Pastor Mark

Asking for a Friend: Do we have to believe in Hell to believe in Heaven?

Mark 15:33-39

When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. At three o'clock, Jesus cried out with a loud voice, "Eloi, Eloi, lema sebacthani!" Which means, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" When some bystanders heard it, they said, "Listen, he is calling for Elijah." And someone ran and filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick and gave it to him to drink, saying, "Wait, let us see if Elijah will come and take him down." Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain in the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now, when the centurion who stood facing him saw that in this way he had breathed his last he said, "Truly this man was God's son."


When I was a kid, we had a giant pit of sand and dirt in our back yard – about the size of our fire pit, over there next to the labyrinth. We cleverly called it the "Sand Pile" and it was a cheap, tasteless, makeshift version of what more sophisticated people would call a sand box, and we used it for sand castles, mud pies, dirt-track races for Matchbox cars, and whatever else kids who play in the sand, do in the dirt. (I think the Sand Pile started out as some sort of home improvement project at the church parsonage where we lived, but never amounted to anything, so my brother and I, along with our friends next door, co-opted it as a great place for little kids to play.)

What made the Sand Pile cooler than your average sandbox, though, was that it wasn't self-contained. There were no sides, no cover, and no barrier underneath. One day, our neighbor friend had the brilliant idea that we should dig and just keep digging until we couldn't dig anymore. We knew this was going to take some time and I think the four of us decided to make it a summer project. Sometime after we started, I remember my dad coming home from work and noticing that we were up to something more ambitious than usual. When he asked what we were doing, we told him our plans and my friend declared that we were going to dig "all the way to Kingdom Come." We weren’t very sophisticated, but we were ambitious.

And so we dug a little bit each day, for days. We found worms and bugs and rocks of all kinds. We hit water one day, which meant we were really getting somewhere, so that was cool. And then one of us had the realization that if we kept digging long enough, we'd dig our way right into Hell and we wondered if maybe that wasn't such a great idea. We did keep digging, but the expedition ended shortly after that, either because we were scared or skeptical or just plain tired of shoveling. But that was the first time I ever remember considering something like the question someone offered up for this morning:

"Do we have to believe in Hell in order to believe in Heaven?”

When I was older, in High School, and learned about World War II and the Holocaust, I wondered if that might be Hell: the injustice and horror of concentration camps; the gas chambers, the torture, the attempted genocide. Elie Wiesel, likely the most famous survivor of the Holocaust asked once, "How [do you] explain or even describe the agony, the terror, the prayers, the tears, the tenderness, the sadness of the scientifically prepared death of six million human beings? … Six million human beings sentenced to death by an evil dictatorship not because of their faith or their circumstances but because of their very being." It sounded – and sounds, still – like Hell to me, even if it wasn't someplace you could dig your way into.

When I visited all kinds of jails and prisons in college, I wondered if the smell and the heat and the sounds and the danger and the circumstances that led and keep a person there might be Hell.

When I worked as a hospital chaplain for a summer during seminary, I remember a guy who had been burned on over 80% of his body. That looked like Hell, and I wondered if Hell was the sickness, disease, and disasters that consume and kill men, women, and children every minute of every hour of every day in the world.

When I traveled with my family and then with our high school kids a couple of summers ago to the Whitney Plantation, in Edgard, Louisiana, where enslaved human beings were used and abused and tortured and killed, like worthless animals, for generations – Hell seemed very nearby.

Is Hell the war in Ukraine? Is it the famine, starvation, and destruction in Gaza? Is Hell a cancer diagnosis or is the rigors of chemotherapy or radiation – even if they work, but especially when they don’t? Is Hell a broken or breaking marriage; the death of a child; any kind of unbearable physical pain or emotional suffering? Is it paralyzing fear; hopeless loneliness; utter despair?

With all of my questions, I guess you can tell that I don't think about Hell in the same way I did when I was digging around in the dirt as a child. But, from what I can tell, too many people – preachers, theologians, artists, and politicians – haven't moved beyond the sandbox. We hear too often, in my opinion, detailed images of Hell. You know them as well as I do: pictures of fire, deep dark places, chains and shackles perhaps, weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, for sure, and the little guy in the red suit with a pointy tail and a pitch fork with the capacity to inflict pain and suffering on his victims for all of eternity.

And these same people will tell you how to get there faster than any shovel can dig. Instructions usually include breaking the rules or not having enough of the right kind of faith or 'doing faith' differently than what's expected or accepted or, generally, behaving in ways that make God angry enough to send you ‘there’ instead of calling you home to the right side of eternity.

But I don't think any of this is what Hell is like or where it's at. Which is why I picked the readings I did for this morning. There are plenty of references in the Bible to Sheol and the Pit, to Hades and the Abyss. There's lots of talk about fire and punishment and the outer darkness – much of it from the very lips of Jesus himself.

But nowadays, when I think of Hell, I think about the crucifixion and death of Jesus on that Good Friday afternoon. And it's not because of the abuse or the spitting or the whips or the thorns. It's not because of the darkness or the nails or the cross itself, even. It's because of the way all of these things added up to leave him hanging there alone, crying at the top of his voice, "MY GOD, MY GOD, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?" (Theologians call it Jesus’ “cry of dereliction,” and it’s why we say, as we do in our Apostles’ Creed, that Jesus indeed “descended into Hell.”)

It's at that moment when Hell becomes more real and more scary than any pitchfork or fire pit, if you ask me. It's at that moment when Jesus experiences what many of us have known – or what we fear – more than anything else: being utterly alone, utterly afraid, utterly out of control, cosmically lost, and entirely without hope or faith or comfort – even from God.

It's at that moment when Jesus himself knows fully the hell of every concentration camp victim, every prisoner, every enslaved person, every frightened soldier, every starving stomach, every struggling addict, every dying patient, grieving spouse, scared child, broken heart, and sin-sick soul that ever was or ever will be. "MY GOD, MY GOD, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?"

So back to the question at hand. I was asked pointedly, if “we” believe in Hell, which seems to include the questioner, myself, and other leaders and pastors and theologians of the ELCA. I won’t speak for others, because I can’t – that’s part of the beauty of what it means to be an ELCA-flavored Lutheran, in my opinion. But I will tell you that, I don’t very much think about Hell anymore these days.

If it does exist, it’s not a concern of mine, because I believe it’s been conquered and undone, dismissed and destroyed by the work of God’s love in Jesus Christ – for me, and for you, and for all of creation. You can cite for me every Scripture and verse there is about Hades and Sheol, about the outer darkness and The Pit. But I believe there is a Hell the way I believe there are K Pop concerts, hot dog eating contests, and white pride parades. They may very well exist, but I don’t – and won’t – ever have to show my face there, thanks be to God.

We can find plenty of pictures in the Bible and elsewhere to scare each other into believing that Hell is as likely an option as Heaven or that damnation is as likely as grace. And there are lots of pastors and churches who will fan that fire with gusto and glee, but that's not what the Gospel promises.

To suggest that we can faithfully choose Heaven… To suggest that we can faith-LESS-ly opt for Hell… To suggest that we can reject God’s willingness to love us all the way through Hell and back and remain in our sin and death, despite God’s clear desire to win us back… is to suggest that God is powerless over evil, that God is powerless over death, that God is powerless over Sin, that God isn’t all God is cracked up to be and that the very death and resurrection of Jesus was a cosmic waste of God’s time. And I don’t buy it.

I don’t buy it because when Jesus cried, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me,” he was quoting the first line of Psalm 22, which he knew well. So he must have known how Psalm 22 ends, just the same – with the hope of God’s promised dominion, deliverance, power and provision. Verse 24 promises, “He did not despise or abhor the affliction of the afflicted; he did not hide his face from me, but heard when I cried to him.” By invoking Psalm 22, what if Jesus wasn’t just announcing his despair and descent into Hell’s separation? What if he was declaring his hope for the Heaven that was to come, just the same?

My adventure in the Sand Pile as a kid that summer didn't end just because we were scared of what we might find. I think it ended because, even as kids, we realized our digging wasn't leading us anywhere but down – and that’s exhausting. It didn't take us long to learn that there was more life and fun and good news in the other direction – and that's where we chose to spend our days.

Which is why and how and what we believe about Hell matters for our lives in this world.

When our faith is motivated more by fear than it is by hope, we're heading in the wrong direction. When it comes to our journey of faith, I hope we'll remember and share as often as we can that the Gospel is about life conquering death. The story of Jesus is about God conquering Satan. The promise of our faith is that Heaven conquers Hell – whether we like it, would choose it, or not. And the call of our faith is to live and to love our way into Heaven, not to run away from a Hell that isn't ours to fear any longer, thanks to the God we know in Jesus Christ, crucified and risen for the sake of the world.

Amen

Asking for a Friend - When the system falls short, what does faithful action look like?

Luke 10:25-37

Just then, a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” He answered him, “You should love the Lord your God with all your heart, and all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus said to him, “You have given the right answer. Do this and you shall live.”

But wanting to justify himself, the man asked him, “And who is my neighbor?” Jesus answered him, “A man was going down the road from Jerusalem to Jericho when he fell into the hands of robbers who beat him, stripped him, leaving him half dead. Now, by chance a priest was walking along the same road and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So likewise, a Levite, when he came to the place, saw the man and passed by on the other side.

But a Samaritan, while traveling saw the man and was moved with pity. He came near to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. He put him onto his own animal and took him to an inn to take care of him. The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the inn keeper and said, ‘Take care of him and when I come back I will repay you whatever more you spend.’”

Jesus said to the lawyer, “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers.” He answered him, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”


Our questioner for this morning wasn’t specific, so I’m taking some guesses and some liberty at choosing what they could have meant by “When the system falls short…” – and how a Christian might respond. By that I mean, “SYSTEM” could mean lots of things. When I think “SYSTEM,” I think POLITICAL system, JUSTICE system, HEALTHCARE system, EDUCATION system, the ECONOMY, and so on.

So, maybe our question refers to the ECONOMY that allows corporate CEOs to make 300 times as much as their average employees who then have to worry about the price of eggs or milk or gas or rent. (The economic system is falling short for a lot of people these days. How does a Christian respond?)

Maybe our IMMIGRATION system was on the mind of whoever asked today’s question. Its shortcomings are something both sides of the political aisle actually agree about, after all. (That system and the current methods of remedy are a profound failure of human decency, respect, integrity, and moral character, if you ask me. What does a faithful Christian response look like there?)

I contend that our JUSTICE system falls short every time a Black, brown, or poor person receives a harsher, longer punishment than a white or wealthy person for the same – or lesser – crime. (The justice system is shamefully, painfully failing a whole lot of people. What’s a believer to do?)

And the SYSTEM, writ large, falls short when it chooses to fund the resulting prison industrial complex and a raging war machine rather than provide food, healthcare, and housing for its people. (For people who worship the “Prince of Peace,” the “Healer of Every Ill,” the One who calls us to feed the sick, clothe the naked, turn the other cheek, and forgive our enemy – we have to wonder “What would Jesus do?”)

The SYSTEM is falling short when hospitals, major corporations, private schools, and public schools are bullied into denying, dismantling, or defunding their diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts. (For generations of Christians who grew up singing “Red and Yellow, Black and White, they are precious in his sight” how does our faith call us to respond?)

So, again … the question of the day … What do we do when the system – or any of the systems within the system – fall short? When they don’t live up to our expectations or needs? When they downright fail? What’s a Christian to do? What does a faithful response look like, indeed?

Good question.

Before you ask me, though, I’d ask Shane Claiborne. He’s a faithful Christian activist who does crazy, beautiful things like turns guns into gardening tools – you’ve heard me talk of him before. Shane Claiborne once broke a very particular law, several years ago, in Philadelphia, which had made it illegal to feed homeless people, outdoors, in public spaces. So, in addition to pizza, he served them Holy Communion – all of which got him arrested calling attention to the broken, inhumane, unloving, mean-spirited law the courts ultimately declared unjust and unfair, thanks to his clever act of civil, faithful disobedience.

And before you ask me this question, I’d look to Pastor Martin Luther King, Jr., who protested and broke the racist Jim Crow laws of the South to march, boycott, host sit-ins and to teach, preach, and promote God’s Gospel of diversity, equity and inclusion – showing the world that those are not dirty words and worthless endeavors.

Before you ask me this question, I’d look to Lutheran pastor and theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who preached and taught and wrote about The Cost of Discipleship and was executed for fighting against the moral, ethical, evil failures of the Nazis, during World War II. I’d wonder about Cesar Chavez who fought for fair wages, safe working conditions, and decent standards of living for migrant and agricultural workers in our country. I’d remember Mother Teresa who gave up everything to care for the poorest of the poor that every system of healthcare, education, and human compassion had failed.

Each of these faithful Christian people responded to the broken, failing systems they witnessed in ways that were informed and inspired by the teachings of Jesus. And each of them, surely, was informed and inspired the Good Samaritan – this outsider who saw the suffering of a stranger, recognized him as a neighbor, crossed the road, broke some rules, risked his own safety, and gave up a full measure of his time and money to help, as nothing more and nothing less than an act of compassion and mercy.

In some ways, the answer to today’s question is as simple as that – When the system falls short, faithful action looks like seeing everyone as your neighbor and showing them mercy, as a result.

But the truth is, we like to pretend – you and I – that we don’t have courage or occasion enough of the time to encounter the suffering, dying, needs of our neighbor in as dramatic a fashion as Martin Luther King, Jr., Cesar Chavez, Mother Theresa, or that Good Samaritan in Jesus’ story. And maybe that’s true. Maybe we don’t have courage or occasion enough to respond like that.

But since you asked, I’ll tell you what I’ve done, what I try to do, and what I hope for around here – as your pastor; as your Partner in Mission; and as a wannabe follower of Jesus. Because I believe my response – and ours together in this place – to the short-falls of the systems that surround us show up in lots of ways. We have a unique calling in this community, in this political climate, at this particular time – as fellow wannabe followers of Jesus – to do something about the systemic shortfalls that threaten us and that harm our neighbors.

The easiest thing I do is that I say a lot of words. I do my best to preach and teach about a God who loves all people and hope that moves us all to defend, protect, support, welcome, affirm, and love all people, too – on this side of heaven, not just the next, which is key. God’s love and grace are meant to be shared with all people on this side of heaven, not just the next.

Our Groceries of Grace food pantry matters because it helps mitigate the systemic shortfalls of a broken economic system by simply feeding people kindly, compassionately, generously, with dignity – and without a lot of questions or pre-requisites. And hopefully that allows them to spend the grocery money they save on other needs.

Our Racial Justice Team matters because churches are one of the few institutions who haven’t been bullied by the system – yet – into decrying or dropping Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion efforts, and withholding the truth about the ongoing impact of racism on our neighbors. We aren’t perfect, but from what I know, Cross of Grace does that more deliberately and more faithfully than any congregation in Hancock County.

I’m leading that Unclobber book study again (starting this Wednesday at 6:30 p.m.) because no other congregation in our community will do that either; and because not enough churches in our country have evolved to embrace the TRUTH about what the Bible actually says and does not say about homosexuality among God’s people.

I chair the board for Project Rouj, too, because Jesus tells me that my neighbor isn’t just someone who lives next door or who looks and believes and behaves like I do. So I like building houses for my friends and strangers in Fondwa, Haiti.

And, lastly – and not for nothing – when it comes to mitigating the impact of the broken, failing systems that surround us – my family gives our money away, because Jesus tells us to. The Havels give regular, if not monthly, financial contributions to places like Project Rouj, WFYI and NPR, and Susan G. Komen. And all of that is secondary to the more than 10% of our income that we give to the ministry at Cross of Grace, every year too.

(I don’t say this to brag or guilt-trip anyone. I’m just answering the question. And I admit, it’s impressive and tempting to wonder about the swimming pools, nicer cars, college tuition, and second home we could have paid and saved for over the years with that money. And I pray for and dream about the day when more of you believe me when I tell you what a difference that kind of giving could make for you, your family, for the ministry we share, and for this broken world we’re trying to mend.)

All of this is to say that – in the face of the failing systems that surround us – Jesus calls us to follow the Good Samaritan’s lead.

Because let’s remember – without too much despair – that whatever system you think is failing you, or someone you love, or your proverbial neighbor in some way … this is nothing new. Jesus showed up in the world precisely because the systems of this world are insufficient and unequal to the task of loving God’s people in ways that God desires and asks of God’s people.

So God calls us to be here precisely because the system fails, is failing, and will fail again and again and again. We are called to cross the proverbial street to see and hear about the suffering of our neighbor. We are called to look long and hard and deeply at what hurts and harms them, most. We’re called, too, to wonder if we have participated in that somehow.

And then we are called to do something about it, as much as we are able. We find them help. We provide them resources. We take some risks. We give some money. We show mercy.

And when we do, Jesus promises, we get a glimpse of eternal life, right where we live.

Amen