Go To Hell

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I finally got a chance to talk to my Mom. She took it pretty well for the most part.

We sat in the kitchen of the church basement and talked over tea. We made small talk at first, and then I asked her if she had any questions about what I told Dad. (I knew Dad had talked to her already)

She cried. “I can’t help what I believe,” she said. “And because of what I believe I am concerned for your soul. I mean, if you died today, where would you go, at least according to what I believe.”

I appreciated that she corrected herself, but it still made me tingly all over. You know the kind of feel of sheer terror when you literally feel something drain out of you.

It wasn’t because she was upset. It’s never a great thing to see your mother cry over you, but it wasn’t that.

I’m still afraid of Hell.

I’m sure some of you will be delighted, almost gleeful, because of my ardent objection to the theology of Atonement. Ironic that I have a closet case of Hadephobia.

I have very sound reasons for not believing in Hell, or a punitive God who would set up our need for Atonement. But it doesn’t take much for that careful reasoning to fall away like a trap door and cause me falling into a deep pit of fear.

It doesn’t take much really. What if? What if they are right? What if Hell does exist? And from there it’s all panic and fear and oh shit what the fuck I don’t know what is going to happen when I die and even if there is no Hell then what is there heaven or just nothing how is that any better oh shit I’m going to struggle through my life and then I’m going to die and either go to Hell or nothing oh shit oh shit.

Happens every time I think of death and every time I’m in an altar call.

That fucking bow your head and close you eyes nobody looking around bullshit where they tell you this could be your last chance to get out of going to Hell. After-life fire insurance for those who prefer not to burn. So Goddamn manipulative and so fucking effective. The tension. The twisting and turning. And if someone else goes up and breaks the ice, and people go, there’s less attention, less of a show. All you gotta do is get up and go and this sick feeling in your stomach, this impending doom, this future in Hell will be averted. Just come back. Just come back. It’s the only way to get out of this thing you’re locked into.

I can’t sit through altar calls very often anymore.


Speaking of deep pits, I had a lot of time to imagine what Hell would be like. No, I don’t imagine it like a place filled with fiery lava with devils and pitchforks. I always thought that was metaphorical.

No, imagine yourself stripped of your body, stripped of your senses, your ability to communicate and experience external stimuli. Then add in the sensation of pain. Physical (even though you have no physical form) emotional, all kinds. Eternal. No screaming, no passing out. Just pain.

Makes me want to cower in a corner right now. Actually, on second though, take away the pain, and just have the eternal solitude. That right there makes me want to drink myself to sleep.

That’s the best part. The way I stop it, the way I slam the door shut on the bottomless pit is not through careful reasoning and calm meditation. It’s distraction and avoidance.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get a drink and go to bed and try not to think about this anymore.

Your Turn To Play Editor

I intend to submit a short story to a local writer's federation contest, but I need some people to edit it for me. If you are intersted, let me know in a comment including your e-mail. I won't publish the comments, but if I select you as an editor, You will get an e-mail with the story in the body of the e-mail and a Word document attachment. Mark your comments in ALL CAPS and send it on back.

I am particularily looking for places where you have questions (even if the questions are answered later), places where you think the detail might be a little boring, and places where you want more.

Thank you all in advance.

I WIll Top It Like This:

The other day, I told my father I didn’t believe in Atonement any more, and that if God had a place in my life, I had no idea what it is.

Of course, in the course of the conversation, I couldn’t remember the word “Atonement.” Instead I had to say “I don’t believe that Jesus died for my sins.”

I was nervous. Very nervous.

Minako, who encouraged me to have this conversation, told me that they loved me, and that they wouldn’t be overjoyed, but they would accept it. Short-Fuze (my brother, for future reference) said they probably already knew and understood. They weren’t stupid.

I spent a lot of time avoiding questions, being evasive, just so I didn’t have to say it, just so I could avoid the awkward exchange.

What was I worried about? No, I didn’t think they would yell and scream. I could have handled that much better, because I could yell and scream and argue back. Plus, if my parents were the kind of people who would do that about something like this, I would care a lot less about what they thought.

But, because they are the kind of people who actually care, who can be sensitive in delicate situations (when they want to) and most of all, because they said and demonstrated that they cared about me and loved me, I was worried.

I didn’t want to disappoint them. I didn’t want them to feel like failures as parents. I didn’t want them to view me as less than what they thought before. And in this don’t-ask-don’t-tell thing we had going, they had their suspicions and I neither confirmed nor denied, allowing them to remain in the dark somewhat.

Turns out not so much.

My dad, of course, knew that I wasn’t keeping an evangelical relationship with God. He theorized, and has in the past, that this was the reason I decided to marry Wilma. If I had a closer relationship with God, prayed about my decisions more, God would give me better direction, and I would be able to avoid situations which were harmful to me.

He also theorized that my inability to form close friendships was a major factor in my disbelief.

That’s hard to hear from your Dad.

He thought that if I had closer friends growing up, it would have given me a better starting point with God. Evangelical relationships with God are sort of like really close friendships, after all. My examples were generally pretty poor, in his observation. It’s not that I didn’t want or try to get close to people. It’s just that the people I wanted to be close to didn’t or couldn’t be that close to me (we rehashed some of the Optimus Prime stuff from the last entry). Because of that, I had developed a habit of being rese4rved, and only opening up to people when they demonstrated some interest. And, well, even in an Evangelical setting, it’s rather difficult to have an understanding of God.

Now, I brought up several other factors: my conversations with Optimus Prime, University study of religion, a desire to distance myself from church politics (but still get a good enough seat to watch and take notes for a novel or something…) And he acknowledged those.

And also acknowledged his own lack of close friends. Seems it’s a family trait.

After that, I finished up lunch, brushed my teeth, and my father drove me to work. Sort of anti-climatic, but I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Some reservations I had about moving on with my life and certain aspects of it dried up because I had somehow managed to cross this major hurdle.

It’s not completely over yet though. I haven’t talked to my Mom directly yet, but that’s coming. She knows. My Father says “She’s not excited, but she’s ok.” And then there’s the grandparents, and the filtering through the rest of the family.

But I feel like my parents are in my corner, even if they don’t like where I’m going. And right now, that feels pretty good.