Hell & Beyond

by Michael Phillips

  The temperature dropped substantially during the night. A fire was the morning’s first order of business, along with a pot of coffee. While waiting for the fire to warm the place, I bundled up in all my warm clothes and stepped onto the expansive wood deck that surrounded the lodge, a steaming mug in my hands, to enjoy the gradual rising of the sun over the mountains.

  I sat down in one of several wooden chairs and gazed around with pleasure. The view was stunning and spectacular. It was at moments like this that I found rising within myself a begrudging admiration for the Christians’ argument that no accident of spontaneous creation and evolutionary development could possibly have led to all this. It was the manliest argument that could be forwarded for the existence of a divine hand in creation. The conclusion was flawed, of course. But the argument—every design must have a designer, a painting a painter, an invention an inventor, a masterpiece a master—was not itself intrinsically absurd. Darwinism had of course proved beyond doubt that much in nature had arisen without benefit of design or planning. All about us every day were multifold evidences of beauty, order, structure, symmetry… but they were just the products of the physics of the universe following the laws of nature, nothing more. Followed backward to the beginning of beginnings, the design argument for the existence of God was undone. Still, as I say, it was a worthy line of reasoning. The sheer beauty and wonder of the world could not but fill one with awe.

  I sipped at my Starbucks—I never traveled without my own supply! As I did, my thoughts strayed to that ever-present dichotomy faced by atheists and deists alike: the perplexing, fascinating, irresolvable interplay between doubt and faith.

  Could God’s existence be proven? Of course not. No one had ever seen him.

  On the other hand, could it be proven beyond all doubt that God did not exist?

  I had devoted my life to arguing publicly for the veracity of that conclusion. But I knew as well as anyone that it could not be proven. I had been willing to stake my life on my conviction that the evidence—indeed, the facts—all lay on the side of atheism.

  But the Christians weren’t convinced. So where was my proof? People believed what they chose to believe. They believed what they believed because they chose to put faith in those beliefs.

  Atheism and deism both attempted to probe the unknowable. That was the big Catch 22 of the universe. There were no ironclad proofs.

  When I attempted—a beginning I hoped to make that very day—to put into perspective the many arguments and so-called “proofs” on both sides of the question, I knew I must address that aspect of the philosophical issue without flinching. I could not prove there was no God any more than the Christians could prove that a man called Jesus rose from the dead.

  I smiled to myself as I recalled an exchange with a fiery young Christian during a question-and-answer session after my talk only a few days before.

  “If you are right,” he had challenged me, “it won’t matter anyway. There will be no afterlife and no one will ever know. If you are wrong and God does exist, you will wake up one day and find yourself in hell. So why take the chance?”

  It was the most fatuous of all the Christians’ arguments—the classic line of reasoning based on what was called Pascal’s Gambit. They were indeed fond of it. I heard it trotted out at least once a month as a rationale for religious belief. Bill O’Reilly once said almost those very words on national television as justification for his Christianity.

  A more juvenile line of thinking would be hard to imagine. What about truth, as they were so fond of talking about? The why-take-the-chance argument held less water than the imbecilic old stand-by, “The Bible says it so I believe it.”

  On the other hand, the uncertainty argument, as I called it, pointed out the reality that doubt played as great a role in philosophical and religious questions as did faith. Was anyone really free from doubt? I had spoken with enough sincere and honest Christians to know, when they were brutally honest with themselves, that there were times they wondered whether everything they believed was true. Of course it took an unusual Christian to admit it.

  As for me, I didn’t really doubt my beliefs. I had no fear of encountering God some day and having him throw me into the fires of hell. Yet there were times, almost humorously, when I allowed myself to fantasize on such an encounter.

  That would be an awkward meeting indeed!

  I would never admit to such an idea lurking in the shadows any more than most Christians owned up to their doubts. I had never hinted at such thoughts in print or in words… and never would. Where would my reputation as a feisty atheist be if I let something like that slip! My colleagues would never let me hear the end of it. The last thing I wanted was for a string of prayer breakfasts to be held with my soul the chief item on the agenda paper. Still, the idea of doubt and faith added an intriguing dose of personal spice to what otherwise might be a rather impersonal philosophical debate.

  As my reflections continued and gradually coalesced around the topics that had brought me there, I rose and went inside. The lodge was still cold, but I was ready to have something to eat and get to work.

  As the day advanced, in spite of the refreshing night’s sleep, a sluggishness gradually overcame me. I felt forty pounds heavier, not twenty. My breathing was more labored than was comfortable. The effects of the altitude were more pronounced than I had anticipated.

  I had planned to go out for my first jog that afternoon. Instead, I took a nap and awoke feeling tired and unable to catch my breath.

  When at last I lay down in bed for the night, I was beat.

  Two

  A Waking

  My second night in the mountains did not pass so comfortably as the first. I woke often, aware each time of an inability to get enough air. A tightness constricted my lungs, preventing normal breathing. Each time I drifted back to sleep, my slumber was haunted by strange and undefined dreams. I was vaguely conscious of tossing and turning almost constantly.

  An occasional pain in my shoulder roused me. Each time sleep returned, until all at once a great jolt seized my ribs. I felt my hand go to my chest. The spasm was intense but lasted mere seconds.

  The next instant, I was consumed by a dream more vivid than all that had preceded it.

  A bright vision of the mountains I had gazed upon that morning filled my mind’s eye. My first thought was that morning had come and I was again seated on the deck. I soon realized, however, that my vantage point was dramatically changed. I could not be seated on the deck, for the peaks of the hills were much closer and I was far too high to be seeing them from below. As I gazed about, with something of a shock I looked below me and saw the roof of the lodge. There was my blue Volvo beside it.

  I was flying above it all, among the mountains. This was a pleasant dream, I thought. Since earliest boyhood I had longed to fly. All my happiest dreams had been of flight.

  But something was weirdly different this time. It was too real. I felt as if I really were flying! The pleasure was immense. Such a sense of well being, of power, of infinite life swept through me. All pain was gone, all the heaviness of the day vanished in pure lightness. I weighed nothing!

  Higher and higher I rose. The lodge and trees and streams disappeared. Soon even the mountaintops faded like specks of white beneath me. I was among the clouds… flying… flying into the infinite blue beyond.

  Then slowly the blue, the clouds, the sense of flight all faded. A brightness of pure luminescence engulfed me. As I had felt earlier about the delicious night mountain air, the light was so full of life that you could taste it, drink it, eat it. It went through me, and into me, as if replacing the blood in my vessels and veins down to the tiniest corpuscle with living, pulsating, throbbing light.

  The light was suffused with pure energy. My body had entirely lost its mass. My consciousness remained but was now pure consciousness, utter being-ness. I was bombarded by waves moving at the speed of light, but waves without mass. I was alive and floating—or flying!—i
n the midst of Einstein’s mysterious equation conflating energy, mass, and the speed of light. I felt nothing from the assault of the waves of light… only energy—live, living energy.

  I soon became aware that I was no longer floating in the ethereal regions of empty space, but standing upright, though I saw nothing of my surroundings. At first awareness of this change, all I knew was that I stood in a shower of light coming at me from all sides.

  It was now for the first time that a vague sense of disquiet began to steal over me. I realized that this was like no dream I had ever experienced. The hazy film of unreality which imbues all dreams with queer other-worldliness was altogether missing. My senses felt more awake than ever. In fact, I felt more alive than ever! Every sense of my being had been dramatically altered.

  The changes that continued to come over me occurred quickly, yet by degrees. I became aware of an impulsion to move. I did not feel my legs and feet obeying the summons, yet I knew that an undefined momentum began to take me forward. I felt the light passing by me to the right and left and overhead. To say that I was progressing through a tunnel of light would not convey the sense that the light was everywhere. Yet I was moving through it.

  From my many exchanges with persons of faith, and the many stories which had been told me in an attempt to convert me, I was well aware of out-of-body stories of passageways where bright whiteness shown in the distance, compelling the dreamer toward it.

  How curious, I thought to myself. I am having one of those same dreams. I did not realize how deep their fantasies had penetrated my subconscious.

  My wonder continued to mount. Surely no dream ever felt like this! The sense of reality was palpable. I continued to feel the impulsion, the compulsion forward toward the light, and into the light.

  I could do no other than obey it.

  Slowly, my vision became aware of my surroundings. Gradually, I saw elements of familiarity spreading about me. Vague hints of the mountains I had left behind again came into view. I was comforted by the sight, for I thought perhaps I was returning to the lodge where I still lay asleep. But it was not so. For nearer at hand, between myself and the mountains, I now saw expansive meadows and fields and valleys and woodlands spreading out in all directions. My feet regained feeling. I was walking in the most luxuriant grassy sward imaginable—a soft carpet of luscious green.

  I took it for mid-afternoon of a glorious summer’s day. The air was warm, fragrant, with but the hint of a breeze carrying upon its wings the most unimaginable scents. They were the smells of life. Flowers sprang up everywhere. The aromas of every one filled me as I passed, with fragrances never experienced in real life. Every plant, every shrub, every tree was wondrously and vibrantly alive.

  This was a strange place for a dream, and still unnervingly real. It felt like somewhere I had been before, a country reminiscent of the long-forgotten distance of childhood, but even older than that, vaguely familiar, now remembered anew as where I had always been meant to live. A pang of longing seized me, a sensation I can call nothing but joy… as of the joy of a lost homeland returning upon the memory.

  As I continued to look about and take in the sights and sounds with wonder, I saw in the distance the figure of a man approaching.

  A shudder of awe surged through me.

  I knew him instantly. I cannot say how he was dressed. I cannot describe the face that slowly emerged out of the light as it came nearer. He certainly bore no resemblance to any of the common images I had seen of him—and scorned.

  My God! I exclaimed. It can’t be!

  My awe grew to terror. I began trembling from head to foot. Suddenly the reality of my waking pressed itself upon me. I knew this was no dream!

  Against all hope, I shook my head and desperately tried to wake myself from what, to one such as myself, must surely be the nightmare of all nightmares.

  It was no use. He came closer, then slowed and stood before me. I tried to avert his gaze. But I was powerless to look away. His eyes compelled mine. They sought my innermost self. And as his eyes penetrated to the depths of my being, I saw myself for the first time.

  I had been the fool of all fools.

  Alas, the realization came too late.

  Three

  A Question and a Choice

  How long I gazed into my soul through the reflection of the all-seeing eyes of the One who met me in the meadow of light, I cannot say. Seconds… years. There was no time in that place. Slowly, my vision receded and came to rest again upon his face.

  Another surprise awaited me.

  His expression bore the hint of a smile, not judgment or condemnation. It was a smile of greeting, of welcome. It was obvious he knew me and had always known me. It was also a sad smile, for he knew what I had been.

  The words that came from his mouth surprised me more than the smile.

  “What do you have for me?” he said.

  I stared back. He waited expectantly, then extended his hand toward me. I noticed the scar on his wrist. It was clear he meant me to place something in his palm.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what you mean. I have nothing.”

  “That is not true, my son. You have what all have when they arrive here.”

  “But I came with nothing. Only myself.”

  “The Self of your character is indeed what made the journey with you.”

  “Is that what you want to see?”

  “I do see it. I have always seen it. It is now time for you to see what you have made of it. It was given you by my Father when he breathed life into you—spotless, clean, pure, alive with possibility and potential for development. Every moment of your life was filled with opportunities for you to grow into one who would give him pride and pleasure. It is now time for us to see what you have made of it, so that when the time comes we may together present it to him.”

  My face fell and I looked away.

  “But… surely you know—I did not believe in him… or in you.”

  “Of course I know. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  All the arguments and well-articulated words of logic that had made me rich and famous such a short time ago were now exposed to my consciousness as empty, shallow, and meaningless. Most of all, they were completely wrong. All my life I had been spreading a great lie. The realization stung. I had no reply.

  He waited.

  “I had no idea that I was making my Self into anything,” I said after some time.

  “Everything in life was put before you for that purpose—every person you met, every choice you faced, every happiness, every sorrow, every frustration, every disappointment. Why else would your Self have been given you except to be made something of? Everything must return to the Heart from whence it came. What else did you think your existence on earth was for? What you were making of yourself was the only thing that mattered.”

  “I was just living life as it came.”

  “Is that your justification for believing the lie?”

  I knew that to answer was pointless. He and I both knew there could be no excuse.

  “You chose to believe the lie,” he said. “Evidences were all around you of the truth. The hypocrisies of my people were the mere excuse you used to embrace what the entire universe shouted to you was false. You chose the lie. Then you spread the lie. Great evil has been done by your hand. You knowingly closed your eyes to truth. Now your eyes must be opened to all you were, and to all that you must become.”

  “I… I did not know that it was—” I began.

  He raised his hand to silence me.

  “All is revealed here. All is known. All is seen. There are no falsehoods, and especially no excuses. You must be honest with yourself. In your deepest heart, you knew. My Father places the truth of knowing in every human heart. It is imbedded into humanity as surely as is instinct in the animal kingdom. It is why all peoples in all times have sought the Almighty. It is my Father’s way of calling his sons and daughters home. You chose not to believe
what your innermost heart told you was true. Now,” he added, and the unmistakable timbre of command was clear in his voice, “you must show me into what you have shaped your Self, what you have made it capable of. The time has come for you to discover what you can yet make of what my Father gave you.”

  The implications of his words were enormous beyond comprehension. At last I was silenced. My tongue was stilled. My thoughts grew quiet. My excuses were laid to rest. His words were insistent and imperative. There was no escape. For the first time in my life—though now I hardly knew what the word meant, for what was life, or what had been life, now that I had arrived in this place?—I knew that I must obey.

  There had never been any to whom I had felt the obligation of obedience. Now that was utterly changed. The command of his voice was total. Obedience was compulsory.

  Yet his voice also rang with infinite patience. Somehow I also knew that he did not expect an immediate response. As I looked within myself, I saw that if it took me ten thousand years to become capable of forming a reply, he would wait. I realized that to begin answering the first question he had asked me was the inescapable and required business of this place.

  He turned and began walking away. I knew that I was meant to accompany him. We walked side by side for some time in silence.

  “Are you… I mean,” I began a little nervously, “this looks nothing like hell. Is that where you are taking me?”

  “We shall see,” he replied, looking neither to the right nor the left. “That will be up to you.”

  “Up to me!” I said in astonishment. “I assumed such was the fate of all unbelievers. That’s what they said.”

  “Hell is no one’s fate. Its fires may be your destiny. When that time comes, you will welcome them as the purifying fires of healing and wholeness.”

  “They are not the fires of judgment?”

  “Of course they are the fires of judgment. All sin is judged. Every vestige of self-righteousness and arrogance and pride and willfulness and selfish motive must be burned away. When that time comes, you will choose the furnace of Malachi as the only remedy to purge them from you. For our God is a Consuming Fire. You will welcome the burning of his presence. But first your eyes must be opened.”