"My Father's house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And, if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me" (John 14:2-3)
For people of faith, the scriptural passage above attests to the assurance that something awaits us when this present life of ours passes away. Such assurance offers us comfort in our final days -- or hours -- but what if these verses no longer hold out hope for those facing Ultimate Concern? What if we, as ministers, were forced to find an answer that satisfies a deep spiritual need without benefit of God's Word? What if scripture, chapter and verse, no longer fills our Ultimate Concern? That is a question that should be of concern to all of us who claim the mantel of, "minister," and it begs the question how do we answer 21st Century questions when those 1st Century answers no longer apply?
In seminary we are taught that scripture is our shield and our charge is to proclaim scripture to the faithful and unfaithful, alike. It is easy to preach the Gospel to the faithful; not so easy among the unfaithful, especially to those who have fallen away, lost their faith in a series of pitfalls, and for whom scripture no longer offers them hope. As "shepherds" we are charged with searching for, and finding, these "lost sheep," but how do we find the answers these lost sheep so desperately seek? Is it possible to find an answer that spiritually satisfies our Ultimate Concern within a secular world-view? And, if so, how might such an answer look like? Can we accomplish such an enourous task and still maintain that it is Christian? That question is the point of today's post.
If you're a college graduate -- especially if, like me, you took a degree in Philosophy -- you've heard your professors scoff at such notions of "God," of religion in general, and, especially of a life-after-death. Such responses come from their own, admitted, atheism. If philosopher's hold any sort of religious viewpoint at all, then it is that, "to dust we came from and to dust we shall return" (Eccl. 3:20). And, even the writer of Ecclesiastes didn't address what happens to us when we return to that dust. Thus, at best, philosophers reject religious belief out of a stoic agnosticism.
Seminarians have heard chaplains and teachers speak with assurance, enthusiasm, love and zeal of their joyful expectation of life after death in a world without pain, without tears, without suffering and where we will be reunited with loved ones who preceded us. And, in each instance such joy and assurance is punctuated with a scriptural reference, as in the verse from John 14 (above). Is there life after death? Apart from my faith, I can't answer that with certainty and I don't know of anyone who can. None of those I have known to pass have ever returned to assure me, even though I have encountered many of them in my dreams at night, albeit without any mention of what the afterlife is like.
All of the world's religions hold to some notion of the soul's eternal life after this one has passed away. Archaeologists have discovered ancient graves going as far back as 100,000 years where the dead were buried with a care and consideration that only a belief in an afterlife would indicate. Weapons, clothing, food, other personal items and, depending on the departed's status in the community, sometimes personal servants and pets would be sacrificed to attend to the dead in their life-post-life. So, the belief in some form of immortality appears to run deep and long within human history.
Still, such beliefs are not universally held. As mentioned, philosophy treats religion from afar. It is just one more topic in a pantheon of topics grounded in the search for Reason. As a topic, religion falls into that area of philosophy called, Metaphysics and its many subsets such as, Ontology and the meaning of existence (as opposed to the meaning of non-existence). But that doesn't mean that philosophers haven't tried. The French philosopher, Blaise Pasqual (1623-1662) formulated what has become known as, Pasqual's Wager. It was his way of determining whether to believe, or not believe, in a hereafter. The 'wager' goes like this: If I believe in life after death, and upon my passing I discover that there is such an existence, then, as a believer, I have won. If I believe, and especially, if I disbelieve, in a life after death, and upon my passing there is no such existence, just an eternal sleep, I still win because there is no post life that I will be aware of; just eternal sleep. On the other hand, should I reject faith, and I pass on in my disbelief of a post-life existence and there is a such an existence, then I lose in the condemnation of my disbelief. Thus, says Pasqual, the wager is 2-1 in favor of belief.
Still, there exists room for doubt. The writer of Ecclesiastes doesn't help when he wrote: "For the fates of both men and beasts are the same: As one dies, so dies the other—they all have the same breath. Man has no advantage over the animals, since everything is futile. All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return" (3:20), and a passage our philosopher friends often like to quote as the basis for their disbelief. A rather bleak picture that reads as a very secular view of existence; one that doesn't fit nicely into what we have come to understand, theologically. We came from dust, and we return to dust and "the fates of both men and beasts are the same..." How do we, as people of faith, respond to that?
For starters we could look to the ancient world were we find tales of gods who interacted with humans in various ways while offering the promise of immortality in a life beyond this earthly existence. However, tales and myths, today, are an insult to our modern understanding. Having been relegated to the dustbin of history, they become a subject in a high school literature class. Today, we are no longer shackled by myth or speculation over their supposed truths. Speculation serves as nothing more than an abstraction in the search for Truth. The same is true for the Church today which many have come to think has lost its way in ancient abstractions no longer in touch with "real life" and which no longer serve the needs of we 21st Century humans. Words of piety spoken in sermons or offered up in prayers, invoked in mindless repetition, no longer bear any relationship to the actual passions of a particular people, nor address their Ultimate Concerns for themselves or their loved ones.
The advent of modern science has overturned much of what we have come to believe about this Earth and the planets beyond. Voyages to the Moon and to the outer planets by numerous NASA missions tell us there isn't a "Heaven" up there in the sky, or in the clouds. Modern forensic medicine has taken giant leaps in our understanding about death, corruption of the human body and its decay, thus altering our views of any notion of a bodily "resurrection."
For theology to even ask if there is life after death, is the spiritual-existential challenge to a secular world filled with doubt, cynicism and unbelief. This challenge comes in the form of a question whether theology can hold to a life-post-life, and if so, how can such a belief be expressed in theological terms that satisfy secular denial? I was once faced with such a question, This post is the story of that instance. It happened a number of years ago during my senior year at the University of Missouri, as I prepared for graduation and moving on to seminary, I was the student-pastor of a Presbyterian church in my hometown of Kansas City. During this time I was under the care of a supervisor assigned by the Presbytery as well as the church's senior and associate pastors. My duties were quite varied but included all aspects of the church's daily life.
As with any other enterprise I was learning much about the ministry and the role of a pastor within the setting of a parish church when, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, both our senior and associate pastors resigned to answer calls to other churches. Immediately, the Presbytery stepped in to fill the void of ordained leadership by bringing in retired ministers to preach the Sunday sermon and lead the fellowship in worship. But keeping alive the life of the church the rest of the week -- leading the Young Adults group; supervising the mid-week Pot Luck dinner; assuring that Sunday school has enough teachers; overseeing the choir and music director; meeting with the interim pastor and preparing the church for worship; overseeing the community outreach to the poor, the sick and the shut-in; and, in our dire situation of lack of ordained leadership, chairing the weekly meeting of the Board of Elders. -- fell on my, admittedly, unprepared shoulders. Still, I welcomed the challenge as a test of my future in the Christian ministry.
Tuesday and Thursday were my assigned days for visitations, barring any emergency. In ministering to those whose infirmities no longer allowed them to attend services, my role was to offer the visited party encouragement and comfort, scriptural assurance, and prayer. One day, after preparing my list for the day's visits, our church secretary informed me that one particular visit I was to undertake was to be done with caution. "What sort of caution?" I asked.
The secretary went on to explain that this particular call was to an elderly woman who had been a life-long member of the congregation and had, once, taken an active role in the life of the church. Now, she was hospitalized with a terminal illness and what had raised the cautionary flag, I was told, was that she had "lost her faith" through multiple personal tragedies and she no longer found comfort or assurance from the past visitations of our senior and associate pastors. The secretary went on to explain that, according to the family, the woman had become so distressed in the visits of our previous ministers that she, now, forbade the church to minister to her at all. The church secretary went on to say that this woman -- I'll call her, Helen -- had even told a family member that she would "rather face Hell, alone, than listen to one more biblical platitude." What an awful predicament, I lamented.
The tragedies Helen had gone through were the loss of her husband as a soldier during the Second World War. This was followed by the loss pf her son, a young Marine in the Korean conflict of the early 1950's; and, then, she lost her only daughter in a horrible automobile accident. The suffering she had endured in these losses proved fatal to her faith even as she, now, struggled with her own end-of-life issue. Thus, my instructions were clear: Do not bother her! Simply, go to the nurse's station, sign the woman's guest book, which the family had provided, and leave. As I left to make my calls I couldn't help but imagine the grief Helen had suffered over the years and my heart ached that she no longer found comfort in the Bible's promises and I wondered what could be done, if anything? But the instructions were clear and seemed simple enough. Respect her privacy. Just sign the guest book and leave.
Upon arriving at the hospital I proceeded to the nurse's station only to find it unattended; so, I waited; I waited a little longer; and, I waited even longer, still. It seemed odd that the station would be left unattended for a prolonged period of time but I theorized that, perhaps, there had been some hospital emergency that required extra attention from the staff. As my frustration over the long wait grew I began looking around for the guest book. Surely, it was there, somewhere, and I could quickly sign it, and leave. But as I fumbled around the nurse's desk I saw nothing that even remotely looked like a guest book and I certainly didn't want to get caught rummaging through the drawers. What to do? Do I continue to wait, or do I leave? Go ahead and leave, I thought; come back another day. What's the difference? After all, my instructions were to just sign the guest book and leave, so how urgent is the visit anyway since it really isn't a visit in the first place, just a symbolic gesture to Helen's family. But, as I stood there, to just up and leave seemed somehow, cowardly, and given Helen's terminal condition, what if there wouldn't be another day? What if she had only hours left?
As I stood about the nurse's station agonizing over a course of action, the urgency I felt to visit Helen, face-to-face, became overwhelming. As my instructions echoed in my ear -- just sign the guest book and leave -- the urgency I felt for this woman who, most assuredly, needed spiritual attention got the better of me. So, I looked up Helen's room number on the patient registry there on the desk at the nurse's station and proceeded down to her room.
I softly knocked on her door, silently hoping she would be asleep and not hear the knock, which would then be my excuse to actually leave. However, from the other side of the door came a polite, "Come in." What follows is what hapened inside that tiny, sterile hospital room.
I entered to find Helen sitting up in bed. She was a quite pleasant looking woman with silver hair and, though aged, it was apparent that here was someone who, in her youth, had been quite attractive. Upon seeing me she looked puzzled. Who was I? A doctor, perhaps? "Helen," I said. "My name is George, and I'm from Central Presbyterian Church." Helen looked astonished at first, then agitated as she began to admonish me for violating her instructions to refuse visitation by anyone from the church. She reached for the button that would buzz the nurse's station.
"There's no one there," I said. "I don't know where they are. I fully intended to simply sign your guest book and leave but since no one was there, rather than just leave, I thought it important to come down to your room and just tell you that there are those at Central Church who remember you; who still express their concern and love for you; and, I just wanted you to know that you are in all our prayers. Please, accept my apology for disturbing you." I turned to leave.
"Wait," she said. "I'm the one who should apologize; I shouldn't have raised my voice; you seem nice enough, nothing at all like the stuffed-shirts that usually come here. Anyway, since you are here I will allow you to stay, but only on one condition."
"What is that?" I asked.
"To begin with," she said. "Every time Frank or Barry (our previous pastors) visited, all they could do was smile and quote scripture and tell me things that I had learned as a child in Sunday school. Jush blah, blah, blah. I don't want to hear that; I don't need that. Can you understand? So, to you, young Mr. George, you may stay if you can, without falling back on those old, tired biblical crutches of scripture and verse, answer me one question."
"I'll try," I responded. "What is the question?"
Helen looked at me with grave concern in her eyes and said, "I want to know if there is a life after death? Is it true? Can you answer that without quoting the Bible? If you can, I would love to hear your answer, but if you can't, then I thank you for stopping by and have a nice day."
No amount of seminary preparation; no amount of courses in Pastoral Care or counseling can prepare a minister (let alone a minister to be) for such a situation as this. We ministers go into the world as soldiers, armed with the Word of God and His testament as witnessed in the life of Jesus Christ. Our job is to comfort the weary, the infirm, and the troubled with the assurances provided by Holy Writ; to offer forgiveness of sin and to preach the Good News of Jesus Christ. But, here was a woman whose Ultimate Concern was her own imminent death and she had questions that I couldn't possibly answer without relying on scripture? Where does one even start? The first thing that popped into my mind was, "For this, you sent me?"
I looked deep within her tired, old questioning eyes, eyes that begged to hear the assurance she so wanted, and I sensed there was more to her question than just her own post-life issue. I quickly ran a prayer through my mind. "Help!" I prayed. What could I possibly say that would comfort and assur her? My only response was to speak the truth, so I shook my head and replied, "To be honest, Helen, I don't know. We have the assurances found in scripture; you probably know them by heart; the verses of how a place has been prepared; that God's love will surround us and our loved ones will be there. But since you no longer find comfort in those verses, let me share what I do know, or at least, think I know."
Suddenly, as if she were about to hear heartbreaking news, Helen reached out and took my hand. "Go on," she said.
"What I do know is that what all of us face in life is a journey, and each journey is its own story. Each story has a beginning and an end. So, I would like to talk with you about your journey. Let's start at the beginning with you having been a life-long member of Central Presbyterian Church." She shook her head affirmatively. "You were raised in the church," I said. It was a statement.
"Yes," she said. "My father was an Elder and my mother was the church secretary. I grew up in Central Church."
"And, as a child, I'm sure your early memories included being with all the other kids in Sunday school and, as you matured there were the youth groups; the young adults, and later on, the adult classes; the women's group and singing in the choir and ."
"Yes," she whispered.
"And, in all those years, as you grew and moved in the church from one class to the next, being with all the other kids you grew up with, did you feel the presence of God?"
"Yes," she replied. "I was baptized in the church as were my brothers and sisters. The spirit of that church surrounded us and there was, and is, no doubt in my mind that God was there."
"So, you never felt as though God had, somehow, abandoned you?" I asked.
"No, not once. Why should I?" she said.
"So, what I'm hearing is, you actually felt the Lord's Presence; knew that He was there to comfort you in your prayers, and central to reassuring you in your life, in your hopes and in your dreams. Am I correct?"
"Oh, yes," Helen replied. "Even when my husband was drafted into the Army during the war, I felt an assurance that he would return to me and the children."
"Your husband; the two of you met there in the church?"
"He was so cute," she laughed. "I loved him at first sight and we were only about five years old. We went to the same elementary school, had a few classes together, and went to the same high school; we began dating when we were just fifteen years old."
"You were in the Young Adult Club together?"
"Oh, yes," she replied. "And, everyone knew we were in love. We married right after graduation."
"And, in all that time as you grew up, fell in love and got married -- especially, on the day you were married -- did you experience the presence of God? Was there any loneliness that day as if Jesus had somehow stepped away?"
"Never!" she said emphatically. "As I said, the church was important to both of us; we were married there and we made certain to raise our children there."
"Our children are so important to us, aren't they?" I said.
"Yes, they are. My faith, and my church, were always important to me and my husband and I wanted to pass that on the kids."
"And, as your children grew, raising them in the faith, in the life of the church, did you, in all that time ever once feel abandoned, as though Jesus had walked away; had left you on your own, or that God no longer cared?"
"No," she whispered. "Not once; why should I?"
I paused before continuing, struggling with my own feelings of inadequacy and how to say what I wanted to say next. "But, God does care for us," I began. "We feel that care, especially, when tragedy strikes. And you, more than anyone, knows that none of us are immune to tragedy." It was a statement, not a question and, as I spoke, tears began to roll down her cheeks and I reached over, took a tissue from a box and handed it to her. As she dabbed at the tears I said, "When word came that you had lost the love of your life; the man you had loved since you were five years old; the father of your children and whom you felt assured would return to you at the end of the war; I cannot imagine the shock and the sadness you felt; it must have been overwhelming."
"You have no idea," she tearfully replied.
"Well," I began. "To add some perspective, my own mother told me that all the while I was in Vietnam, she had hardly slept; staying up late with worry over my safety and that when she had received the telegram that I had been wounded, she said she was almost in hysterics. Still, she said her faith kept her going. You may have experienced something similar."
"There was a lot of hand-ringing in those days," she said. "Sometimes it seemed that the telegrams were coming daily. It was dreadful. There were several women in the church who had lost their husbands or boyfriends."
"And, then you got a telegram?"
"No, well, yes. An army officer and a chaplain came to the door. I knew right away what it was and I just wanted to scream. The telegram from the War Department actually came the next day."
"I'm curious," I said. "If in that moment; that terrible, terrible moment; when your whole world seemed to collapse; when, as you say, you wanted to scream, did you feel abandoned as though God no longer cared about you; care about your loss; or, that you had been left alone?"
Helen shook her head. "It was a horrible shock," she said. "I've never gotten over it, really, and, yes, I questioned why this had happened. But, no, I never felt alone; as I said, there were other women who had lost a loved one and we formed a group within the church. You see, I still had the church; still had my friends. They were good to me and the children and that gave me the courage to go on with the assurance that Jesus was there. This gave all of us courage to face an uncertain future."
"I'm sorry for dredging up the past like this, Helen, but we're talking about your life's journey which, unfortunately, includes additional tragedy. You lost your son in another foreign conflict and, then, the loss of your daughter once more left you torn, distressed and filled with sadness. You wondered why all this had happened to you as you found yourself going from a time of great joy and happiness to a time when all was darkness and despair; these losses challenged your faith."
"I think for the first time in my life I was angry with God and questioned my faith. So many others go through life untouched by tragedy; why did this happen to me? Why was all that was important to me taken from me? What was I to do?"
I shook my head. "Why me? It's a question we all ask from time to time. I've certainly asked it."
"You?" she asked. "What happened to you?"
"It's not important," I said. "I'm here to talk about you and your journey. It's you I'm concerned with and why I came down and knocked on your door."
"So far, you're doing okay," she answered. "You haven't quoted scripture yet."
I laughed. "I'll try not to," I continued. "But, now, here we are; you and me; and what I want to know is, in the midst of all the tragedy in your life; all the tears and heartache; did you ever feel abandoned by the Lord?"
"Honestly, after the loss of my daughter, I believe that for the first time, yes, I felt as though, God had walked away," she whispered in a tearful voice. "Why me? Why my family? Yes, I felt, still feel, a tremendous emptiness inside. It's an emptiness I can't get away from and no one can make me believe that God even cares about me. I know that sounds selfish and, while the Bible says God does care, so what? I want to know for sure that I will be reunited with my family and all that I have been given is scripture as if scripture, alone, is assuring. Well, Mr. George, I assure you, it is not."
If you've never felt as though God has given you a mountain too steep to climb, well, I have felt it. Still, in the Spirit, I pressed on.
"As I said, Helen, I don't know about this whole life-after-death thing, but, from where I'm sitting, it is you who has answered that question."
"Me? What are you talking about. What answer?"
"You answered your deepest question, just now. Let me tell you what you have said. You have said that, while you may have, at times, questioned why tragedy had happened to you, you hadn't really lost your faith. You still found comfort and love from your friends; you were still involved in the life of the church; still continued to feel the Lord's embrace; continued to feel His presence; continued to feel that you were not alone; that you had not been abandoned."
"Yes," she replied.
"As a people of faith, our guide is the assurance that comes from scripture. And, I can understand how those words have become empty, stale, ring hollow and no longer have meaning for you. Finding answers to life's tragedies isn't easy. Still, we are told that we will see our loved ones again if we are to have any faith at all, and you have repeatedly told me that your faith was one of the most important things in your life and that despite the tragedy and heartbreak, you really never felt alone or abandoned. Am I correct?"
"Yes," Helen replied, tearfully. "That's correct."
"So, my question to you is: Why should you feel that way now? Why, now, do you feel so alone? Why, if you have felt the Lord's Presence your entire life should you come to doubt that Presence, now? His Word, His assurance is all that He has given us and that assurance includes a life everlasting and the promise that our loved ones will be there. It seems reasonable to me that to stand at the door leading to life's greatest mystery, is the time of our greatest doubt, so I can understand where you are at this moment. Still, our faith, as Christians, leads us to believe that we won't go through that door alone so my question to you is, having felt that Presence throughout your lifetime, why should you doubt that in those final moments you won't continue to feel that Presence. If God hasn't abandoned you now, why should He abandoned you then? It doesn't take scripture; it doesn't take quoting chapter and verse, to understand that, but it does take faith, and your faith is all I have heard you talk about. Your faith in God's promise is what you've embraced your entire life. What we often fail to realize is that His promise doesn't really address tragedy, it only addresses faith. And, if we have lived a life of faith, the reward of an everlasting life is what awaits us."
Helen squeezed my hand tighter. "But, we die, alone, and it's the loneliness I have felt all these years." she said.
Once more I looked into those tired searching yest. "What if I told you that we won't be alone? As I see it, that would be such a cruel joke on life, wouldn't it? What could possibly await us if we are alone? What if I told you there will be an escort in that final moment and those whom you love will be there to greet us and with whom we shall be reunited again. That's the faith you have said you have; and it is the promise you and I share. And, not to get overly melodramatic, but I like to think of it much like the final scene in the movie, "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir." Remember that? In the end Rex Harrison comes and takes Gene Tierney's hand and says, "It's time to go." I think of that, a lot. That there will be someone, perhaps your husband, who will come one night, take our hand, and comfort you with the words, 'It's time to go.'"
Helen held her gaze to me for the longest time as if she were ingesting the words I had just spoken. Finally, she said, "Thank you; thank you, so much, even though you really were speaking scripture."
"Yes," I replied. "But, there's a difference between speaking scripture and quoting scriputure. I was only asked not to quote scripture." We both chuckled at that as we sat silently for a moment,
"Will you pray with me?" she asked.
"Of course," I answered, and we prayed together there in Helen's hospital room before I finally excused myself and left. Two days later, I was told that Helen had passed. I'd like to think she did so comforted and assured.
What I have related in this true event isn't anything removed from theology as we understand theology. As you read through my conversation with Helen all those years ago, you will readily see that biblical truth abounds. However, when asked to speak theologically without falling back on the crutch of scripture, we are being asked to speak God's Word from the heart, reinterpreting it and giving it new meaning. Jesus did so, without benefit of a Bible; the apostles did so without a Bible. Our faith was born and spoken among the faithful in a voice from the human heart relying upon a witness to a faith without benefit of a Bible. And, the Bible, itself, was written by men of faith who were not eyewitnesses to the events they wrote about but were convicned they were true.
What we have in scripture is a guide to our faith, not our faith, itself. Too often the Church falls back on its abstractions of the faith rather than addressing the faith itself. When our words no longer bear any relationship to a particular people and their concerns, then it may very well be time to mourn the Christian church. We live in the 21st Century, not the 1st or the 14th or the 19th Century. Today, theology -- whether mainstream or secular -- must strive to move Christianity from the business of religion to the business of life.
Theology seeks to apply the Word of God by looking into the hearts, the hopes, the aspirations and the Ultimate Concerns of people where they are. Modern progressive theology attempts to interpret scripture from the heart, and in a language that makes sense to modern ears. In elevating Christianity from the business of religion to the business of life, progressive theology attempts to give 21st Century answers to those 1st Century questions.
Is there life after death? Outside of faith, I don't know. But, in my faith I find in the message of Jesus a God who is both Father and Creator. A God who is Alive; who continues to work and create within this world -- this imperfect, unbelieving, secular world that is His Creation -- and He is doing it right now; not only in the midst of our happiness and joy, but especially in the midst of our sorrow, grief and suffering. Furthermore, He loves each us so much that He has promised not to abandon us in this life or the next. I take comfort in knowing that He didn't abandon me when I found myself faced with an urgent question of Ultimate Concern.
What I have learned over the years is that the Lord doesn't necessarily use the learned and ordained to do his work. In this instance, He chose me, a young, unordained student-minister as the one to knock on Helen's door (Rev. 3:20) in what might be the last chance to ease her pain. God gives us the courage to walk into the fire rather than just sign the guest book and leave?
