God cannot die, whatever Nietzsche might have thought. Nor can God suffer. It is worth emphasising these points, since a well-intentioned trend of recent decades has it that God is susceptible to emotions and, in some sense, suffers alongside us. It is understandable enough why, faced with the carnage of contemporary human existence and the private tragedies that accompany the business of simply living, someone might want to rebel against an image of God as passive and uncaring. However, there is already a mistake here: to assume that if God does not suffer, God is passive, that if God does not have emotions, God is cold, is to assume that God occupies the same logical space as ourselves, that the options available to God – so to speak – are those laid out before us. Whereas the creator of all things lies beyond our capacity to grasp; God’s nature is hidden from us. So we speak of him conscious of the inadequacy of our words, in analogy and metaphor (including, of course, metaphors involving suffering and emotion).
And yet, what God cannot do as God, God does as a human being. The Word of God, incarnate as a human being, dies a human death in Christ and suffers human sufferings in Christ. Because of the events the Church celebrates today, our God, incarnate as human and risen and ascended into glory, can empathise with our pain. Because he has died a human death he has transformed death itself. In undergoing the worst that human beings do to one another and uttering words of forgiveness he has opened the way to breaking out of the deadly cycle of revenge.
For these reasons we dare to call today, the day on which we murdered the man who is God, Good.