I ran across a recent picture of mass murderer Charles Manson in my web travels today. The photo showed an old, balding man with a thick grey beard, a swastika tattooed on the creases between two dark, troubled eyes.
I stared into those eyes, trying to figure out what he was thinking. Was he sorry for what he had done? Did he still hold to the things he had done all those years ago? Did he regret his actions, or the way his life had turned out, or had he become a creature beyond regret?
I looked at him and tried to see the person God had created him to be, the unique individual crafted in the image of God. Was there still a spark of that God-gift there? Or had the flame of godliness been stamped out, suffocated until all that was left was a cold pile of ashes, or one weak ember ready to fizzle out at any moment?
I have come to believe that the hellfire and brimstone version of hell seared across so many of our belief systems is a gross oversimplification of the matter, that the Bible says more about the afterlife than we can possibly comprehend, and yet it is not enough to give us the slightest glimpse into what actually lies beyond. (And I actually came to that belief through reading the Bible, not wishy-washy-wishful thinking, although I have to say releasing our cultural vision of hell was a great relief.)
I read "The Great Divorce" by C.S. Lewis last week, a fictional account of heaven, hell, purgatory, and the like, and think it is one of best treatments of the subject I have read. Its protagonist, who is never named but is as likely as not Lewis himself, leaves "Greytown" with other citizens of hell--including a pastor, a bereaved mother, an idealistic artist, and a businessman bent on improving hell's economy--for a day trip to heaven, to see what it is like and if they want to stay. Once there, the protagonist visits with turn-of-the-century author and philosopher George MacDonald about the true nature of humans, hell, heaven, and the world we inhabit now.
Though the whole book was excellent, one part in particular struck me. The protagonist questions the fate of an old woman, one of his fellow day trippers:
"I am troubled, sir," said I, "because that unhappy creature does not seem to be the sort of soul that ought to be even in danger of damnation. She isn't wicked: she is only a silly, garrulous old woman who has got into a habit of grumbling, and one feels that a little kindness, and rest, and change would put her all right."
"That is what she once was," (MacDonald replies.) "That may be what she still is. If so, she will certainly be cured. But the whole question is whether she IS now a grumbler."
MacDonald goes on to explain how our thoughts and practices can take over our entire being--how we may at first fall into a bad mood, and climb out of it, then later fall into a bad mood and choose to stay there, nursing our pain, and how ultimately, we may become unable to climb out of that bad mood. The person, the choice, has weakened or died, and all that is left is the Bad Mood, asserting itself through the shell of flesh it ensnared. Possessing it, if you will. Negativity and extreme self-focus are not pitiable expressions of pain, they are demons that feast on human souls, and they will eat us alive if we let them, if we will not call for help and let God boost us out of that pit. But there's the catch--we have to WANT to leave the pit, we have to be willing to let go of whatever we're holding on to down there and leave it behind.
The citizens of hell in "The Great Divorce" were ghostly and unsubstantial when they first entered heaven, because there was so little of "them" left. Only the moods, habits, obsessions, addictions, and things they had allowed to control them remained to smudge heaven's bright atmosphere. Some of them had a spark of God-fire left, a trace of Christ-like-ness that could be teased out like DNA samples taken from Egyptian mummies, and it was implied that those ones could be saved, have that spark flamed back to life. But the others were so many ashes--the Person had already been suffocated and died.
So is there a spark of Hope left in Charles Manson? Is there a spark left in you or in me? Fanning it into flame may mean that the Fire will consume many things we hold dear--our pet peeves, our preferences, our right to self-pity and self-righteousness and a sense of control of our destiny. It's going to hurt like hell, (ha!) but WE will not be consumed. Like gold among dross, we will be purified, until we are truly, purely, the wonderful and unique individuals God made us to be, a hand-crafted mirror reflecting divine Beauty.
Isn't that a beautiful thought?
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During a particularly painful time in her life, Sarah Zacharias Davis learned how delightful–and wounding–women can be in friendship. She saw how some friendships end badly, others die slow deaths, and how a chance acquaintance can become that enduring friend you need.
I recently started reviewing books for Multnomah Books, a division of Random House. (Hey, free books--gotta love it!) The first opportunity they sent me was The Hope of Refuge by Cindy Woodsmall. Here's Multnomah's summary of the book:
