Ben Sasse Faces Death Sentence With Republican Grit and Unwavering Faith

Paul Riverbank, 12/24/2025Ben Sasse faces terminal cancer with raw honesty, deep faith, and unflinching Republican resolve.

Death sentences, Sasse mused, aren’t really a new concept; we all live under their shadow, whether or not someone gives us a timeline. For Sasse, a candid reckoning with mortality seemed the only path forward, one that pushed aside the trappings of his old titles—senator, university president, father—in favor of something closer to the bone. “We all do,” he noted, as if reminding both himself and those listening that his story is, ultimately, a human one.

Faith, for him, wasn’t just a comfort—it was the core. He didn’t reach for airy optimism or generic spirituality. Rather, he turned deliberately to the bedrock texts and traditions of Christianity, especially poignant as Christmas neared. Sasse wasn’t seeking empty reassurance. “Not hope in vague hallmark-sappy spirituality,” he wrote, as if reading minds and pre-empting clichés. He drew on scripture, openly admitting both his sorrow and gratitude, acknowledging that pain doesn’t vanish by divine fiat. It takes up space, but so does hope—of a more stubborn and muscular kind.

Stepping away from the Senate, Sasse had made headlines. But there were private battles, too. Not long before his own diagnosis, his wife Melissa faced difficult health news—epilepsy, then memory issues that pulled their lives inwards. “We’re facing it together,” he reflected at the time, his public persona momentarily replaced with one familiar to any spouse or parent who’s had to recalibrate the ordinary rhythm of family. Now, with three kids at pivotal ages—one in uniform, another fresh out of college, and a son barely old enough to drive—the taste of ordinary family moments has sharpened for the Sasses. Time’s cruel arithmetic is all too real.

Colleagues and political adversaries alike paused to offer support. Vice President JD Vance didn’t mince words: “May God bless you and your family.” Even harsh critics seemed to find little to contest but instead acknowledged Sasse’s forthrightness. His choices in the Senate—most famously voting to convict Trump during impeachment—earned their share of rebuke. Still, if there’s one thing his tenure proved, it was that conviction, to him, mattered more than short-term popularity.

University life brought its own crucibles. When tensions ran high, Sasse made headlines for defending the Jewish students at the University of Florida, emphasizing their presence and safety on campus at a time when public reassurance mattered. Whatever you think of his politics, it is difficult to accuse him of ducking hard conversations.

Sasse faces cancer as he faced Capitol Hill: without much pretense, but not without a plan. He leans on modern medicine—immunotherapies, experimental treatments—with the same kind of resolve and realism that have marked his public statements. “One sub-part of God’s grace,” he called recent advances, refusing to divorce science and faith, treating them instead as allies in a fight still worth waging.

At home, humor has its place, even the gallows kind—rarely far from families straining under the weight of too much seriousness. The process of dying, Sasse figures, still counts as life, and the days aren’t to be squandered. His writing could have turned sentimental; instead, it sits somewhere between raw honesty and quiet courage.

In these moments—lines drawn from hymns, passages quoted from Isaiah—there’s no pretending the pain doesn’t hurt. But Sasse reminds readers of a broader perspective: “We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise,” he echoes, grounding his own troubles in the melody of “Amazing Grace.” That kind of faith, sturdy yet unvarnished, doesn’t remove darkness, but insists on the possibility of light.

This battle, says Sasse, isn’t over yet. “I’ll have more to say,” he promises. He’s fighting, grateful for every arrow in the quiver, from the laboratory to the prayer bench. His story now isn’t shaped by office or ambition but by a grit that’s hardest to summon for those we love most.

Even as he steps back from the public role, he manages to leave behind a message that’s both sober and bright—a man reckoning, yes, but not resigning. “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light,” he writes, sacred words rendered vivid by their cost. Whether or not his voice remains on the campaign trail or the airwaves, Ben Sasse’s candor and hope challenge the rest of us to see—even in life’s longest shadow—the faint stubborn glow of morning.

News, when it comes this heavy, lands not with shock but with a certain hush. Ben Sasse, the former Nebraska senator—a man accustomed to the pressures of public life—revealed recently a truth that leaves little room for platitudes: stage four pancreatic cancer. At 53, Sasse did what’s rare in an age so cluttered with euphemism—he called it exactly what it was. “I’m gonna die,” he wrote plainly, shunning the usual efforts to soften the blow. Sometimes clarity is the kindest act.Death sentences, Sasse mused, aren’t really a new concept; we all live under their shadow, whether or not someone gives us a timeline. For Sasse, a candid reckoning with mortality seemed the only path forward, one that pushed aside the trappings of his old titles—senator, university president, father—in favor of something closer to the bone. “We all do,” he noted, as if reminding both himself and those listening that his story is, ultimately, a human one.Faith, for him, wasn’t just a comfort—it was the core. He didn’t reach for airy optimism or generic spirituality. Rather, he turned deliberately to the bedrock texts and traditions of Christianity, especially poignant as Christmas neared. Sasse wasn’t seeking empty reassurance. “Not hope in vague hallmark-sappy spirituality,” he wrote, as if reading minds and pre-empting clichés. He drew on scripture, openly admitting both his sorrow and gratitude, acknowledging that pain doesn’t vanish by divine fiat. It takes up space, but so does hope—of a more stubborn and muscular kind.Stepping away from the Senate, Sasse had made headlines. But there were private battles, too. Not long before his own diagnosis, his wife Melissa faced difficult health news—epilepsy, then memory issues that pulled their lives inwards. “We’re facing it together,” he reflected at the time, his public persona momentarily replaced with one familiar to any spouse or parent who’s had to recalibrate the ordinary rhythm of family. Now, with three kids at pivotal ages—one in uniform, another fresh out of college, and a son barely old enough to drive—the taste of ordinary family moments has sharpened for the Sasses. Time’s cruel arithmetic is all too real.Colleagues and political adversaries alike paused to offer support. Vice President JD Vance didn’t mince words: “May God bless you and your family.” Even harsh critics seemed to find little to contest but instead acknowledged Sasse’s forthrightness. His choices in the Senate—most famously voting to convict Trump during impeachment—earned their share of rebuke. Still, if there’s one thing his tenure proved, it was that conviction, to him, mattered more than short-term popularity.University life brought its own crucibles. When tensions ran high, Sasse made headlines for defending the Jewish students at the University of Florida, emphasizing their presence and safety on campus at a time when public reassurance mattered. Whatever you think of his politics, it is difficult to accuse him of ducking hard conversations.Sasse faces cancer as he faced Capitol Hill: without much pretense, but not without a plan. He leans on modern medicine—immunotherapies, experimental treatments—with the same kind of resolve and realism that have marked his public statements. “One sub-part of God’s grace,” he called recent advances, refusing to divorce science and faith, treating them instead as allies in a fight still worth waging.At home, humor has its place, even the gallows kind—rarely far from families straining under the weight of too much seriousness. The process of dying, Sasse figures, still counts as life, and the days aren’t to be squandered. His writing could have turned sentimental; instead, it sits somewhere between raw honesty and quiet courage.In these moments—lines drawn from hymns, passages quoted from Isaiah—there’s no pretending the pain doesn’t hurt. But Sasse reminds readers of a broader perspective: “We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise,” he echoes, grounding his own troubles in the melody of “Amazing Grace.” That kind of faith, sturdy yet unvarnished, doesn’t remove darkness, but insists on the possibility of light.This battle, says Sasse, isn’t over yet. “I’ll have more to say,” he promises. He’s fighting, grateful for every arrow in the quiver, from the laboratory to the prayer bench. His story now isn’t shaped by office or ambition but by a grit that’s hardest to summon for those we love most.Even as he steps back from the public role, he manages to leave behind a message that’s both sober and bright—a man reckoning, yes, but not resigning. “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light,” he writes, sacred words rendered vivid by their cost. Whether or not his voice remains on the campaign trail or the airwaves, Ben Sasse’s candor and hope challenge the rest of us to see—even in life’s longest shadow—the faint stubborn glow of morning.