“Jesus Saves.”
That was the message stitched onto the back of Branson Peppers’ football uniform.
He was 15.
A sophomore at Sardis High School.
An athlete, a teammate, a friend.
Gone in an instant—killed in a head-on crash while riding a four-wheeler less than half a mile from my home.
And now, as photos and tributes flood social media, I feel both heartbreak and unease. Branson was clearly loved by many. His death has sent waves of sorrow through our small North Alabama community. But it’s what people are saying in response—what they feel they must say—that troubles me most.
“He’s with Jesus now.”
“God has a plan.”
“We know he’s in heaven.”
These words come quickly. Automatically. But are they true?
The Comfort of Certainty
In times of tragedy, religion often steps in with ready-made answers. It’s natural. We want to believe there’s some larger meaning. Some unseen rescue. Some divine promise that death is not the end.
So we say things like “Jesus saves.” We share hashtags like #Forever8 and #JesusSaves. We claim, with absolute conviction, that a 15-year-old who died in an ATV accident is now safe in Heaven, embraced by God.
I understand why people say it. I really do.
But here’s the honest, human truth:
That conviction is based on belief, not evidence.
And belief, no matter how deeply felt, does not make something real.
What Jesus Didn’t Save
Branson believed. His family believed.
His helmet, his backpack, his game-day gear—it all proclaimed the message: “Jesus Saves.”
But Jesus didn’t save him.
Not from the corner he rounded too fast.
Not from the truck he couldn’t see.
Not from the head-on impact that ended his life.
People will say, “He did save him—eternally.”
But that response quietly shifts the meaning of “save” from something physical and tangible to something unverifiable.
It also avoids the question we must ask if we’re being honest:
Why didn’t Jesus save him now, here, in this life?
What We Know—and What We Don’t
Here’s what we know for certain:
- Branson Peppers died in a tragic accident.
- His brain ceased functioning.
- His heart stopped.
- His consciousness, everything he was, is no longer here.
Beyond that—everything is speculation.
There is no verifiable evidence that Branson went to heaven. No evidence that he still exists in another realm. No sign that he’s watching over us. These are ideas people hope are true. But hope, however comforting, is not truth.
That doesn’t make the grief any less real.
It just makes the truth harder to face—and maybe more important than ever.
The God Question in the Midst of Tragedy
Here’s what I believe now:
Branson mattered. He lived, and he loved, and he was loved.
That is sacred. That is enough.
Not because a god said so—but because we say so. Because we feel it.
We honor his life by telling the truth:
He died too young.
It wasn’t part of some divine plan.
And no amount of belief will bring him back.
That truth is brutal. But it’s also freeing.
Because if we stop pretending that there’s a cosmic rescue plan, we might finally begin to see just how precious—and fragile—this one life really is.
To Those Who Still Believe
If you find comfort in your faith, I don’t fault you.
We all reach for meaning when tragedy strikes.
But I ask you gently: Is the comfort you feel built on something true?
Or is it built on something you’ve been told your whole life to believe?
When we say, “Jesus saves,” but he doesn’t save a 15-year-old from death—don’t we owe it to ourselves, and to Branson, to ask what that really means?
And if we find that it means nothing at all…
Maybe we can begin to build a different kind of hope.
One rooted not in myth, but in the fragile, beautiful truth of being here now—together.
Final Thoughts
To Branson’s family, friends, and teammates:
I offer my deepest sympathy.
I do not believe in an afterlife, but I do believe in love.
And I believe Branson’s life mattered—not because of where he is now, but because of what he meant while he was here.
His absence is devastating.
But let us not pretend it was prevented.
Let us honor him, not with certainty, but with honesty.
Because the truth, even in grief, is sacred.
God or Delusion? 