Heaven, Hell and Everything in Between

Rob Bell recently published a book titled, Love Wins.  The book deals with Christian notions of heaven and hell and specifically the idea that traditional Christian concepts of hell aren't really all that important.  From the brief media appearances I've seen of him talking about his book it seems Bell's point is that, in the end, God's act of redeeming the world cannot fail and so the concept of hell should take a back seat to much more important theological concepts (like God's love for the world).  I haven't read the book yet, and I'm not sure that I will, but what's made this book so controversial is that Rob Bell is a pastor of the evangelical, 10,000 member, Mars Hill Bible Church in Grand Rapids, MI.  Evangelicals aren't known for cozying up to ideas that even approach the theological territory of universalism.  The odd part (though perhaps not surprising) is that Bell isn't espousing universalism and while I might be called a universalist, that's not really at all what his book makes me think about.

I don't remember the first time I posed the "what happens when I die?" question to my parents.  Hell wasn't really a topic of conversation at home or in church and heaven always hung as this background fixture in the ambiance of sermons or Sunday school lessons.  It just wasn't a topic my church or my life seemed to care that much about. Instead the recent media frenzy over Bell's book makes me think about the fact that in different places and at different times Christianity is and has been very different.

What is it about Christianity that makes different denominations and conglomerations of Christians so terribly concerned with doctrinal orthodoxy?  What is so important about retaining this orthodoxy?  Perhaps the sense of inclusion and identity is important for some.  For others, maybe, it's about feeling in control of some aspect of our knowledge of god.  To be honest, I couldn't say.  As a lifelong holder of unorthodox and unpopular ideas I'm not sure what it is about difference that concerns people so much and I'm not sure what it is about unpopular theological ideas that so threatens the very fabric of Christianity.  If all of this is an issue of identity then I think it would be prudent to begin by at least acknowledging the fact that the various forms and expressions of Christianity throughout the world are different enough to warrant their own parking space in the list of world religions.

It's interesting to me though because many of us (especially those in the ecumenical movement) are enamored with the idea of unity.  We can accept that Christianity is different and the myriad expressions of it so long as we still get to call it all Christianity (I guess, because, what else would we call it?).  And I think there are some positives to this.  I think it allows us to accept what different denominations and groups have contributed to Christian faith over its history.  It prevents different groups from dismissing each other outright even if it doesn't prevent them from disagreeing and condemning each other.  In the end, it reminds us to be in dialogue with one another.

And yet, clinging to this notion that we can still claim some unified piece of the religious landscape creates problems for me.  At the very least I find it a tad disingenuous (while we might all claim Jesus as foundational to the faith, we definitely don't agree what that means).  At worst it continues to prevent the majority of Christianity from accepting those elements of our faith that are indebted to other religious traditions in the world.  It's like we keep telling ourselves that Christianity is just so unique and thus, just so right.  Perhaps this is all just semantics in the end but I really do think that being able to be honest about the reality that Christian theology can be varied enough to effectively function as different religions is important.  Perhaps it could teach us how to celebrate difference rather than hide from it.

Tragedy

We are, for the most part, terrible at confronting tragedy. Grieving is a process we rush, not one we savor, stories are retold so long as they have happy endings and we love revisionist history when it acquits us of the sins of our fathers and mothers. I’m not sure I could pinpoint what part of our society reinforces this relatively common experience, but I am certain that we are simply dumbfounded when it comes to confronting, living in, and learning from the tragedies we experience regularly in our lives. In my religious upbringing hope was the refrain heard most often over the discordant melody of tragedy; that somehow god would make something good out of a bad situation, that we should hope for a brighter tomorrow and that things will eventually get better. And I have to confess that these are compelling beliefs for me as well but there is a part of me that can’t quite stomach the notion that there is always some good that comes out of our tragedies. I feel like, sometimes, hope gets in the way of the more human part of reacting to tragedy. We don’t know how to live with sorrow or trade our feelings of loss. We worry about visiting our own demons on others or subjecting them to a version of ourselves we’re not altogether comfortable with.

I did not attend my grandmother's funeral the reason for which (the one I shared with my father and others) was primarily logistical. My partner was in St. Louis in the middle of student teaching and I was missing her terribly and boarding a plane to go see her. The other reasons that I failed to share with anyone at the time were, perhaps, the more important ones. My grandmother had fallen into increasingly deeper spats of dementia as her life ended and there was a large part of me that already felt she was gone. The last time I saw her, it wasn't her anymore. I suppose (or at least convinced myself) that my grieving had already begun. I said goodbye that final visit in more ways than one. I had no intention of attempting to visit my grief on others.

A month or so after the funeral the family gathered to bury Grandma’s ashes. Not all of us were there, just like before. The moment was awkward. Someone suggested we bury one of our beer cans with her and the only thing I could think about was whether or not anyone really wanted to talk about the fact that Grandma was, for all intents and purposes, an alcoholic. I was asked to offer a prayer and over the swelling and passing sound of several cars, I did.Then we buried our grief in the ground.

And so, Good Friday will come and pass this Lent with all due haste.We'll take a moment to leave our sanctuaries in a Tenebrae silence and then quickly shuffle on to the joy of Easter. It’s so much less effort this way, so much less awkward. The dwelling will be on new hope and new life rather than living the lives that are so obviously staring back at us. Because, in the end, we still don’t know what it means to live the tragedies of everyday life even though we are all painfully aware that we need to.

“The glory of god is humanity fully alive.” – Iranaeus of Lyons