The Only Life I Wanted

I never really wanted to go to heaven; I just wanted to stay out of hell.

[Link to audio version]

I was 6 years old when I first said the prayer I was told would keep me out of hell. It was a Sunday night, just after my parents and I had returned home from church, where the pastor (who was also my grandfather) had preached a sermon about hell. He had been, as seems unavoidable for Southern Baptist pastors, quite graphic in his description of this place—far more graphic than any image one could conjure from reading the Bible.

My understanding of hell was that it was a literal place where people that rejected (or hadn’t heard) the gospel of Jesus of Nazareth would be in a lake of fire for eternity, experiencing everlasting conscious torture. People in hell would be very thirsty, and there was something about worms; I suppose I was to infer that they would be eating the people. There would be “weeping and gnashing of teeth,” whatever gnashing was. And Satan and his demons, who embodied evil, would be there as well. But the worst part, I was told, was that people in hell would spend eternity separated from God—the god that allowed this place to exist. I wouldn’t learn for decades that modern notions of hell were constructed over centuries, largely based on the imaginations of authors like Dante. But from what I was told, and from how it was depicted each October at the “Hell House” my youth group visited, it sounded pretty awful.

But honestly, heaven didn’t sound that good either. Never once did I want to go to heaven. It seemed like the better of the two options I was given, sure, but it never seemed all that appealing. My idea of heaven, like my idea of hell, was the result of centuries of piecing together various bits of scripture with extra-biblical sources. There would be a gate that somehow resembled a pearl, where the apostle formerly known as Simon would be standing guard, perpetually I suppose. He would have a book in which were written the names of every person whose sins had been forgiven because of Jesus’s self-sacrifice. When I arrived at the gate, he would flip through its pages—so many pages—and find my name there, among billions of others.

Maybe. I was never truly confident about that because Jesus had said that there would be many who had prophesied and cast out demons in his name to whom he would say, “I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!” In retrospect, I think these words better describe many of the men in the pulpits than they do the children in the pews, but at the time I took them very seriously. I thought I was “saved,” but I was never sure. I prayed regularly for Jesus to save me, constantly worried that it may not have taken the first time, or the fortieth. While I didn’t find heaven all that alluring, I was terrified of hell and wanted to make sure that I didn’t go there if I died, or when Jesus came back, as he was sure to do at any moment.

This event, “the rapture,” is a relatively recent addition to Christian theology that was invented 1,800 years after the death of Jesus. It was popularized by Tim LaHaye’s Left Behind series of books and films starting in the mid-1990s as I was entering the youth group scene. The idea was that at any moment, all the true Christians (so not the Catholics or gay ones) would be taken up to heaven, presumably naked, as the only trace of their earthly existence would be a pile of clothes and jewelry on the floor or in their beds. Planes would crash for lack of pilots. Interstates would turn into junk yards, during a time when driverless vehicles were far less capable than they are today. The entire global economic system would collapse, and there would be famine everywhere—at least until a charismatic man with an eastern-European accent stepped in to restore peace and ensure that everyone was fed and housed (which were viewed as negative things because [spoiler] that man was the anti-Christ).

I worried constantly that the rapture would happen and I would be left behind to try to survive as an orphaned teen. But I also worried that it would happen and I would be taken up to heaven. I was supposed to want to go there, but I didn’t. I had been taught that when I got there—if I got there—the experience would start with Judgment Day, an event in which everyone who ever lived would watch some sort of video montage of every time I masturbated or swore. [insert popcorn.gif] And presumably, we’d all do the same for everyone else as well. It seemed like it would take forever, but fortunately time wasn’t an issue.

Then there would be a ceremony in which I would receive crowns (or jewels for a crown, maybe) for all the good things I had done during my mortal life, only to immediately lay them at the feet of Jesus as a tiny token of gratitude for his sacrifice. The streets would be made of gold, which just seems gawdy if I’m honest. I would have a mansion, but I really don’t need that much space. All the relationships I had on earth would evaporate. We would all spend eternity singing to God about how great he is, with no option to leave. And if John the Revelator’s acid trip is to be believed, there would be some truly terrifying monsters. But I was bothered most by the thought that in the background, we would all be aware that there were billions of people—some of whom we had known and loved—in hell in eternal agony. For me, just that seemed like its own kind of hell.

Of my two options, heaven seemed preferable, but certainly not appealing. I worried that the rapture would happen not just because I might get left behind, but also because I might get taken. I wanted to learn to drive, to play guitar, and to go hiking with my dog. I wanted to make out with my girlfriend and have sex, someday. I wanted to go to college and have a career and find fulfillment in my work. I wanted to make the world—this world—a better place for those I shared it with.

The life I wanted wasn’t eternal. It was this one—the one that we’re all sharing right now. The one with mountains and sunsets and thunderstorms. The one with family and friends and lovers. The one with pets and hobbies. And yes, the one with heartbreak, sadness, and regret.

I didn’t want to spend eternity in hell, but I didn’t want to spend eternity in heaven either. Frankly, I don’t care to spend eternity anywhere, especially without my consent. Life’s brevity is what makes it precious. Its variety is what makes it exciting. It’s short and shared and sublime and, at times, tragic. I spent my adolescence feeling guilty for wanting to live it, terrified that it would be cut short in order to start another one that I didn’t want. I no longer believe in an afterlife. I could be wrong about that, but I know I’m right about this one. And I’m happy to share it with you.