Heretics : What if there is no hell?

Illustration: Adam Maida; Photograph: AP Photo/M. Spencer Green

For the past week or so Reverend Carlton Pearson has been on my mind. I first heard his story on the podcast Heretics by This American Life, and ever since, several people have reached out asking if I'd listened to it and what I think of it. Clearly, it has his a nerve. 

In the 1990's, Reverend Carlton Pearson was a rising star in the evangelical movement, but in the early 2000's, after he cast aside the idea of hell, "everything he'd worked for over his entire life" suddenly crumbled (via). Except his faith. 

Which is why he became a heretic.

There's also a movie, produced by James D. Stern under his Endgame Entertainment banner, along with Ira Glass and This American Life banner, distributed by Netflix.

"One of the moments I’m happiest with in our new film," Ira Glass writes, "is the scene where Jason Segel’s character Henry basically breaks up with his friend. Because his friend has come to believe some things Jason does not" (via). 

Everything Henry say comes down, basically to: “This is breaking my heart because I think maybe you’re going to hell and I love you and it feels like there’s nothing I can do or say to stop you.” 

It’s moments like that which made me want to make this film. Years ago, I became aware that there was a huge gap between the way evangelicals are portrayed on TV and in films and in the news, and the evangelicals I know in my personal life. Who are not like the smiling, intolerant hardasses I see in the media, but complicated, sensitive, funny people who take seriously Jesus’s admonition to love one another (via).

And I was reminded of Originals and the idea of "horizontal hostility."

According to Adam Grant, horizontal hostility is the "minor differences in people who are otherwise alike that form the basis of feelings of strangeness and hostility between them" (pg 117). Like vegans and vegetarians. Compared to much of the world, these two groups are very similar, which is the problem. Because they are so alike, they can often find horizontal hostility because the other isn’t doing it right and therefore, “making us look bad.”

I would venture to say that the existence of hell is no "minor difference," but, shouldn't it be? At least in terms of the greater commission, to love one another? 

If there was no hell, if everyone was heading to heaven because God's love was indeed big and great enough, should that change anything? They we live and speak and think? Shouldn't we be rejoicing that people everywhere get to experience eternity with a loving God? 

If not, why not? 

And if the idea of hell is why we serve and minister and "love our neighbors," aren't we missing the whole point of the gospel? 

But also, and perhaps to the deepest point, why is someone not aloud to question and struggle? To look at what we've been doing for hundreds of years and say, "I don't know. We may be wrong - because we're human."

 Why are those who question considered heretics and kicked out of the church?

When did being curious and wondering outside of tradition become the unpardonable sin? 

What I find most interesting with all this is, in the end, Reverend Carlton Pearson is ministering and loving the outcasts, the "sinners" and those whom Jesus would have been drawn to. Not the righteous pharisees. 

Which, in the end, is why I tend to side with Reverend Carlton Pearson. Not because I'm convinced he's right, but because I'm convinced in his process, in questioning and wrestling and the willingness to be wrong. Even if it means losing everything. 

Except his faith.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On playing Devil's Advocate  :  Bacon and God's Wrath :  On Empathy

Hands rake leaves; faith opens refrigerators

(Photo by @storyanthology)

I know there’s nothing there, because I just looked five minutes ago. But there's that something that keeps drawing me to the fridge, looking for something to eat, to snack on, or to keep me distracted. So I go once more, open the fridge once more, and am not surprised but somehow disappointed to find that it’s just like it was before.

I’m not hungry, and I’m not there because I’m hungry, I’m there because I’m restless, because I don’t want to do whatever it is I need to do, like lesson plan or grade essays or wrestle through some difficult thought for a blog post.

Or call my parents.

So I head back to the fridge, even though I know it won’t help, because it’s easier, because I’d rather hope for a miracle than deal with reality, and because it’s safe. Just like faith.

And I’m pretty tired of wasting my time with both.

This past Saturday, Judah should have been outside raking while Josey and I sat in the living room, talking. Instead though, he kept coming inside to get a drink of water, to get a snack, and then to get another drink of water – while the leaves continued to cover the ground – and I got frustrated, “Get outside and work,” I said. So he did. With a sulk and a huff, he shoved his shoes back on and shuffled out the door to the yard, the leaves, and the task of learning how to rake all on his own.

Judah’s never raked a yard before.

But I sent him out anyway, because I believe, deeply, that yard work can help build a young boy’s character, that it can instill in him a strong work ethic, grit, and the deep satisfaction of a job well done. And I was confident I was doing the right thing, that him being outside was better than watching movies or playing videogames, and that someday, even if many years from now, he would thank me for these days.

So I refilled my coffee and headed back to the living room. From the window, I could see him pushing leaves around, kicking small sticks, and generally accomplishing very little. And it was then that I realized just how fragile, just how weak and useless faith can be, if left to simple devices.

Judah doesn’t know how to rake, how to stuff leaves in the garbage can, or what it means to put in a hard days work. Because he is ten. And no matter how many times I send him out or how much faith I have that we’re doing the right thing, he won’t learn it on his own. I can hope for it, pray incessantly about it, even find empowering quotes that encourage leaving him in the front yard, by himself, to wrestle and struggle through this obstacle – because only when we don’t know what to do can we grow.

Or, I can put on my shoes and teach him how to rake in rows and how to stomp the leaves in the garbage can. I can tell stories of “when I was your age” and how I used to hate raking our giant yard but sometimes wish I were there again, smelling the fire, and fighting with my brothers and sisters and how, just like he’s experiencing now, those hours and days working outside formed blisters and built character.

Instead of believing that raking leaves will teach and mold Judah, I can chase him around the yard, stuff leaves down his pants, and show him what it means to be a family and struggle and work and live together.

Or, I can head to the fridge, to prayer, and wait for my son to finish.

I can call my parents.

Faith, like running to refrigerators, can be a destructive distraction from doing what truly needs to be done, leaving us frustrated and empty and staring at a fridge full of food and asking, “Why is there nothing to eat?”

Because what we’re craving isn’t in the fridge. It’s in us - our hands, our feet - and in the simple moments of choosing to live by faith. Not wait on it.