deadlines
My pastor and I had a rare talk about theology recently. You'd think it would not be rare, to have such talks between a pastoral associate and the pastor with whom she associates. But it is rather rare. We talk about, basically, policy- about how to do things, whether to do things, when to do things, how to handle stuff. But it's more an unspoken feeling around in the dark that happens between us, theologically- we look for evidence in each other's words and actions to confirm or disprove that the other's theology is in line with ours.
Maybe this goes way back to a time when people were persecuted for believing, for following Jesus- having to trace the fish symbol in the dirt as they met others to show without saying out loud that they were Christians, using sign language to check the relative safety of a conversation. Now that I think of it, things haven't changed that much, and it might be handy to have a symbol to trace, rather than real-time, face-to-face spying on each other for evidence of their orthodoxy, or progressiveness.
Anyway, my pastor mentioned that he doesn't preach about hell much, and wondered if he should. I pointed to an old brochure on my office wall that I found in a church narthex once and kept because it makes me laugh- it's two children kneeling in front of Mary, and the headline is "Hell Exists and We Might Go There." It cracked me up because it was stated so matter-of-factly, and yet so menacingly. Menacingly matter of fact.
He mentioned that some scholars believe hell is empty. I told him I lean that way, which is a lie- I absolutely believe that's true. He seemed surprised, and came to the defense of God's respect of our free will. He's used the words "God loves some people into hell" before, more than once, and it does stun me every time. It doesn't sound like the God I know, it doesn't sound, to me, like how love works. I get what he means- but the scene of this looks like this in my head; God looks worriedly at a person at the point of death, and if they haven't chosen God by then, he sadly says "oh, well" and crosses his name off the list on his clipboard. In my pastor's view, the poor sucker doesn't even get to the Golden Gate.
I told him the story my youth group kid had told us once, long ago. In a small girls' prayer group I led called "Banana Bread and God," we wrestled with this very topic. Andrea told us about her grandmother, who hosted birthday parties for all her grandchildren- she'd place a gift at the end of a string, and then loop that string crazily throughout the house- she'd wrap it around chairs, and under tables, and up stairs and into and out of closets, and between sheets... when the birthday kid arrived at her door, they were handed the end of that string, and they'd get to work following it to find their prize.
I love that image- I think even my pastor can get behind that visual, right? Here's your path, kid! Follow it to the end! At the end you will be rewarded for your work!
But here's the kicker. Andrea, thoughtfully, said "I don't think that, if by the end of the party, we hadn't found our gift... I don't think Grandma would say 'oh well! Time's up! Party's over! Too bad for you!'"
This, I learned this week, is called an a fortiori argument. It goes, if yer everyday average Grandmother doesn't give up on you, how much more does God want you to have your reward?
To me, where my pastor and I diverge is in the deadline. (get it? DEADline?) To me, time is not necessarily up at the moment a person dies. Not exactly purgatory, which I believe (oh geez, this could get me into trouble) sounds more like human-style justice than God-style justice...
No, I just believe that after a person's death, upon meeting God (who is LOVE) face-to-face, even the hardest Hitler would not, could not possibly, choose anything but God. I believe that God's mercy is more powerful than our weakness. And I told my pastor so.
He did that male thing, that priest thing, where he said something like "you might actually have a reasonable point," and that, I think, was the best he could do. We parted un-bruised, which is the best one can hope for, I think, in a conversation about diverging theologies with one's priest-boss.
Today I'm at a retreat center for a sabbath day, with a good book and a good lunch ahead of me. There was a wild storm last night, with winds that woke me and rain that pushed branches out of trees and onto everywhere. The little window in my space today looks out over a still-green lawn at just-turning leaves, tinged with orange, and clouds racing by in what's left of the storm's wind gusts. I'm taking deep breaths.
Maybe this goes way back to a time when people were persecuted for believing, for following Jesus- having to trace the fish symbol in the dirt as they met others to show without saying out loud that they were Christians, using sign language to check the relative safety of a conversation. Now that I think of it, things haven't changed that much, and it might be handy to have a symbol to trace, rather than real-time, face-to-face spying on each other for evidence of their orthodoxy, or progressiveness.
Anyway, my pastor mentioned that he doesn't preach about hell much, and wondered if he should. I pointed to an old brochure on my office wall that I found in a church narthex once and kept because it makes me laugh- it's two children kneeling in front of Mary, and the headline is "Hell Exists and We Might Go There." It cracked me up because it was stated so matter-of-factly, and yet so menacingly. Menacingly matter of fact.
He mentioned that some scholars believe hell is empty. I told him I lean that way, which is a lie- I absolutely believe that's true. He seemed surprised, and came to the defense of God's respect of our free will. He's used the words "God loves some people into hell" before, more than once, and it does stun me every time. It doesn't sound like the God I know, it doesn't sound, to me, like how love works. I get what he means- but the scene of this looks like this in my head; God looks worriedly at a person at the point of death, and if they haven't chosen God by then, he sadly says "oh, well" and crosses his name off the list on his clipboard. In my pastor's view, the poor sucker doesn't even get to the Golden Gate.
I told him the story my youth group kid had told us once, long ago. In a small girls' prayer group I led called "Banana Bread and God," we wrestled with this very topic. Andrea told us about her grandmother, who hosted birthday parties for all her grandchildren- she'd place a gift at the end of a string, and then loop that string crazily throughout the house- she'd wrap it around chairs, and under tables, and up stairs and into and out of closets, and between sheets... when the birthday kid arrived at her door, they were handed the end of that string, and they'd get to work following it to find their prize.
I love that image- I think even my pastor can get behind that visual, right? Here's your path, kid! Follow it to the end! At the end you will be rewarded for your work!
But here's the kicker. Andrea, thoughtfully, said "I don't think that, if by the end of the party, we hadn't found our gift... I don't think Grandma would say 'oh well! Time's up! Party's over! Too bad for you!'"
This, I learned this week, is called an a fortiori argument. It goes, if yer everyday average Grandmother doesn't give up on you, how much more does God want you to have your reward?
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| Happy last day, Penelope! |
No, I just believe that after a person's death, upon meeting God (who is LOVE) face-to-face, even the hardest Hitler would not, could not possibly, choose anything but God. I believe that God's mercy is more powerful than our weakness. And I told my pastor so.
He did that male thing, that priest thing, where he said something like "you might actually have a reasonable point," and that, I think, was the best he could do. We parted un-bruised, which is the best one can hope for, I think, in a conversation about diverging theologies with one's priest-boss.
Today I'm at a retreat center for a sabbath day, with a good book and a good lunch ahead of me. There was a wild storm last night, with winds that woke me and rain that pushed branches out of trees and onto everywhere. The little window in my space today looks out over a still-green lawn at just-turning leaves, tinged with orange, and clouds racing by in what's left of the storm's wind gusts. I'm taking deep breaths.
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