More often than not I think we often learn more from our children than we actually teach them.
Oh sure, during their formative years we teach them to eat (the green vegetables at least); we potty train them (some quicker than others...ugh); and we help them navigate through the oft-treacherous and confusing fjords* of life; but what these little ones give back to us is a head-slapping, no-duh, refreshingly simplistic approach to God that often leaves us breathless from its sheer profundity. It makes me wonder if that's part of the reason Jesus said to let the little buggers "come unto Him." He knew they were the only ones who truly 'got it'. They were tuned in to His frequency.
Here's an example of what I'm talking about: The other night we had a little family movie night. The girls and I watched Night at the Museum. Ok, the dinosaur-comes-to-life scene might be a little scary for a nearly-4 and 5 year old, but I thought once they realized the bag of bones was just a big puppy dog, we would be fine. And we were, until we got into the more "existential" realities of the flick (notice I didn't say film)...
But before we get into that I need to preface this by saying that this is a Ben Stiller movie. It's a rollicking* slapstickish sort of comedy about a museum which, through the power of magical enchantment, comes to life every night. In the wee early hours of the morning, Ben Stiller's character is charged with keeping patrons out of the museum while keeping the now-animated attractions in the museum. Dick Van Dyke and Mickey Rooney are also in this movie (Are these old-timers really still alive?!? Man, those guys at Pixar are really getting crafty with their CGI.) I say all this only to point out that this movie should not elicit any sort of philosophical discussion or (God forbid) existential angst. It's a Ben Stiller movie for crying out loud (the guy who brought us such high-brow hits as Something About Mary and Meet the Parents!)
But who can fathom the 5-year-old mind...
Anyway, so back to the existential elements of this blockbuster of a movie...I was artfully narrating my way through it (fast-forwarding only through the part where the dinosaur skeleton was drinking from the water fountain) and doing a pretty darn good job fielding the Inquisition-like questions from the front row. I admit it was a bit tricky explaining Mongol hordes, the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, the various military strategies utilized during the American Civil War, and the psychology behind an Easter Island statue craving bubble gum...but, hey, I made it work. Or I just made it up; as a parent you get by.
But then a caveman got loose.
I don't want to ruin the movie for anyone, but I have to tell this one little detail. Spoiler alert: thanks to the help of a precocious little monkey named Dexter one of the Neanderthals gets out of the museum! The horror! Big deal, right? Only it is a big deal. Because if you are a museum exhibit (e.g. a wax Neanderthal,) animated in the evening thanks to an Egyptian artifact, and you are outside the museum at daybreak...you (gulp) turn to dust.
And unfortunately, for this big fore-headed pre-historic gentlemen and to the heart of a sensitive five-year-old girl, that's exactly what happened. This inquisitive and ignorant caveman saw the sun and in that moment evaporated into a swirling pile of dust.
For a few minutes, I didn't realize this scene was upsetting to Anna. Then I heard a small whimper. "What wrong, Anna?" I asked her.
"That guy..." she said. I could hear the tears in her voice. "I don't want the other ones to get out of the museum." She sounded pained and frightened. Bless her heart. One minute she's watching a silly scene of a monkey and a man slapping one another repeatedly the next minute she's watching a furry, dense looking guy being vaporized like in The Day After.
She was right to be afraid. The museum was in a state of total chaos and anarchy. Ben's character hadn't quite caught on to the night watch routine just yet. So I consoled my daughter and made strong guarantees that no one else would be hurt in the making of this film. (I had seen the movie before and couldn't recall any other casualties at least.) She cheered up quickly and we watched the movie to the very end. As the closing credits rolled to an upbeat dance number Anna was already joyfully begging to watch the movie the next day, having mostly forgotten the upsetting bit in the middle, but as I turned off the TV and began the tucking-in procedures I was still back there with the Neanderthal.
Why was that moment so upsetting to her I wondered. After all, the guy was barely human I rationalized. It's funny how we do this. I didn't even think of him as being worthy of sympathy much less empathy. My reasoning: A.) He's made of wax. B.) He's only alive because of a quirk of magic. C.) He's stupid. D.) He's in a movie, therefore not really real, therefore subject to any form of contrived decimation imaginable, therefore not worthy of my remorse.
Ok, so I could still look at this issue as an adult. But my sweet daughter's hurt over it touched on something deeper. Something much deeper. There is something infinitely disturbing to our human psyche and spirit when it comes to the reality of death, annihilation, and cessation of being.
As I pondered the issue more I started thinking about the "bigger questions" in life. I stirred the theological pot and smelled the familiar aroma of the doctrinal issues I've been stewing in these past 5 years or so. The recipe has changed a bit over time, especially when it come to the questions about the afterlife. What happens next? When we exhale our last breath here in this world, where does the next big inhale take place? And what happens to those whom God just doesn't know?
I don't want to get into a big hell/judgment discussion. I've read up on it a lot. I've mentioned before in posts that I think we know less about it (from scripture!) than we claim to--historically speaking. I do believe there will be judgment and want to make sure without a shadow of a doubt that Jesus is my Attorney, but exactly what God's wrath or absence looks like I can't pretend to know or speculate (other than saying it WON'T LOOK GOOD.) I'm not sure it's even my business to expect to know how God will choose to judge those whom He doesn't know. But what I do feel confident about is that Death in whatever form it takes (perhaps NOT the "eternal conscious torment" certain orthodox circles label hell as) is a horrible fate. That's what Anna's shock and horror suggested to me--a tangible panic in facing permanent extinction of a human life.
I'm probably going to get this explanation partially wrong, but I remember reading somewhere that C.S. Lewis held to (or proposed?) an idea that 'hell' would not be an eternal place of punishment (suffering, absence of God) but instead would be a place where a person's good/bad characteristics, virtues, works, etc. would pass through the testing fire of His holiness. For someone who doesn't know God, without Christ's atonement, their sin would certainly outweigh their merit and nothing of their essence would remain. In other words they would be (eventually) annihilated based on the life they had lived and the soul they had formed. I don't know if this is what will happen (or if I'm misrepresenting C.S. Lewis--could have been someone else's idea?) but it makes a lot of sense to me. I think a process like this would produce some serious "weeping and gnashing of teeth", don't you? But it also upholds a view of God that I think better allows for both mercy and wrath (or judgment) due to His holiness. (I am little fearful of the long theological debates these statements may incite. I don't really enjoy debating all that much so don't waste your time trying...)
But hearing Anna's almost-sobs as she witnessed this Caveman's demise really brought home the sobering tragedy of Death (eternal death) to me. For a living being (full of hopes, dreams, aspirations, sense of humor, character traits, habits, memories, creative capacities, and soul) to suddenly CEASE being forever (almost like they never were) seems like the most heinous fate imaginable. God didn't know them, so they just weren't. The thought makes my skin crawl.
Can you imagine people you know and love being reduced--in a split second--to a pile of dust?
Can you imagine them NOT being able to move from a place of fallen misery (this dim mirror world we live in) into a place of untold wonder beyond all we can hope or think? It was just around the bend...but they couldn't see that far ahead.
Now, I know for some people the torture thing with the pitchforks and the fire lakes seems like a much worse (shudder--fitting?) punishment for those who have spurned God's love and wreaked havoc on His world. But I don't look at that way. If the absolute pinnacle of God's creation is human life--
planting a piece of his image in a pile of dust and sparking it into motion--then what is the absolute worst thing one can imagine? Extinction of that spark into the dark abyss of the eternal. It seriously gives me goose-flesh and it has every time I've thought of it since seeing Anna's anxiety over this unfortunate caveman.
We are all dust puppets. I have been thinking about this as I walk the streets of Xining. We are animated for a span of time. This is grace we are given. Our souls hold the form together during this life. If God knows us through Christ, Jesus makes our souls solid--unbreakable. When the dust falls off like a tired old suit we live in, we will still continue to breathe, we will dream, delight, worship, and venture out into that New Country He woke us up in. But If we pushed Christ away in this life, scoffed at the idea of a God-man wrapped in dust, and believed instead that the dust would hold as long as necessary, we sadly fooled ourselves. We were losing bits of dust and soul with each passing day. Our sin was scouring the entire self down to nothing. When the morning peeks through the haze, we find ourselves, like the surprised caveman, unable to cope with the intense Light in that place. In a quick tempest, we are obliterated by all that we desired but never realized. Annihilated for refusing to know the Who that created us. And once that has happened even our own dust can no longer weep for us...as it swirls out into the invisible, expansive abyss.
It's sobering, I know. But it is also hopeful and challenging. God has made us like Himself. Permanent, redemptive, merciful, eternal. God invites us to explore a New Country with souls that don't tire, dull, or fade. He wants us to brings others along with us on this epic journey. He desperately desires His created Beings to not be wasted... He passionately loves His little dust puppets.
Even the thick-skulled Neanderthals like me.
(Thanks for this tender reminder, Anna.)
( * - I've always wanted to use these words in a post!)
