There's relatively little about hell in the gospels. Nine times in Matthew, three times in Mark, three times in Luke--many repetitions of one another--and not a word in John. In truth, we owe more of our picture of hell to the imaginations of Dante and James Joyce and fire-and-brimstone preachers than we do to Jesus.
Our pictures of hell are nothing but works of imagination--unless you know someone who has sent back postcards. There must be a hell: for people who don’t want to be with God as long as he thinks he is more important than they are.
Love is real-but-invisible, so we express it in our gifts of roses and cards, and idealize it in our hearts, our works of mercy and intimacy. Messages from God are real-but-not-physical so we embody them in burning bushes and feathery-winged angels. The point is that the inadequacy of our symbols doesn't mean the realities don't exist. In The Great Divorce, C. S. Lewis pictures hell as a Grey Town, filled with surly people. There's a bus to heaven all day long, to a beautiful meadow sloping up to breathtaking mountains. Anyone can stay, if they'll leave behind their self-absorption. If they do, their stay in the Grey Town has been purgatory; if they don't, they get back on the bus and freely go back to what has become hell. Not fascinating fire, but bleak boredom.
Heaven and hell are not places; they are the state of our soul. And we're in one or the other right now, like hikers on a trail making our way through darkness--or sunshine. We're all invited to the feast! But many have "more important" things to do; or we would prefer not to be seen with "that kind of people"; or we find it too costly to check our self-absorption at the door. Sartre was wrong, I think. Hell is not "other people"; hell is oneself. So too, of course, is heaven.
To be a mean-spirited SOB is its own punishment; to be a heartless, to have an exaggerated sense of our own importance its own emptiness; to use people as if they were no more than commodities for one's own personal profit needs no further hell. Yet, God wants to know those people. They just don't want to be known--by God or by many others. That's what hell is, I think: to be not-known--by God or, in any real sense, by anyone else.
in the story about the wise bridesmaids, they were happy because they knew their place. They weren't the bride--or the bridegroom. They were attendants. “I'm just here to help out. I just serve hors d'oeuvres; I just play in the band; I just check the coats. But, God! Whatta party!" We don’t have to be the center of attention, just a server.
I suspect those of us who "know our place" will have a lot more fun than the ones hyper-aware of what they "deserve." How lucky we are just to have the chance to live! How could we take life and all we love for granted? Who cares if we sit on the dais or bus tables in the far corner? We’re here! How lucky each of us is–-just to be, even once! Much less forever!
Immanuel watches over us as we reflect: “The Lord looks down from heaven on all huamnkind to see if there are any who understand, any who seek God.” (Psalm 14: 1-3).
Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends who know their place and seek heaven in their hearts. Bless all their daily works as they wait on others and may their souls celebrate at your banquet table in heaven.
