No Hell for Rob Bell?

She asked the question, softly: “What about my mother?”
Then she began to cry.
She had tried hard not to; her Chinese culture had not encouraged a public display of very personal emotions.

But her heart was too full, her feelings too charged.

Ming was in the U.S. for a year as a visiting scholar.  As an English professor, she had received a leave from her university to make a special study of the connections between the Bible and Western literature.  Shortly before her coming, Ming had been baptized as a new Christian believer.  She had much to learn about the faith, and she was eagerly making the most of it.
She learned about heaven, and it had thrilled her soul. A peace past understanding had always been her deep hope.  An unfailing goodness was her heart’s longing.  Heaven promised that and much more.

But she learned about hell too.  She was told that without faith in Jesus, one would be doomed to spend eternity in hell.  And that shook her to the roots.
Ming had lost her mother not long before she came to the U.S.  Her parents’ only child, Ming had been very close and very fond of her mother.  Very protective too, for she knew of her father’s mistreatment.  Her mother had been longsuffering in a loveless marriage.  She had been kind, gentle, loving, peaceful, faithful.  She had little reason for joy in her life, but her goodness to her husband, to her daughter, and to others had been a genuine dimension of her character.  She was everything that Ming held in high esteem, that she treasured, that she loved with all her heart. She was still in mourning when I first met her.

Now, as a Christian, she was deeply troubled.

A Christian friend had told her that her mother would not be in heaven.

As a Buddhist, her mother had never been introduced to Jesus Christ; her sins had not been forgiven.

Ming had received the verdict as a sword-thrust into her heart.
She had often wept during sleepless nights.
She felt that she would never be able to put that vision of her dear mother in hell behind her, that she could never be at peace about it. 

Hence the agonizing question: “What about my mother?”

There was a time of silence between us.
I felt the depth of her anguish.

I felt the need for reflection, for weighing the words she was waiting for.

And I was keenly aware of my constitutional aversion to reach behind the mystery of the hereafter.

At last I tried.

“Ming, what happens to us after our physical death I think we should leave to God.  I don’t think God expects us to make final judgments about a person’s eternal destiny. That is God’s domain.
But I know that God is merciful and loving; that he gave his only Son to prove it.
And I know that Jesus loved the sinner, even the sinners who crucified him.

If he loved even those, would he not love your mother?

And didn’t he teach us that blessed are the poor in spirit; that blessed are the meek; that blessed are the merciful; that blessed are the pure in heart; that blessed are the peacemakers?

When you read the Sermon on the Mount, think of your mother.  And then trust Jesus with all your heart that his Father will deal rightly with all he has made, in life and in death. Trust his mercy, and his immeasurable love.

And be at peace.”

I think that is what Rob Bell is saying too, in his latest book.

Not that there is no hell; we can all think of fiends who belong there.
It’s much harder for us to think of non-Christian saints in Satan’s home.

Ming has been back in China for a year now.
She’s still struggling at times with an absent mother in her life, but even more with thoughts of her mother in hell.

Still, there is more peace too as she is learning to say, “Your will be done,” with the faith that, though we cannot know God’s will, God’s will is perfect.  

   

Writers and Readers

Writing is an interaction with the page, or screen.
It stares at you, or you at it.
The page is blank, inviting words, the shape of thoughts that have to be mined from a deep interior where the meaning and the mysteries of the outer world are stored.
But it's messier than that.
Meanings are often inchoate, to be wrestled with before articulation.
And mysteries: how uneasily approached, how difficult to render.

But gradually the blankness of the page disappears under the words that try to signify, if only to the writer.
Should the writing be shared with others, the hope is it will signify also to those, the readers.
As every writer knows, sometimes it doesn't.
But when it does, the writer feels joined to community, yielding a sense of connectedness, of belonging to an uncommon humanity that takes seriously its moral and spiritual quests and meanings.
And that gives a grateful heart.

The reader responses below to Talking with God... fill that grateful heart.

      ...a golden bowl full of prayers (Rev. 5:8) that are like casual conversations with a friend, except that the friend is called “Lord.”


     The book breathes the notion that religion is for all of life, and that nothing is unimportant in the eyes of God.


     It teaches us how to pray in a more natural way.

     Here is a devotional that is unlike most I have read.

     ...the book is a "master piece".  You centainly have a speical gift of writing.  The book was a blessing for both of us. 


     That observation—that speaking with God requires integrity of heart and mind—serves throughout as the key to his intimacy with his Father. Thus, these are truly adult conversations. They are not sentimental or Pollyanna exercises.


     This collection is a true gift to “God-seekers.”

     Oh, my, what can I say?  Your book is beautiful! Your tone, subjects and sensitivity speak to the faith that I hold...

      Fear and Mourning really touched me ---a blessing where I am emotionally at this point of my journey.     Talking With God is filled with such "unexpected gifts of grace," closely-observed moments of the spiritual life that surprise us as much with their beauty as with their honesty.


     Talking With God is sincere and unafraid, a much-needed reminder of what faith really means in this age of cliche and polemic.


     It is a book that does not judge or condemn, rather it engages our minds to think, contemplate and explore.


    It zeroes in on the great central themes of the Christian faith.


    He faces both the mysterious parts of God's revelation as well as life's painful dilemmas.


    Henry Baron makes it clear throughout his musings, reflections, commentaries and prayers that he's talking with and not to God. What a difference that little preposition assumes and expects. It's his embrace of that assumption that makes this book such a treasure: we can talk with God about anything and all things.


   Baron writes relational stuff. No pie(ty) in the sky.


   Readers will find themselves speaking to their Father God with that same naturalness they learn from these pages of fluid, sacred conversations.


   It reminds us of the important things in life and brings healing to any wounds we may carry, giving us permission to feel and heal.

...a frankness about life which makes me nod in agreement and ... a talent in connecting words so beautifully that they become meaningful and wonderful to God's children.

I have been amazed at the sensitivity of these talks with God. I have been blessed and enriched by them. Henry Baron has an unusual grasp of the human condition. His talks with God are insightful, honest, raw, disquieting and comforting at the same time. Christians have all kinds of wonderings, questions, doubts, hopes, fears. These talks with God give voice to all of these things. I recommend it highly.
Noble simplicity. Just the right words, usually short words, simple words, but just the right words. 
Henry introduces us to a new genre of prayer--honest cries of the heart.


                               [for complete reviews, see www.exxelpublishing.com and Amazon]

Sometimes the wrestling with words to truthfully render elusive thoughts and feelings and memories and
questions is worth its sweat and tears.

The Back Attack

The back demons that had been lying low for the last six years or so launched a sneak attack more than a bad week ago.

I don’t know where they had been hiding all that time; I thought they had left, defeated at last.
They hadn’t.  Are they ever?

Had they retreated to their hibernation lair?  But I don’t think demons hibernate. 

They scheme, they plot, they gather their arsenal, they sharpen their daggers, and they wait, they wait.  Wait for just the right moment when their victim is working out and congratulating himself, if not on his athletic prowess, then at least on all fitness systems functioning smoothly.

With a sinister grimace the lead demon launched a soft musket ball.  At least the initial impact was soft, making itself felt in the lower back over the succeeding hours, but gently enough to be dismissed easily.
The next day a bit less easily.  Gradually I surmised that the musket ball had more likely been a delayed reaction armor-piercing incendiary.  The fire was spreading. My panic button flashed.

Those who’ve been under a back-stabbing attack already know what was to follow.
Yes, the torture instrument was readied and, like some medieval torture box, steadily and unrelentingly encased around the lower back. 

It became apparent all too quickly that the demons had fitted the inside with spikes that would pierce different parts of the body, depending on the body’s movements. At times they would touch a raw nerve, triggering a wave of spasms. 

The victim heard the demonic laughter over his own pain-driven outcry when that happened.  Because the sharpened spikes would penetrate the same “wounds” again and again when motion would precipitate, each motion became necessarily minimal, tentative, experimental, as if I were moving through a mine field.

It was a torment getting there, but once in bed flat on my back the feeling of bliss came flowing back. As long as I remained immobile. 

And that was the demonic objective: keep this booby down!

But when nature calls in the middle of the night, the booby must rise. 

One painful little motion at a time, until the body must actually rise to get up on two legs.  It’s not something I wanted to try again after the first heroic attempt.

Easier and less painful to walk barefoot on burning coals.

Or sit down bare-bunnied on a giant Arizona cactus.

It  became a grim, teeth-grinding battle between the booby and the spiky demons, for nature was urgent.

When I finally sat on the edge of the bed, I felt like I’d reached the edge of disaster. The spike belt was tightening around the waist. 

And now I still had to try to stand up. 

Trying it that first night, and many nights, and mornings, thereafter, I felt as if my upper body had separated from the lower, and now I had to fit the jagged edges back together, each edge wired by the back demons to a touchy nerve.  It required an irrational act of courage of the kind that belongs right up there in JFK’s Profiles. 

But the booby got up, more or less, each night, each morning, for a Calvinist simply cannot let the demons of any kind have their way. 
His faithful helpmeet was needed to get the socks, etc. on the aching body parts.

Total immobility was best, thus his movements were minimal, his small steps extremely measured.  

Yes, he learned that demons can teach a man to “walk circumspectly.”

But during all his waking hours there was no place of comfort.

After ten days or so, the demons held council.  Their verdict: a slow retreat, and “we’ll catch him again another time.”
There are a couple left. 

I can feel their presence. 

They’ve probably been assigned to the clean-up task, packing the torture devices and gathering the ammo before moving on to the next victim.

Hamlet said: “Readiness is all.”

He never had a back attack, I think.