When Grief and Hope Dance Together: A Reflection on Loss and Faith

By Pastor Anthony Parrott

Main Idea

Authentic grief and defiant hope can coexist - and must coexist - as we face death and loss. We don't need to choose between them or rush through one to get to the other.

Scripture

"But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope." 1 Thessalonians 4:13

Over the past few weeks in October, culminating this November weekend, we've journeyed through our "Shadowboxing" series, facing the monsters that we most fear. We've tackled Satan, zombies, and living half-life. And today—on a weekend before the election when anxiety is already running high—we turned to face perhaps the greatest monster of all: death.

I couldn't help but notice the ofrenda we placed at the side of our sanctuary for All Saints Weekend, honoring those we've lost to that old enemy, death. It struck me how fitting this visual reminder was for what I needed to share: that authentic grief and defiant hope can coexist, and in fact, must coexist.

The Permission We All Need

I know in myself—and I've witnessed in the faith spaces where I grew up—there's a modern tendency to rush past grief. We're so quick to jump to positivity, to all the ways God will use our loss for good. We throw around those horrible clichés: "It was all part of God's plan" or "God has another angel." These are all ways we look death and grief in the face, then turn away.

But when I read Paul's words in 1 Thessalonians 4:13, I see something different. He doesn't tell us not to grieve—he tells us not to "grieve as others do who have no hope." So let me be clear: please, for the love of God, grieve.

Fighting grief is like fighting a riptide. If you're in the ocean and trying to swim against it, you'll exhaust yourself. The better approach? Move with it, follow that riptide out, so you have the energy to move forward later.

What Not to Do

I've seen too many harmful approaches to grief that I need to warn against:

• Toxic positivity ("Everything happens for a reason")
• Spiritual bypassing (suggesting that true faith means immediate peace)
• The "at least" game—you know the one: "At least they didn't suffer," "At least you still have..." This is a game no one wins.

A New Vision of Hope

I've always appreciated Emily Dickinson's vision of hope as a bird with feathers, but lately, I've been more drawn to Caitlin Sada's grittier take: hope as a sewer rat.

Hope Is Not a Bird, Emily, It’s a Sewer Rat

Hope is not the thing with feathers
That comes home to roost
When you need it most.

Hope is an ugly thing
With teeth and claws and
Patchy fur that’s seen some shit.

It’s what thrives in the discards
And survives in the ugliest parts of our world,
Able to find a way to go on
When nothing else can even find a way in.

It’s the gritty, nasty little carrier of such
diseases as
optimism, persistence,
Perseverance and joy,
Transmissible as it drags its tail across
your path
and 
bites you in the ass.

Hope is not some delicate, beautiful bird,
Emily.
It’s a lowly little sewer rat
That snorts pesticides like they were
Lines of coke and still
Shows up on time to work the next day
Looking no worse for wear.

What Hope Isn't

Hope isn't some delicate, beautiful bird—it's gritty, defiant, and transformative. It's not a luxury for those who can afford it; it's for the desperate and dissatisfied, for the broken and aching.

As I often say now, hope isn't magic—it's work.

Our Anchor in the Storm

For those of us who follow Jesus, our hope is anchored in specific promises. I find particular comfort in 1 Corinthians 15, which tells us death will be defeated.

"Then comes the end, the goal, when he hands over the kingly rule to God the father, when he has subdued all rule and all authority and power. 25 He has to go on ruling, you see, until “he has put all his enemies under his feet.” 26 Death is the last enemy to be defeated." 1 Corinthians 15:24-26

And in John's vision in Revelation 21 of God making all things new.

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth. The first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. 2 And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven, from God, prepared like a bride dressed up for her husband. 3 I heard a loud voice from the throne, and this is what it said: “Look! God has come to dwell with humans! He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them and will be their God. 4 He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death, or mourning or weeping or pain anymore, since the first things have passed away.” The one who sat on the throne said, “Look, I am making all things new.”

These aren't just future promises to pine for—they're visions of what God is doing right now, today.

These promises don't negate our present grief, but they give it context. They're not an escape from grief but a catalyst to get us working today on what it means to grieve as ones with hope.

Living in Both Spaces

I was particularly influenced in preparing this message by G.L. Gerhart's book "A Grief Received." She writes, "If we let God, God can make something good out of our grief. God's not going to tell us to stop crying. God simply asks us to let our tears water the soil of our lives, soil pregnant with potential."

That's what I want to leave you with today: We can be both. We can grieve deeply and hope defiantly. This isn't a contradiction—it's the most honest way to face loss.

My prayer is that you'll find permission to grieve authentically while holding onto defiant hope. After all, as Psalm 126 promises, "The one who returns with crying, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them."