We Shall All Be Changed is an honest book. Pipkin’s personal stories will resonate with anyone who has lost a family member. But it’s also a gospel-infused, hopeful book written with beauty and truth. Having read it, I fear death less but hate it more as an enemy. And I believe down to my bones that what Jesus accomplished at the cross and the empty tomb means everything for our present comfort and our future hope.

My grandmother died last year on her 96th birthday. When I got the call that the end was near, I quickly drove to my parents’ home in Tennessee. In those final hours before she died, we held her hands and sang hymns. We recited Scriptures she loved and talked about heaven. Late in the evening, my grandmother died with family, friends, and a hospice nurse holding vigil by her side. “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints,” I whispered, the room now quiet in the absence of her labored breathing.
A wave of conflicting thoughts swirled in my mind. Death is natural. Death is a part of life. But death is also unnatural. It’s an enemy. This isn’t right. My grandmother was a faithful believer. Though I knew she was with the Lord, I wasn’t sure how to feel about her death. There’s an ache of grief, even if it’s grief with hope. But how do we grieve? What do we do with death—the thing that everyone faces but none of us wants to endure? If death is a natural part of life, why are we so afraid of it?
In We Shall All Be Changed: How Facing Death with Loved Ones Transforms Us, journalist Whitney Pipkin answers common questions about grieving the death of a loved one and facing our mortality. Death is a doorway that leads us to eternity, but it’s also an enemy that will chase humanity until Christ returns to put it in its grave.

Theology of Death

It’s tempting to cloak our feelings about death with cheery Bible verses and “buck-up” clichés. However, if death is truly the enemy Jesus came to destroy, then it’s right to grieve its reach in this life. It’s right to lament because death is lamentable, even if it’s anticipated. Pipkin writes, “There is no tidy theology that will keep those tears from falling. But our suffering in death need not be deepened by surprise” (33).
We all must face our mortality. Walking with our loved ones through death is a rehearsal for our own step into eternity. Unless Christ returns in our lifetime, we will die. Developing a theology of death teaches us to sit with grief and understand the hope of Christ’s return.
Death is a result of sin.
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Though we can damage relationships there by our sinfulness, the church is one of the primary means God has given to us for sanctification and perseverance in the faith. It’s not an optional activity (Heb. 10:25). It’s God’s gift to each of us who used to be far off but have been brought near by the blood of Christ. The church is a means of grace by which we’re sanctified, taught, disciplined, and encouraged.

When my husband and I moved out of state for his new senior pastor role at a small rural church, our sending pastor prayed for our future suffering in ministry. At the time, I couldn’t understand why he’d pray about such a thing. What kind of suffering was he anticipating for us? Wasn’t church the safest place for a pastor and his wife?
That was nearly 20 years ago, and if I could go back to my younger self, I’d tell her that little would bring her more sorrow than the local church. But I’d also say her suffering in ministry would absolutely be worth it.
Friendly Fire Hurts the Most
Ten years into our ministry, my husband and I were ready to throw in the towel. Pastoring was hard work, with emotional and spiritual burdens we couldn’t untangle from the other parts of our life. I struggled to make friends in our church because I wasn’t sure who I could trust. Members who had previously sworn allegiance left in droves. Criticisms about methodology almost always became personal character attacks, and if people were unhappy with my husband, I usually heard about it. Maybe the comments and complaints weren’t aimed at me, but they stung just the same.
I was surprised by how deeply ministry life hurt. The church is a family, and the wounds inflicted by brothers and sisters cut deep.
During those early years of church turmoil, a missionary on furlough stayed with us, and we shared some of our struggles with him. “Friendly fire always hurts the most,” he told us. He’d endured deep persecution from people hostile to the gospel in the country where he’d served, and yet, he explained to us, nothing hurt as much as problems within his church and between other missionaries.
As people united by the gospel and reconciled to both God and one another through Jesus, we’re supposed to not only get along but love one another with “brotherly affection” (Rom. 12:10). When we fight and stand against one another, that reconciliation threatens to unravel. The place we’re supposed to be safe and loved can become the place we most dread.
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