One reason we don’t talk about heaven

I have a theory about why some pastors talk so little about “the way to heaven” in the mainline church. I have no evidence at all to indicate whether my theory has any merit, but since it costs you little to read these thoughts, I hope you might indulge me for a few moments.

I think that one reason we in the mainline talk so little about “the way to heaven” is that talking about it will require us to observe that not everyone ends up there. And drawing attention to that truth makes people — the preacher among them — uncomfortable.

It is easier to avoid saying such things because the moment we say out loud that not everyone goes to heaven, we instantly have a lot of questions to answer.

“What about my son/daughter/husband/wife/mother/father who does not believe and never comes to church?”

“What about me? Sure I gossip and harbor resentment in my heart toward others and refuse to forgive that person who hurt me back in the day, but I’m going to heaven, right? I mean, I come to church every Sunday.”

Questions like these arise out of anxiety and fear, and are unpleasant to confront for all involved. Pastors, as a group, prefer to ease people’s fears rather than heighten them, so our impulse is often to create wiggle room that avoids the hard implications of the truths we believe.

I am prone to this. I am an empathetic person who scores high on the Feeling scale on the Myers-Briggs type indicator. Not only do I want to offer comfort to people who are hurt, but I also want people to like me. So, my inclination is avoid and deflect questions like these. My impulse is to say things like this: “Well, yes, your uncle Bud expresses contempt toward God and church, but I’m sure Jesus is working on him and will judge him with mercy.” My impulse is to shy away from saying what the Scriptures say about Bud because I know that will deepen the anxiety of the person who brings me the question.

But protecting people from anxiety about God is not my job.

If a man came to his heart doctor weighing 350 pounds, smoking every day, and eating nothing but fast food, we would not consider the doctor heartless, cruel, or unkind if he told the man the truth about the likely outcome of his life. Indeed, if the doctor worried about upsetting the man and told him that things would probably be okay, we’d say the doctor had failed to do his job.

When a pastor does that very thing, avoids the truth, we often call it being “pastoral.”

And so why doesn’t the church talk much about “the way to heaven”? One reason — and I know there are others — is because talking about it upsets people. Talking about it always involves talking about the fact that not all ways lead to heaven and, in fact, most of the ways that the world likes to tread lead away from heaven. This makes people uncomfortable and fearful and angry, and we don’t want to deal with that in the church.

But here is the problem. People need to be uncomfortable before they can find comfort in the gospel. If we are too tender about disturbing their hearts, we will find that they often remain impervious to the true blessing of good news and apt to wander far from the road that leads to heaven.

If people never feel themselves to be lost, they will not rejoice at being found.

And so, the challenge I take from these thoughts is this: If my task as preacher and pastor is to lead people in the way that ends in glory, I must not be too sensitive about the pains they might experience along the way. God uses those pains and even causes them. Yes, as pastor, I must find a way to speak always with grace, always with the aim of building up and edifying, but also always in truth. To do anything else is to shirk my calling. Lord, help me.

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Behind enemy lines

The very first time I read C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity, I remember being deeply taken with the following observation:

Christianity thinks that a Dark Power was created by God, and was good when he was created, and went wrong. Christianity agrees with Dualism that this universe is at war. But it does not think this is a war between independent powers. It thinks it is a civil war, a rebellion, and that we are living in a part of the universe occupied by the rebel.

Enemy-occupied terrority — that is what this world is. Christianity is the story of how the rightful king has landed, you might say landed in disguise, and is calling us all to take part in a great campaign of sabotage.

Lewis was an Englishman writing during World War II. As I read these lines, I am reminded both of that war and of the legends of the English hero Robin Hood, who fought against an evil king until the rightful king returned to claim his throne.

Our metaphors might be different and our frames of reference are not those that Lewis used. I’ve worked a bit on mapping this image onto the Star Wars movies, which also feature a rebel movement within a vast evil empire. Whatever metaphors we use, though, I find the basic idea compelling.

To me, this basic idea — that the universe is in rebellion against its Creator — creates a lot of tension with the way we often think about the state of the world and our place within it. It is a rich and creative tension that calls us into forms of life and ways of being Christian that do not sit easy with cultural Christianity, but it also has risks. This “fighting religion” view of Christianity can lead us into grimness and its own kind of darkness. We must be careful of that even as we recall that the world is not as God intends it to be. It is bound by a dark power, and as servants of the light we are unavoidably at odds with it.

At the bottom of it all

I was listening to an Andy Stanley podcast yesterday in which Stanley presented the bedrock of Christian faith as resting on an event – the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

His point was that if you were going to start from scratch to build a Christian faith — throwing out everything you’ve learned or been taught up to now — you would start with this one event and build from there.

I’ve been wondering a bit about that.

I think if John Wesley were to go back to a single bedrock, it would not be Easter but Calvary. Wesley often taught that faith itself is the belief that Jesus Christ died for our sins so we might be pardoned. This is not surprising. That kind of focus on the cross is the hallmark of evangelicalism of the Great Awakenings that influenced Wesley and were influenced by him.

I think Wesley would say Easter confirmed who Jesus was but that the cross is the foundation upon which our faith is built.

I’m not sure what the implications of this contrast are.

When I put the focus on Easter — maybe this is just me — I am tempted to start talking about hope. Easter is God’s way of telling us that death does not win. It is a sign to us that whatever darkness we are in, dawn is coming. And so on.

When I turn my gaze upon the cross, I am moved more to talk about Jesus and what would compel him to suffer that way. I want to speak more about love than hope, I suppose.

Perhaps this mental exercise illustrates that Stanley is on to something important but also leaving something out. Perhaps we cannot reduce it all to one single event, because the work of Christ is more than any one of those things.

Perhaps when you reduce it all down to its foundation, we are not called to believe in an event but a person.