Jesus came with all the potential power that He wanted. He used it to heal the sick, raise the dead, touch the untouchable and heal the souls of the broken.  In fact, it’s not even the miracles that are amazing … what’s amazing is who he performed the miracles for.  The outcast.  The hated.  The enemy.

Yet, He was outcast, beaten, spit on, possibly raped (if was acceptable for soldiers to rape criminals) and eventually killed at the request of those he loved.  He could of … maybe even should have … destroyed His enemies … He had the power to, but He didn’t.

Sin, revenge, egotism is cyclic … but so is love. With one act of grace (“Father, forgive them”), a new narrative has been born … again and again.

That narrative was reborn at the Mt. Carmel Burying Ground.

The deceased Boston Bomber, Tamerlan Tsarnaev, was accepted by Peter Stefan, owner of the Graham Putnam & Mahoney Funeral Parlors.  Stefan, who is seemingly putting his respect for the dead over and above his business’ prosperity, has been quoted as saying that everyone deserves a dignified burial, no matter the circumstances of their death.

As one may expect, Stefan’s funeral home has received numerous protests; and rightfully so.  The body his funeral home is housing is the deceased remains of a terrorist.  A terrorist whose actions injured 264 people and killed four; one of whom was a police officer, and the other a young child.  Not only did he accomplish this bombing, but he planned much more violence and destruction that one can only speculate he would have accomplish had he the chance to do so.

He was our enemy.  He killed an American child.  A beautiful son of our country.

An enemy whose body has been rejected by all the local cemeteries.  A body that has no place to rest.  And for good reason.  Could you imagine the grave desecration that would occur?  Could you imagine the curse that will reside over the cemetery that accepts a terrorist?

From a capital standpoint, it wouldn’t make sense for the cemetery to accept his body and lose future customers.  Who wants to be buried near a terrorist?

From a safety standpoint, it doesn’t make sense.  Cemeteries are already subject to vandalism and desecration, what more could happen if a terrorists body was interred in a place accustom to abuses?  Would the cemetery need to install security cameras?  People would vandalize his grave in the name of America.

Out of respect for those already buried and the families that buried them, a cemetery has reason to reject one Tamerlan Tsarnaev.  How can families feel good about the cemetery where their relatives reside when they are residing near a terrorist?

He was our enemy and must remain our outsider.  “Ship him back to where he came from!!!”, said some.  “Cremate his ass!” said others.  Perhaps the request to bury him in an unmarked grave was the most levelheaded suggestion; but, so far, no cemeteries have offered an unmarked grave for the terrorist.

And then on Tuesday morning, this piece of news comes out.  Paul Keane, the owner of a plot in the Mt. Carmel Burying Ground (and Yale Divinity graduate) wrote this on his blog:

I am willing to donate a burial plot next to my mother in Mt. Carmel Burying Ground to the Tsarnaev family if they cannot obtain a plot. The only condition is that I do it in memory of my mother who taught Sunday School at the Mt. Carmel Congregational Church for twenty years and taught me to “love thine enemy.”

I own the plot.  No one can refuse me access.

This is the cemetery lot that Paul is offering

So far, the response to Paul has varied between praise and protest.  And so it was 2,000 years ago.  Grace is always scandalous; but it’s also cyclic.

(NOTE: As of Wednesday morning, it’s still unclear whether or not the Graham Putnam & Mahoney Funeral Parlors has accepted Paul Keane’s offer.  There is, however, an updated offer on Keane’s blog. )

The author of the post, who wishes to remain anonymous, wrote the following message to me via facebook:

Last June we accepted a foster placement of twin girls who were four months old. We’ve been foster parents for almost 7 years, but nothing prepared us for the sudden death of one of the twins, Ellie, at almost seven months. She went to bed a happy and healthy baby and when I reached into her crib in the morning I pulled out a corpse instead.

I am traumatized. I am an emergency nurse and not unfamiliar with death. I did CPR on Ellie out of reflex but with the full knowledge that she was gone and I couldn’t fix it. I can still taste the breath that I pushed out of her lungs. I’m never going to be the same…and I know it.

I am also a Christian. I think. In fact my husband is a church leader, making me the wife of a spiritual leader.

She then gave me the link to her post at “Pilgrim’s Road Trip.”  I asked if I could also post it on my blog and she gave me permission.  This post is immensely challenging, and will beg you to vicariously see the grief of a bereaved mother.  This isn’t an easy read, but it’s one that will help you understand the grief of a parent who has lost a child.  It’s written from the perspective of Holy Saturday … where doubt and silence are the only forms of faith.

***** 

Please stop attempting to spiritualize the death of my child.  Assigning some thoughtless Christian platitude only serves to deepen my anger and further question my beliefs.  If you don’t know what to say, a simple, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say,” would be far better than these actual attempts at comfort that I’ve received:

1. “God has a plan.”
Really?  You serve a God with a plan that involves killing babies? Or at least standing by and allowing the baby to die when you believe that he could have intervened? Because the baby killers I’ve seen get life in prison. And even the convicts know which guy to attack.

2. “Some good will come of this.  You’ll see.”
You think that at some point I’m going to see some direct blessing in my life or someone else’s that will make me think, “Aha!  Here’s the good that came from my child’s death!  I am now so glad that she died so that this could happen!”  No! An Almighty God could surely think of some other really creative way to bring about good.  Or else I don’t want that “blessing.”  I will always wonder why it had to be this way, no matter what good things may come later in my life.

3. “Just think of the ministry you can have someday to parents who have lost children.”
No. At least not the ministry you’re thinking. That would require me to say that God is somehow in this for them and I happen to know that’s not helpful. Plus, I don’t want that ministry. I’ve spent twenty years of my life trying to serve God full time.  I’ve put every major decision of my life through “God’s will” as a filter, including setting aside life dreams for myself.  All of the big things I’ve tried to do for him have been heartbreak for me.  I think I’m done with ministry at this point.

4. “God loves you.”
Imagine If I were married to someone who said, “I love you.  I mean, you’re going to get hurt and I won’t stop it. In fact, I might even cause it. But I love you! It’s for your own good! It’s because of my great love for you.”  You would encourage me to get to a women’s shelter immediately for my own safety.  Where’s the safe place from this kind of “love?”

5. “God’s perfect love casts out fear.”
I’ve been dealing with a moderate amount of anxiety since my baby’s death. I’m not a very anxious person by nature, so I’ve sought some help dealing with the feelings of panic.  I struggle with coming home after a night shift and wondering what I might find.  I compulsively check on my children at night.  Going to the doctor with another child of mine is a trip through some very dark places of fear. I’m constantly wondering which of my family members is next on God’s hit list.  The advice that God’s love will fix those fears isn’t really resonating with me right now.

6. “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. Just depend on Him.”
The Christian grief counselor we saw put it this way: “God doesn’t give sorrow to people unless he knows they can handle it.”  Really? Well, he was wrong. I can’t handle this. And if he doesn’t give me more than I can handle, why do I need to depend on him? The last time I was depending on him, my child died. So, yeah. That’s not likely to happen again soon.

7. “You’ll see her again someday.”
Is that day today? Then no, this isn’t helpful. It’s minimally hopeful if I can be sure that it’s true, but there’s no Scripture to really support this belief.  There’s inference and tradition and conjecture, but there’s no chapter and verse that says, “Infants who die go to heaven.” Besides, If I live an average life expectancy, I will have to live at least another fifty years of missing her.  ”Someday” could be a long, long time from now.

8. “Look at all of God’s blessings in this situation already! At least_______”
All of your “at leasts” aren’t blessings to me. Anything you say that starts with “at least” only minimizes my feelings.

9. “Just read [insert Bible verses here] and you’ll feel better.”
Passages that have been suggested to me include verses about God’s judgment, the story of Jesus bringing Lazarus back to life, a passage instructing me that my heart is deceitful and wicked, and other similarly “helpful” Scriptures. This advice also assumes that I know no Scripture to which I can turn.  You know which verse has been ever on my mind ever since the day my child died? “My God, my God.  Why have you forsaken me?”  I’ve been reading the Bible for almost thirty years. I know where to find verses.  Not too many of them are helpful right now. Bludgeoning me with Romans 8:28 is especially painful.

10.  ”Just trust God.  He is in control.”
I was trusting God at the time my baby died. She still died. If God is in control, that assumes that he killed my baby. My sweet, smiling, dimpled baby. If he didn’t kill her, he stood by while she died and didn’t stop it. Still guilty. I’d much rather believe that fate or chance had a hand in her death. I’m a lot more likely to have a continued relationship with someone who didn’t cause my baby’s death, either directly or indirectly.<

11. “This happened for God’s glory. Maybe someone might even get saved!”
This has been said to me with much excitement and expectation. You mean to tell me that God couldn’t have orchestrated some other way to get glory or reveal himself to someone? Or that some person out there is going to say, “Oh! God allowed ‘T’s’ baby to die. I should start a relationship with him and trust him with MY life!” Doubt it. And even if that actually did happen, should I then feel that this was all worth it?

12. “This world is not our home.  She’s in a better place now.”
Yeah? Well, I live here right now, so it’s my home. If you actually believe this, why haven’t you committed suicide yet? As for me, I’d finally be in a better place if I died, too?  And no, I’m not at all suicidal.  I’m just saying that no matter where she is, I’m in a really painful place right now.

13. “Just imagine what tragedy or heartbreak God saw in your baby’s future that he decided to save her from.”By killing her? I’m sure there was another possible work-around or two. For that matter, this has been a devastating tragedy and heartbreak for me. Why didn’t I die as an infant so I wouldn’t have to go through this now?

14. “God will carry you through.”
If this is the kind of thing God is going to carry me through, I’d like him to please put me down.

15.  ”Be thankful for what you have.”
The assumption here is that I wasn’t thankful before (I was), that I’m not thankful now (I am), and further minimizes the loss I feel. How do you suggest that I answer even the simplest question of how many children I have?  I’m thankful for what I have AND for what I no longer have. It’s impossible to answer this question correctly now. Similar, but even more guilt-producing is “You have your husband and children to think about now.” Thank you for the suggestion that my grief and pain are invalid by comparison and should be left unmanaged for the good of my family. See? There. I was thankful.

16. “Things will get better.”
When?  How do you know? Because for me, bad things just keep happening. It can get worse and I can name at least fifty ways it could get worse right now. So don’t say that things will get better. It could go either way.

17. “Maybe God is trying to teach you something.”Well, maybe he could have just texted me the instructions instead. Seriously. All I’m learning is that God can do whatever he wants and that’s not necessarily a good thing. A similar platitude, “Maybe God is trying to draw you closer to himself”, is equally insulting. Can’t he see the future? Didn’t he know that using an infant’s death to deepen our relationship might backfire? Please don’t presume to know the mind of God or impart your opinion of it to me.

18. “She’s with the Lord now.”
She wasn’t before? How about the rest of my family? I’m not with the Lord? Well, I’m glad he’s with someone, I guess.

19. “I know how you feel. I felt exactly that way when my grandparent/great Aunt Lucy/Fluffy died or when my child was sick, but then got better. But I just prayed and kept my eyes on God and he got me through. He’ll get you through, too.”
You have no idea how I feel. I wouldn’t wish how I feel on anyone. And what will he get me through TO? Can you guarantee that whatever is on the other side of this trench in life is something less painful? Because whatever it is, it will be a life missing my child and all the things that loss means.

20. “I was so devastated when your child died that I couldn’t go to work that week/I’m still struggling a month later.”
Both of these are actual things said to me by people who had seen my baby fewer than six times in her whole life. Other ways people who barely knew her have tried to be a part of the drama and somehow connect themselves to this tragedy include Facebook statuses or tweets with her name as a hash tag, prayer requests without my permission or in inappropriate places, and most difficult: “How are  you doing? Because I’m so sad that ____.” There was an expectation that I should comfort THEM. Exhausting.

21. “You should_____.”
Don’t tell me what to do. I don’t want to exercise more, eat better, read that great book about God, go to a grief support group, focus on God, get involved more at church, get alone with God, go away for a weekend without my kids, take sleeping pills, talk about it more, or think about it less. I can’t afford to take any more time off work. I can’t concentrate enough to do much of anything right now, honestly. And a bigger list of things I “should” be doing right now is simply not helpful.

22. “If you need anything, let me know. I’m here for you.”

No.  I’m here. Alone. It’s not possible for you to be here for me or I’d gladly give it to you. I’m glad you want to help, and I don’t doubt your sincerity. But this comment is a substitute for any kind of real help. You’ve absolved yourself of actually helping me in any tangible or intangible way and placed the onus on me to come up with some idea of what I need. You know what I need? I need my child. Alive and giggling. I need the image of her lifeless in her crib out of my mind and the taste of her dead skin out of my mouth. I need her siblings to grow up with her. I need for my husband to have never experienced this depth of pain. If you can’t give me any of these things, you’re kind of on your own with suggestions for helping me. Maybe send a sympathy card. It will make you feel better.

23. “Well, I’ll pray for you.”
Aside from the doubt that exists over whether you’ll actually do it or not, how is this helpful? Who knows better than God what I need and why hasn’t he already given it to me? Your asking for it will make it magically appear? The worst part about this statement is that it usually comes at the end of your listening to me or grieving with me. As in, “You’re done now.  I’ll pray for you, okay? You’re making me uncomfortable with your intense sadness and hard questions.”
I know that I haven’t left you anything to say. Maybe that’s the point. I also know that, if you’re a typical Christian, you’re defensive and even deeply wounded by what I’ve said here. You’re thinking, “But remember, here’s what God is REALLY like and here’s where you’re wrong. Here’s where you need to adjust your theology and get your heart right with God.”

Whether you like it or not, no matter how uncomfortable this makes you feel, no matter what you believe or even what I believe, these things you’ve said are not helpful to me. In fact, many of them are so hurtful that I’ve been awake more than one night trying to work through them.

Maybe someday I’ll be ready to accept my child’s death with a little more grace. But for now, I’m afraid you’ll have to stick with, “This sucks,” or a simple, “I’m sorry.” You know what’s even better? The sound you make when you stay quiet.

The funeral industry as we know it now in America allows for some of the greatest examples of both human graces and disgraces. The disgraces are all too publicized, and rightfully so. Most of us may remember the 334 bodies found in the back yard of the Tri-State Crematory in Georgia. Instead of fixing their retort, the crematory simply placed the bodies in the back yard to decompose and in place of the actual cremated remains, they gave the families boxes filled with wood chips, cement powder and wood ashes.

Many of us have seen the Nightline reports where funeral directors were caught bypassing laws on a regular basis, trying to scam money off of the elderly and acting more like greedy salesmen than compassionate professionals. Unfortunately, there are many funeral directors who are all too willing to use disadvantaged people to their own advantage. It’s ugly. It’s exploitation at its most base level. Yet, it happens. The unfortunate result of mixing grief clouded minds and greed poisoned hearts.

But, there are those of us who work hard, with undying honesty and integrity, sweating yellow tinged stains on our white collars. We withstand the sweat rolling down our backs into our cracks on the hot summer days as we stand in the caustic sun at the graveside. My great grandfather used to mow the funeral home yard in his shirt and tie. We’re probably still the only practitioners who ask for winter suits … they only make the medium grade suits today because white collar workers just aren’t out in the cold. Our backs are one of the main occupational hazards in this industry. And we get dirty too … crimson red on a bright white cotton shirt. Our collars may be white but our hearts are bleeding blue.

There are those funeral directors who see their profession as a calling; who find a sacredness to their calling, as though there was something spiritual about their work.  As though they are more so ministers than death merchants.  They are understanding, compassionate, hard-working, service oriented people who are more concerned about the richness of life in death then the wealth of their bank accounts. There are those who give their services for free to the less fortunate and downtrodden. Those of us who push families to buy caskets under their financial means instead of over. There are those of us who go above and beyond our contract expectations; who spend that extra five hours making the car accident victim viewable so that the family can see him one more time. There are those of us who offer more than just pre-need and at-need services … those of us who are there for the family months after the fact. There are those of us who understand that our integrity and honest direction can make Death a lot less hard for a whole lot of people.

The ancient and famed Egyptian embalmers understood that to be good death practitioners you also had to have religious and moral over and under tones in your life. And although we don’t divine like Egyptians, there are those of us who view this profession first as a practice of spirituality and secondly as a business; and, who do both with a strong work ethic. That’s the mold that I’m trying to fit into.  A blue, white and clerical collar.

(Some days I play the role of advice mallard.  So, hang with me as I dish.)

I want to give you permission to pursue your doubts about your faith.

In some faith communities and religious families, the doubters are ostracized.  Doubting isn’t just seen as questioning; it’s viewed as something that’s underpinned by rebellion, by sin.  The prevailing idea is that, “You’re doubting the faith, so you can leave the faith; and by leaving the faith, you are leaving our family.”

To stave off being ostracized by family and friends, many doubters keep their questions about God to themselves.  And, to a degree, it’s okay, except when that doubt is part of your grief.

Doubt and grief are directly correlated.  Kenneth Doka suggests that “one of the most significant tasks in grief is to reconstruct faith or philosophical systems, now challenged by the loss” (Loss of the Assumptive World; 49).  All forms of grief, normal, complicated and especially traumatic grief produce doubts about one’s faith.

Goodness is sucked away in grief; and many of us base our faith off the presumed goodness of God.  When that goodness is sucked into the darkness of grief, the foundation of God’s goodness begins to shake; our faith trembles and sometimes it shatters.

Faithquake.

The dilemma that results is this: we need our family and friends during grief … to share our grief with, to remember and to receive acceptance; yet, we’re afraid we will be ostracized by our family and friends if we express our doubt.  Do we: 1. Pursue our grief induced doubts at the expense of our community and at the expense of experiencing the grief within the community; or, 2. Do we pursue our community at the expense of our personal faith searching?

We do both.  You need both.  You need to accept your doubts and find acceptance in community.  And it might be nearly impossibility.

If you are experiencing doubt in a faith community during your grief, tell someone you trust something like this:

“I need to talk and I need you to just hear me and accept me right now.  I know your faith is strong and I respect you for your faith, but my faith has taken a hit since ____’s death.  Instead of forcing my faith, I’m processing my doubt.  _____’s death is changing me.”

If they can listen, you need to talk it through with them.  It’s healthy to express your grief within the community of grievers; and if your grief includes doubt, sharing will only help diminish your pain and clarify your outlook. 

On the other hand, I want to give you permission to pursue the faith you’ve never had.

Grief can also enliven a newfound belief in God.  All of a sudden your darkness sees a light and now – in your community of “unbelievers” – you’re the religious nut.

And you need to say the same thing to your community:

“I need to talk and I need you to just hear me and accept me.  I know we aren’t very religious and I respect you and how you live life.  But, I’m pursing faith since _____‘s death.  I don’t want to convert you, but I want you to know I’m changing.”

The grief that can produce doubt can also enliven faith.  And both are okay.  And both need to be done in our communities.

Accept your grief.  Accept your enlivened faith.  And, to the best you can, do so in your community.

Since I posted it, over 2,000,000 people have viewed it.

Many have asked, “Where is this gravestone located?”  ”Who is the gravestone for?”  And various other questions.

Here’s Matthew Stanford Robison’s “Find a Grave” page that will answer most of your questions:

Birth:	Sep. 23, 1988
Death:	Feb. 21, 1999
This unique monument shows the young boy jumping upward, out of his wheelchair. Confined to the chair most of his young life, he is now free of earthly burdens. “And then it shall come to pass, that the spirits of those who are righteous are received into a state of happiness, which is called paradise, a state of rest, a state of peace, where they shall rest from all their troubles and from all care, and sorrow.” Peacefully in his sleep on Sunday, February 21, 1999, our cherished son, brother and friend, Matthew Stanford Robison was received into a state of happiness, and began his rest from troubles, care, and sorrow in the arms of his Savior and friend Jesus Christ. Matthew was a joy and inspiration to all who were privileged to know him. He was a testament to the supreme divinity of the soul and an embodiment of the completeness our spirits yearn for. The godliness of his soul inspired, influenced and blessed all who knew him. He came into this world as a miracle and left this world as a miracle. Born with severe earthly disabilities on September 23, 1988 in Salt Lake City to Johanna (Anneke) Dame Robison and Ernest Parker Robison. At birth, Matthew’s life expectancy was anticipated to be only hours long. However, fortitude, strength, and endurance, combined with the power of God allowed Matthew to live ten and one-half years enveloped in the love of his family and friends. His family was privileged to spend time with him here upon earth, to learn from his courage and marvel at his constant joy and happiness in the face of struggle. His family will be eternally changed by his presence and temporally changed by his passing. His presence inspired all those who knew him. He opened their hearts as well as their eyes. He is survived by his parents: Ernest and Anneke; sisters and brothers, Korrin, Marc, Jared, and Emily of Murray, Utah, and Elizabeth (Czech Prague Mission) Also, grandparents and other family members. A heartfelt thanks to his special care givers, especially Shauna Langford, and others at Liberty Elementary School.
Burial: Salt Lake City Cemetery Salt Lake City Salt Lake County Utah, USA

Here is part of Matthew’s obituary:

The problem with our dualistic approach to life and death (i.e. the separation of “this world” and the “next world”) is that it tends to create this phenomena called the “God of the gaps” or the deus ex machina.

The “God of the gaps” is when there’s a knowledge void or a valley of difficulty that we either can’t comprehend or don’t want to deal with so we simply stick God in the gap.

Question: “Why did my sister die so young?

God of the gap answer:  “We can’t always understand God’s plan, but we know it’s for the best.”

Question: “What happens after we die?”

God of the gap answer:  “God brings us to paradise.”

When it comes to death and the difficult journey that it produces for the living, the God of the gaps answer is simply “heaven.”

Honestly, I think Christians have a better answer than “heaven” and that is the idea of resurrection.

Today, believers tend to focus on heaven, while keeping the idea of resurrection as a tertiary sub point.  But, it would seem, that it should be the other way around.  Resurrection is at the center of Christian understanding, while heaven is secondary.

The idea of resurrection is that life can come out of death.

The dualistic idea of heaven has little benefit for grief work, as it expects life after this life.  But, the idea of resurrection is that which is lifeless is being given new life in the here and now; not in the hereafter.  That despite all the evidence to the contrary, there is hope in our grief, hope in our despair, hope for the future, hope for the present.

Resurrection takes what we have and breathes life into it.  It doesn’t look to replace this world and solve all of our fears in the future; but it gets dirty, messy, now.

Every time we choose guilt, we deny the resurrection.  Every time we choose bitterness towards a family member or the deceased, we deny the resurrection.  Every time we choose hatred of the deceased or of ourselves for not “stopping it” or “doing more”, we deny the resurrection.  Every time we choose to be guarded and elect NOT to heal, we are denying the resurrection.

Resurrection life says keep on walking through your difficulty … there’s hope.

Resurrection life says embrace your doubts, strength is in silence.

Resurrection life says it’s okay to fear, to cry, to struggle.

There is life in death.

Resurrection, though, is a not a rejection of the body for the spiritual realm, but a renewing, redeeming of the present condition.  The resurrection brings heaven to earth; not earth to heaven.  When we work through the here and now with love and compassion for ourselves and others, when we deal with the gap – the questions and the difficulty — we advance our grief work and bring the future to the present … we look to bring heaven to earth.

And, you’re opinions are probably wrong.

If heaven exists at all, it – by definition — is much different than what you or I imagine it to be.  And while my religion’s scripture (Christianity) has little to say about what heaven is like, it seems that my religion’s preachers – especially the ones at funerals – know much more about it than their Bible.

So, here are eight common ideas about heaven that I think are false.

Heaven is not …

One.  An opiate.  Like religion, heaven has too often been used as an opiate to blind people to the dismal reality that someone is in fact dead.

Two.  It’s probably not about you.  It’s selfishness that has made this place so shitty.  So, if heaven is better than what exists today, it will probably only happen when we are somehow drawn out of self-absorption by something greater (i.e. God).

Three.  A product of subjective validation. If you find heaven meaningful, good for you.  But, that doesn’t mean it exists.  Just because you like the idea of an eternal life where everything is unicorns and butterflies is not proof for heaven being an actual reality.

Four.  Subject to wishful thinking.  “In heaven I’m going to have a Ferrari with Kathy Ireland as my wife.  I’ll dress her up in My Little Pony outfits and I’ll play Black Ops all day.  Oh yeah, and grandpa will be there too and we’ll fly around together on the back of my Pegasus.”  Probably not.

Five.  A product of communal reinforcement.  If the only reason you believe in heaven is because your family believes in heaven and because everybody wants to believe in heaven, you probably haven’t thought about it too much.  And any perception you have about heaven probably sucks.

Six. Escapism.  Or, an excuse to trash this world because it’s going to be destroyed anyways (some evangelicals believe this.)  If anything, I believe in an inaugural eschatology that is bringing heaven to earth as opposed to bringing us earthlings to heaven.

Seven.  Hedonism.  A place where we can do whatever the hell we want.  Yeah, that place – if it exists – is called Las Vegas.

Eight.  A certainty.  That’s right.  It’s a hope, not a certainty.  It’s a valid hope during death.  It has a valid place in our lives now, but you simply can’t prove its existence empirically.  In some sense, we are creating heaven.  We are bringing it into existence.  And its creation is conditioned on us losing our egotistical outlook.  Heaving is becoming, but it’s not a certainty.

I have some problems with the idea of heaven.  I know, you might hate me for saying that.

The Barna Group says 81% of Americans believe in the afterlife.

The Washington Post quotes 75%.

The Council of Secular Humanism states 55% definitely believe in life after.

Anyway you look at, the majority of us believe in life after death.  My problem has less to do with the idea of the afterlife and more to do with how we use it.  The afterlife is powerful; and like most powerful things, its easily abused.  The easiest abuse that arises is that we can pay more attention to the life after than the life here and now.  As the saying goes, we become so heavenly focused that we become no earthly good.

This plays out especially during death and dying.

The “Don’t grieve, deary, your husband is with Jesus” cliché, death-related responses hit right at the heart of what I’m trying to communicate.

To start with, religious believers have a very difficult time accepting their grief as legitimate because many worship a god who is impassible … who is without emotion.  We emulate what we worship and nothing is unhealthier than humanity trying to act like their unemotive deity during times of distress, pain and death.

Compound that with the belief that death isn’t really real … that death is the pathway to another life … that we shouldn’t grieve because “your husband is with Jesus” and we have a recipe for disastrous dishonesty about our pain in death.

Religious people tend to downplay tragedy with clichés like:

“It’s God’s will”

“God meant it for good.”

“We don’t always understand God’s mysterious plans.”

And in the same way, we use the powerful antidote of the afterlife to downplay our grief and pain during times of death:

“At least you know he’s in a better place.”

“You can be happy to know she’s in the arms of Jesus.”

All this speaks to repression, delusion and the tendency to skip the first four stages of Kubler-Ross’ grief model and go right to a faux form of “acceptance.”

And this is why I think it’s unhealthy.  It’s unhealthy because it can too easily take away your grief work.  It’s a “get out of pain for free” card that all too many play to the detriment of their personal growth.  In the same way that I disdain a person buying a fake online PhD, so do I distain this attempt to skip the labor of grief, the growth of grief and the personal evaluation that inevitably comes with death.

Heaven’s the trump card.

The “Easy Button”.

We become so heavenly minded that we’re no good at grief.  We can become so heavenly focused, that we forget the here and now.  We see death as unreal, as almost fake; and we become just like our view of it.

(Either this week or the next, I’ll post a follow-up called, “How Heaven Can Help Grief Work.”)

We hear these stories a couple times a year.  And I want to believe them.  Those who tell us these stories, tell them with such conviction, such sincerity that I believe the stories themselves are true; but did the dying person REALLY see Jesus … and their parents … before they died?

The interpretation of these stories is where I start to question.

“We just know that Jesus was there, in the room, welcoming mom to heaven!”  And I respond, “That’s amazing!  Wow!  You know for certain where your mom is at!”  But I don’t always believe my own words.

It seems like every other year somebody with a near death experience (NDE) has these incredible visions of heaven, they write a book about it and make their millions (See “Heaven is For Real: A Little Boy’s Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back” for a more recent contribution).

But what happens if these NDEs are simply concoctions of end-of-life chemical reactions?

Dr. Rick Strassman, while conducting DMT research at the University of New Mexico, proposed that a massive release of Dimethyltryptamine (DMT) from the pineal gland prior to death or near death was the cause of the near death experience (NDE).

DMT Inspired Artwork

DMT is a psychedelic drug, producing intense visuals, euphoria and hallucinations; and, according to Dr. Rick Strassman, near death experiences.  In fact, DMT is an illegal drug that you can find on the streets.  So, if you want a near-death hallucination, go ahead and try some.  You can – to some degree – chemically induce a NDE, where you’ll see angels, celestial bodies, heaven … or maybe, if it’s a bad trip, you’ll see the other side.  Philosopher Terence McKenna suggested that DMT is a pathway drug to other worlds, as most people who use DMT hallucinate heaven and hell type experiences.

But, Strassman’s hypothesis that the human body produces massive amounts of DMT near death has yet to proven.  Even if Strassman’s hypothesis that DMT is the hallucinogenic cause of NDE is false, it still is very possible that other chemicals produce visions of the celestial.  We just don’t know for certain, but we hope.

And I imagine hope may be the main drug behind NDE.  We hope that heaven waits at death.  We hope that Jesus is awaiting us, to welcome us into heaven.  We hope that heaven is real.  And that hope may be founded on reality, or mere hallucination; but we still hope.

Sometimes our weak attempts of denial break apart.  Our necessary lies that we tell ourselves to keep the evil at bay are hit by the truth.  The comforting catch phrases we were told crumble under the weight of reality.  And those lies, those attempts at denial, those catch phrases are usually religious in nature.

God is in control.

God means everything for good.

Or

God is punishing us.

God has a plan.

God had a higher purpose.

And then Newtown happens.  Crash.  Bang.  The God of our creation – created for our comfort, for our solace in troubled times – begins to break apart.  This perfect God who exists upon a pedestal comes crashing down.

Our God of all-power, of all-knowledge, of omnipresence, of all-love is no longer sustainable.  The iconoclasm of evil has struck again.  And we pause for a moment and question, “Is there something wrong with my God?”  We scramble for justifications, and we slowly piece God back together with glue and duct tape, only to have him rendered weaker, uglier and more susceptible than before.  We become fearful of doubts, fearful that this one or the next will be the final break that renders our perfect God unfixable, and thus our ability to cope with the world impossible.

Before you rush off to grab your glue, let the perfect God lay.  Maybe some of those pieces don’t belong.

Like omnipotence.  If there’s ever a time to reconsider the power of God it’s right now, after Newtown and during the Advent.

This from Greg Boyd via Twitter: God becomes a baby, demonstrating that his way of conquering evil is not through force, but through the power of humble, innocent love.

The power of the advent story is the utter weakness of God.

The power of the advent story is that God isn’t who we thought he was.

The power of the advent story is that God is susceptible to mankind.

God as child.

God as weak.

God as suffering.

God experiencing death.  Awful death.

Let the perfect God break to pieces today.  Let it shatter.  God in a manger has replaced God omnipotent.