Heaven Can Wait

I grew up in rural western North Carolina, where the closest grocery store was a 15-minute drive, but Baptist churches were on every corner. They dotted the roadside like watermelon seeds embedded in the sweet juiciness of family activities. The devout families attended church every time the doors opened–Sunday morning and evening, Wednesday evening, revivals (that were nightly for weeks at a time), homecomings (a long sermon followed by a potluck lunch), and choir practice. My family, unlike many families that usually had the male as the only working parent, had both parents working. Because of my parents’ busy schedules, we were not devout attendees. Sunday mornings were our only usual visits. 

Thank the good Lord.

But those weekly Sunday sermons were almost too much; I was covered in indoctrination of a fear-based religious environment, which instilled fear of going to hell. Each Sunday, we heard the threats that hell awaited if we did not profess our belief in Jesus Christ. The service ended with the preacher waiting at the front of the church, encouraging us to come forward publicly to repent of our sins, profess our faith in Jesus Christ, and thereby be saved from the perils of hell. Often, the preacher extended the service well beyond the hour time slot that was supposed to end at noon. He would implore the pianist,

“Play one more verse. I feel God calling someone to come forward.” His continued dialogue asked the question, “Where will you be in eternity–heaven or hell?” The preacher’s overtly loud voice espoused fear for all the lost souls that hell awaited if someone did not come forward. This could go on and on for several song verses if no one came forward.

I fidgeted with impatience and prayed. “Please let someone come forward so we can go home.”

I was eight when I made my profession of faith. Many of my peers had made their profession before me at an even younger age. I was eight freakin’ years old. What could I possibly know about what giving my life over to an entity I barely understood means? Rational choice is formulated through our frontal cortex, which is not fully developed until our mid-twenties. But there I was at the age of eight, telling the old white-haired preacher with a high-school education who had received God’s call to preach at some point in his early life, that I wanted to be baptized. As I focused my gaze on my patent leather shoes, avoiding looking at him, he asked if I had accepted the Lord as my savior. As I shyly replied, “Yes, sir,” he promised the still waters of Jesus’ religious harmony would make life better. Life was going to be great from that point on. 

On a summer Sunday, another young girl and I were dunked into those life-saving waters of the church’s baptismal pool. With the eyes of many looking at us from the sanctuary, it was nice not to be the only one being watched as I spewed and spat water when I came up for air after the infamous change-of-life dunking. I was supposed to emerge different. When I came out of those waters with no permanent drowning problems, the noticeable difference was, 

I was wet. 

But I was happy. Or maybe it was relief. Life was going to be better, and I was not going to go to hell. Not that I was worried about dying anytime soon. After all, I was eight. I would live a long time, like that old preacher. My parents and many other adults were proud of me. Life, however, went on as usual. The baptism didn’t fix the brokenness of my shy, insecure self, who felt like a foreigner in a rural land that was stuck in the religion of hell prevention. 

As it turns out, an in-ground pool my parents had built in our backyard during my seventh-grade summer was the actual life-saving water.  The pool saved many of us from life’s boredom and isolation. It molded friendships with several friends who lived within walking distance and visited regularly each summer. Years later, at a high school reunion, a friend who frequented our pool recounted fond memories of her time at our house. It was a reprieve that saved her from an alcoholic father, a fact I didn’t realize had been a component of her life. She told me how, when her children were young, she drove them to our house to show them where she had spent many wonderful summer afternoons. I had no idea of the impact of those summer visits until she shared that with me. I realized with that conversation—

There are soul-saving pools of water that aren’t in a church.

 I left that small town in my early twenties, moving to the large city of Charlotte, NC. I met my husband there. After marriage, we started attending a progressive Baptist church where the preacher had a doctorate in theology, and women were allowed to be deacons and ministers, something you will never see in a fundamentalist church. Life lessons and helping those in marginalized communities were the sermons’ core. This church encouraged questioning my faith, which was the path towards growing my faith. As for the baptism ritual, the youth of the church participated in baptism, but usually their ages were late high school or early college, and it wasn’t a hell-prevention tactic. Just a simple profession of a belief in a higher power whom they want to model their life after. 

My life in rural America had always felt challenging. When I returned to visit my parents, who lived in the house I grew up in until they passed away, I always felt a disconnect from the surroundings. I had never felt I belonged in the rural environment that worked for my parents. Relocating to a metropolitan area and attending a progressive, larger city enabled me to interact with people of other races, cultures, and religions. It was easy to call this large city and the progressive church “home.” Home is where you sense you belong. 

Why do churches focus so much on the afterlife status? Why aren’t we concerned about our earthly life? There is living to be done here and now. Many things baptize us towards an enhanced life. Travel educates, enlightens, and reveals much. When I was 14, on a family trip, I visited Yosemite and the Grand Canyon National Parks, which were created millions of years ago. As a result, I realized the seven-day creation story was a metaphor, not literal. Travel also taught me that there are a variety of ways of life and religions across our broad country. 

Throughout my adult years, I have been hungry to learn about the healing of the spirit, because mine had consistently felt broken. Reading philosophers, psychologists, and mystics proved enlightening. A good psychologist is also a connection most of us need at some time in our lives. Being dunked in those “life-saving waters,” with its emphasis on the afterlife, doesn’t fix life’s scars. That takes extra work on our part.  When Christians who have claimed to have found Jesus, believing they are “healed,” and seem to think everything is fixed, are not completing the spiritual and emotional work that is needed. We carry ourselves with us wherever we go, and the wounds of life need some medical attention. Jesus may be the required band-aid initially, but until the wounds of life are cleansed and treated thoroughly, the infection is still there.

These days, much of what I see from religion is condemning people because of cultural differences, whether they are a Jesus believer or not. I am a Caucasian, heterosexual female. I am appalled at good Christians judging the LGBTQ+ community and immigrants. No loving God would be condemning those he/she created. The ‘good’ Christians seem oblivious to the similarities they have with the groups Jesus criticized — the judgmental-pompous religious leaders, the Pharisees, and the Sadducees. These good Christians, with all their pious judgments, want to convince us we are going to hell if we don’t live a life the way they deem is correct. I think Jesus would disagree.

Where is God/Jesus/Higher Power? In heaven, waiting for us? I think not. My faith journey from those fundamental roots of rural America, to broadening my world view through interactions with many, has led me to believe that God/Jesus/Higher power is not external, but internal. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. The spirit lives within us. But to tap into that spirit is a process of peeling back our life wounds to get to the core of who we are. That takes ongoing work. Emphasis on “ongoing.” 

Let heaven wait. What value is there in worrying about what it takes not to go to hell? It’s the here and now where we need to focus on making a difference. Enough of judging others who are unlike the mirror’s reflection. For those who cherry-pick Bible verses, I refer them to the short scripture of “Judge not.” 

We are in challenging times here in the United States. Much of religion is playing a negative role with the I am right, you are wrong attitude. It’s time for a spiritual, internal renewal. A time of reflection and introspection to heal ourselves. How do we love others as ourselves if we don’t love ourselves? 

What will bring peace to our human spirit—a baptismal pool of a church or sharing a pool in a backyard where a young girl finds safety and security from a challenging home environment? If we work towards healing our wounds/brokenness, love all others, be kind and do kindness, when our time comes for the hereafter, I believe we will then —

rest in peace.