Last night, our shepherds and me went to a local hospital to pray for a brother who is dying of cancer. The cancer is spreading. His body is growing weaker. We don’t know how long he has here, but because of Jesus’ promise, we know where he is going…
Here is a passage that has been on my mind this morning.
_____________________________________________
“For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain. Now if I live on in the flesh, this means fruitful work for me; and I don’t know which one I should choose. I am torn between the two. I long to depart and be with Christ — which is far better.”
— Philippians 1:21–23 (CSB)
A Man Who Had Seen Both Sides
Paul wrote those words from a prison cell. Chained to a Roman guard. Waiting to find out whether Caesar was going to let him live or have him killed. And you know, he’s not afraid. He’s not bargaining with God. He’s not white-knuckling his way through the fear.
He’s torn. Not between life and death, the way the rest of us are torn, desperately clinging to this side and terrified of the other. Paul is torn because both options are genuinely good. Stay here and keep doing the work he loves. Or go home and be with Jesus.
That’s a different kind of man than most of us are. And it raises a question: what did Paul know about the other side that made him lean toward it the way he did?
He Called It “Far Better”
Look at that phrase again. Paul doesn’t say death is acceptable. He doesn’t say it’s okay or that he’s made his peace with it. He says departing to be with Christ is “far better.”
That’s not resignation. That’s anticipation.
We may miss this in English, but the term “far better” is where Paul is stacking superlatives on top of each other. Better. Much better. Incomparably better. He’s reaching for language that can hold the weight of what he’s trying to describe and almost coming up short. There aren’t enough words for how good it’s going to be.
I think about that when I stand at gravesides. I’ve stood at a lot of them over the years. There is real grief in those moments. But underneath the grief, for those who belong to Christ, there is something else. A knowing. A quiet confidence that the person in that casket isn’t missing out. They arrived. We’re the ones still on the way.
What the Homecoming Looks Like
Here’s what Scripture gives us, and it’s more than enough to live on.
Paul says the moment of death is the moment of departure, and the destination is the presence of Christ Himself. Not a waiting room. Not a long sleep. To be absent from the body, he tells the Corinthians, is to be present with the Lord (2 Corinthians 5:8). The transition is that immediate. That direct. You close your eyes here, and you open them there, and the first thing you see is the face of Jesus.
Think about what that means for a moment. Every answered prayer you ever prayed, you’ll meet the One who answered it. Every time the Word sustained you in a dark season, you’ll stand before the Word made flesh. Every Sunday, you gathered with the church, sang, worshiped, and felt something real — that was a rehearsal. What’s coming is the concert.
Revelation 21 gives us a glimpse of what God is building: a place where He wipes every tear from every eye. No more death. No more grief. No more crying or pain. The old order of things has passed away. And God Himself is there, making His home among His people.
John 14 gives us the promise straight from Jesus’ own mouth. “I am going to prepare a place for you.” That’s not poetic language thrown out to comfort nervous disciples. That’s a carpenter’s promise. Jesus knows how to build things. And He’s had two thousand years to work on it.
And then there are the people. I’ve buried fathers and mothers, children and friends, mentors and partners in ministry. Every single one of them who belonged to Christ, they’re not gone. They’re ahead. Paul tells the Thessalonians not to grieve like people who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). The reunion is coming. The table is being set. And everybody you love who finished the race before you, they’ll be there when you cross the line.
So Live Like You Believe It
Here’s the thing about Paul’s tension in Philippians 1. He resolves it by choosing to stay, not because he’s afraid to go, but because the people still need him. That’s the mark of someone who has genuinely settled the question of eternity. He’s not clinging to this life out of fear. He’s investing in it out of love.
That’s what a real hope in heaven does to a person. It doesn’t make you check out of this world, it frees you to pour yourself into it without fear. You can give generously because you’re not hoarding for a future that’s uncertain. You can forgive freely because you’re not carrying offenses into eternity. You can face hard days without falling apart because you know, you actually know, that this is not the last chapter.
Paul called it “far better.” And he meant every word. The homecoming is real. The preparation is finished. And the One waiting on the other side is worth every hard mile of the journey to get there.
Will you live today like eternity is real? Not recklessly. Purposefully. Is there something you’ve been withholding out of fear? Someone you’ve been avoiding forgiving? A risk you haven’t taken because this life feels too fragile to spend freely? Paul had settled the question of what’s waiting on the other side. Let that same settled confidence free you up to live fully on this side.
