind of life Jesus promised. But in another place, somewhere I try not to visit too often, is the reality of death. Not just my own, but the death of those I love.
Six years ago, the mental wall I had built between life and death began to crumble, and it has never fully gone back up.
My dad was admitted to the hospital for what we believed would be a routine treatment for congestive heart failure. That afternoon, my mother called in a panic. Doctors had flooded the room, and he was rushed to the ICU. It was one of those moments when time slows down and everything feels fragile. The medical team told us to notify the rest of the family. No one knew what might happen next.
He made it through the night, and for a brief time there was hope. But by midweek, we received news that changed everything. The doctors said therapy was no longer helping and might even be causing harm. Then came the words we had feared: it was time to prepare for hospice care.
At the time, I wrote about how that conversation felt like a punch to the gut, how it forced me to confront death in a way I never had before. What I didn’t yet realize was that this was only the beginning. My dad did enter hospice, and after a period of suffering, he died.
His suffering and death deepened everything I had felt and feared about my own death in that moment. It stripped away the comfortable distance I had kept between myself and the idea of mortality. For the first time in my life, I was no longer just aware of death, I was personally confronted by it. Not just in my mind or beliefs, but in the core of my being.
At that same time, I was preaching every Sunday at the church where I was the pastor. The lectionary Scriptures for the week we found out my dad was going to die were from the story of Jesus’ Transfiguration in Luke 9.
It’s a story filled with mystery and movement. Eight days after Jesus had told His disciples that He would suffer, be rejected, die, and rise again, He took Peter, James, and John up a mountain to pray. As He prayed, something astonishing happened: His face changed and His clothes became bright and radiant. Suddenly, Moses and Elijah appeared and began talking with Him, not about miracles or success, but about His "departure, " literally His exodus, that He would accomplish in Jerusalem through his death, resurrection, and ascension.
Peter and the others had been dozing off but woke up to the scene. Overwhelmed, Peter suggested building three tabernacles, one for Jesus, one for Moses, and one for Elijah. He wanted to make the moment last. But before any action could be taken, a cloud descended and enveloped them. Out of it came a voice: "This is My beloved Son. Hear Him!" And just like that, the moment passed. Jesus was alone again. The disciples said nothing. Who would’ve known what to say?
Luke 9 tells this story with striking structure. Just before Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up the mountain, He delivers some of His most sobering words: that He will suffer, be rejected, killed, and raised again. Then He tells His disciples that anyone who wants to follow Him must deny themselves and take up their cross daily. This is not just a passing warning; it is the cost of discipleship laid bare.
Then, only eight days later, Jesus offers a glimpse of what lies beyond that cost. On the mountain, the disciples witness a moment of divine radiance, a preview of resurrection life, a flash of glory meant to sustain them for what is to come.
But that moment is fleeting. As they descend the mountain, they immediately encounter the other side of the story. A father is pleading for help for his suffering child, and the remaining disciples are helpless. Despite their best prayers and fervent efforts, the boy was not healed. Very quickly, Jesus steps in, heals the boy, and then turns again to the theme they are trying hard not to hear: He is going to be handed over and killed.
The entire Transfiguration is sandwiched between Jesus' unflinching announcements of His coming death. This isn't an isolated miracle. It’s a luminous interruption inside a much darker conversation.
It’s almost as if Jesus is saying: Before you carry the cross, let me show you why it’s worth it. Let me give you a glimpse of glory. But don’t expect to stay here. Don’t expect to build tents and keep the moment.
That’s what Peter tries to do, of course. “Let’s build three dwellings, ” he says, one for Jesus, one for Moses, and one for Elijah. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but I understand the impulse. When something transcendent happens, we want to lock it down. We want to preserve it.
But the glory of the mountain was not the destination. It was a whisper, a glimpse, a sustaining flash of light before the journey continues, downward.
It’s tempting to treat the Transfiguration like a theological trophy or a doctrine-builder. But Luke doesn’t linger there. It’s barely mentioned again. Jesus doesn’t stay glowing. He descends the mountain, walks into the chaos of human suffering, and heals a boy the disciples couldn’t help.
That boy’s story struck me especially hard. His father says, “I begged your disciples to heal him, but they could not.” I know that feeling. As a chaplain, I am often called into moments like that. Moments when someone is pleading for healing, for help, for something to change, and I am powerless to fix it. I stand beside families in the ICU, at hospice bedsides, or in quiet rooms after bad news, and there is nothing I can do to reverse what is happening. Like the disciples at the foot of the mountain, I can pray, I can stay present, but I cannot stop the suffering. I cannot prevent the loss. And yet, like them, I still believe Jesus is near. In those moments, I have seen grace show up in ways I cannot explain.
Some of the disciples had just seen a vision of glory. The others had been left behind. But all of them were struggling. They were dizzy, exhausted, weighed down by Jesus’ talk of death and suffering. I understand that kind of weariness. I have lived it. I have walked through it with others again and again.
I have learned that ministry at the edge of life is not about having the right words or offering solutions. It is about honoring the space between what is being lost and what cannot yet be seen. I have sat with people who tremble in the face of death, even with deep faith. There is no map for that moment. There is only presence, quiet attention, and the ache of love holding on as long as it can.
Like those disciples, I have come face to face with moments I could not fix. I have felt helpless, heart-heavy, and unsure what to say. And still, in those moments, I have seen glimpses of something more. Unexplainable peace. Unexpected grace. Love that lingers even as the breath leaves. Something holy shines through, even in the dimness.
I have known the mountain. I have known the valley. I have known what it feels like to move between them in a single day.
I have received news that should have crushed me. And yet, I have seen beauty survive. Not the kind of beauty that fixes things, but the kind that accompanies sorrow. In the middle of grief, small signs of care have felt like grace. The quiet presence of others. A word in season. Even the simple dignity of having what was needed, just when it was needed. These things, too, have been provision.
I do not understand it all. I am still too close to some of it. But I am learning this:
Glory and death are not separated by a great chasm. They are separated by a thin space.
The Transfiguration tells me that even as death draws near, glory is not far off. Not in the form of escape or resolution, but as presence. As promise. As a quiet, steady power that still belongs to Jesus, even when mine is gone.
And somewhere in that thin space, between the light of the mountain and the shadow of the valley, I find hope. Not because I have figured everything out. But because I am not alone there.