Beyond Heaven and Earth

by Steven H. Propp

  But it so happens that I have been reading the Bible, from cover to cover; it was the first thing I studied, starting with the Old Testament, which I’d never read before. When you hear the Bible only in short, carefully-chosen excerpts in church on Sundays, you have a tendency to think more highly of it than it probably deserves. When they only read you the best parts—the “Greatest Hits” of the Bible, so to speak—you naturally assume that the literary and spiritual level of the entire book is at this same exalted level. But it isn’t; you only need to simply read it from cover to cover, as you would read any other book, to form an opinion as to its overall quality. Of course, some Evangelicals would complain that I wasn’t approaching the Bible “prayerfully”—I was just reading it with an open mind, like I would read any other book. I wonder if these same Evangelicals would have me do the same with the Book of Mormon? (Which is exactly what it told me to do on the card stuck inside the copy of the Book of Mormon that someone left in my mail slot.) And would the Mormons themselves agree to similarly pray before reading, say, the Bhagavad-Gita, the Qur’an, or Reverend Moon’s Divine Principle?

  Which is not to say that the Bible does not have many points of exalted, and surpassingly beautiful literature and religion: it does. But I think that this is more comprehensible when you realize that, despite its name (“Bible” simply means “the Book”), the Bible is not a single book—rather, it was written by a number of different authors, over a long period of time. Since the Bible itself gives evidence of being the product of earlier sources (e.g., “The Book of Jashar” [Josh 10:13, 2 Sam 1:18]; the “Book of Wars of the Lord” [Num 21:14], and so on), it is probably best to view it as a compilation of works, similar to an anthology. When one is thus being selective, one has the opportunity to include only the best material. Notwithstanding that, the early chapters of Genesis give the impression of being a patchwork of disconnected stories (Adam and Eve, the Flood, the origin of languages, etc.) that have been thrown together in presumed chronological sequence. There are so many mysterious figures, such as Nimrod, “a mighty hunter before the LORD” (Gen 10:9), and Melchizedek, (Gen 14:18) who is the “priest of the most high God” and appears virtually out of nowhere, yet is immediately recognized as deserving tribute (“tithe”) by Abraham.

  The five “books of Moses” and the “historical” books only served to remind me of how much that is preserved in the Bible is geared toward a specific group of people—the Hebrews—and is of no lasting value to the rest of us. The endless lists of geneologies (“Adam begat Seth, Seth begat Enos, Enos begat Cainan,” etc.), the accountings of all the tribes and their offerings in the book of Numbers (chapters 1-3, 7 and 26), the details about the construction of the tabernacle, altar, and sanctuary (Exodus 25-30, 36-40), the sacrifices (Leviticus 1-9), and many other sections. Then, you have the repetition of major portions of the books of Samuel and Kings in the books of Chronicles. (At times while reading, one sorely wishes that the Bible had had a more efficient editor.)

  I also found out that the books from Joshua to Chronicles are truly awash with blood—mostly that of the surrounding “pagan” nations. In Numbers 31:13-18, God supposedly ordered the destruction of entire nations—including not only the women, but even the children and infants—except that the virgin daughters were to be taken by the Hebrew soldiers for themselves. As the early American patriot Tom Paine wrote in The Age of Reason, “Here is an order to butcher the boys, massacre the mothers, and debauch the daughters.” This warlike and hateful spirit is even found in the Psalms, in the so-called “Imprecatory Psalms,” where we read inspirational passages such as, “Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones” (137:9), and that the righteous “bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked” (58:10).

  Nevertheless, I did retain the impression that—simply from a literary standpoint—the Hebrews were absolutely unique in the ancient world, and surpassed any other literary achievements (including Homer) up until the flowering of Greek civilization.

  But most striking to me was the obvious fact that, by and large, the Old Testament teaches nothing about a future life. In the supposedly later books like Job and Daniel, one can see the beginnings of such doctrines, but the concepts of “resurrection of the dead” and an afterlife do not really appear until the New Testament. The story that Sunday School teachers told us, that, “The Old Testament saints were looking forward to the resurrection of the dead, and the coming of the Messiah,” is just myth; they only hoped to “dwell in the house of the Lord for years to come”—they didn’t expect to go to Heaven when they died.

  Anyway, then one comes to the New Testament, beginning with the Gospels, where one encounters the enticing yet mysterious figure of Jesus. Never having read all four gospels in sequence before, I was surprised to find apparent discrepancies in their accounts, particularly as regards the details of events such as the resurrection. (How come only Matthew reports that there was a “watch” guarding the tomb? Did one angel roll away the stone in view of the women, or was the stone already rolled away with a “young man” inside the tomb, or were there “two men…in shining garments” outside the tomb, or was there no one at all at the tomb? What did he/they say to Mary and the others?) There is no shortage of puzzling events in the gospels, such as the drowning of the Gadarene swine (Luke 8) after Jesus had ordered demons to possess the blameless swine, which were then drowned. There is Jesus’ cursing of the fig tree (Mk 11:13), notwithstanding that it was not the right season for the figs to grow. One also discovers that much of Jesus’ message seems to be impelled by his sense that the end of the world was near: “There be some standing here, which shall not taste of death, till they see the Son of man coming in his kingdom” (Mt. 16:28) Nearly two thousand years later, such “The End is Near” words have lost much of their immediate impact (except for readers of Hal Lindsey and Tim LaHaye). Still, the first three gospels (known as the “synoptics,” due to their overall similarity) leave a definite impression of authenticity about most of their accounts.

  After them, however, the Gospel of John seemed to ring falsely in my ears. The claim that this book is the product of the apostle John who was the “disciple whom Jesus loved” seems far from certain to me. (Wouldn’t this “beloved” disciple be Lazarus—who 11:3 calls “he whom thou (Jesus) lovest”—and for whom Jesus wept, causing the Jews to say in verse 36, “Behold how he loved him”?) The whole story of Lazarus is puzzling to me, because Lazarus isn’t even mentioned in any of the other gospels—why wouldn’t they even mention him, if he was so all-fired important to Jesus? Frankly, the whole gospel sounds more like a “spiritualized” gloss on the other gospels, rather than a factual, historical account of the life of Jesus. After the gospels, the book of Acts seems almost like a comic book, filled with larger-than life characters, performing miraculous deeds.

  Then the letters of Paul (especially the Book of Romans) contain some interesting theological speculation, but trying to connect it with the gospels and the words of Jesus is difficult. Paul not only didn’t know the historical Jesus, he seems to have made little effort to even locate and be able to cite any of his earthly words. (Look at any “red letter edition” of the Bible; Acts 20:35 and 1 Cor 11:2425 are the only exceptions.) Much of Paul’s letters consist of tedious defenses of himself (e.g., 1 Cor 9), or his dealings with 1st century church squabbles of no interest to us today; unlike the church at Corinth, most modern churches are not filled with people getting drunk at the Lord’s Supper (1 Cor 11:21), or prophesying and speaking in tongues (1 Cor 12-14). There isn’t even theological consistency in the letters: In Romans 4, Paul uses the example of Abraham (from Gen 15:6) to prove that we are not justified by works, whereas James (2:23-24) uses Abraham and the very same passage to prove that “by works a man is justified, and not by faith only.” Then we have the repetition between Jude and 2 Peter (2 Peter seems to “edit out” the controversial passages from Jude). And finally, the Bible
ends on a solemn note with the Book of Revelation, and the pronouncement that the things Revelation speaks of “must shortly be done” (22:6-7) because Jesus said, “Behold, I come quickly.” (Nevertheless, the Second Coming hasn’t happened, despite it being nearly two thousand years after these words were written.)

  Quite frankly, the only books in the whole Bible that make any sense to me now are the books of Ecclesiastes and Job; in Job, I found a true kindred spirit for my own sufferings. (Maybe I just identify with Job because of the similarity of our names.) The Bible itself admits that Job was a “blameless and upright man…who feared God and avoided evil.” And then Satan goes before God, and asks him for permission to hurt Job, and God gives him permission! Why?!? Was God trying to “show off” to Satan, “prove” something to him, or what? So all of poor Job’s children are killed and nearly all of his servants, his wealth is destroyed, and finally he himself is stuck with painful boils from head to foot—and he’s never given a good reason for why God allowed Satan to do all of this. God just eventually speaks to him from a whirlwind and says, in effect, “Shut up, you stupid little worm! I’m God, and I’ve got the power, so who are you to question me?” (Of course in my case, I’d be delighted to hear the actual voice of God speaking out of a whirlwind to me; I can’t even get that much.) Then God ends up giving even greater prosperity to Job, but so what? That won’t bring his first children back again. So Job is just left with the fact that the whole thing—whether it be afflictions, or prosperity—is arbitrary, meaningless, and all of us are apparently just meaningless pawns in some cosmic game that God is playing with Satan.

  Which is exactly what David’s son Solomon said in practically the next book, Ecclesiastes. (According to the “Introduction” in my old Bible, Solomon, the “wisest of men,” wrote Ecclesiastes.) So what does the wisest of men say? “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!” (1:2) He says that man is no different from the beast, and we don’t know but that we both just return to dust when we die. (3:18-21) He says in effect, “You’re better off dead than living,” and those who were never born are even better off (4:2-3), so just “Eat, drink, and be merry” (8:15). The prophet Isaiah gives a similar saying, but adds for emphasis, “for tomorrow we die.” (22:13)

  Great book of comfort and spiritual consolation, this Bible is; thanks a lot for referring me to it.

  * * *

  I’m starting to think that the former minister of the UCC church where I was confirmed was right; no wonder that—even though he was a minister—he didn’t believe all this junk in the Bible. It’s all bullshit: lies and bullshit. So what if Jesus rose from the dead? That doesn’t mean that we are going to. If Jesus was the Son of God, then naturally he’s going to rise from the dead; you and I, however, are not God’s unique Son, so we don’t have the same kind of status. (When was the last time you performed any miracles?) In fact, the only person that Jesus definitely raised from the dead during his lifetime was Lazarus, and that’s only because Jesus particularly loved Lazarus (Jn 11:3).

  But even when individuals have said ignorant and hurtful things to me after Sophia’s death, I can handle that: they’re just regular people, like me; they’re not religious scholars, or anything like that. But the worst things are the pronouncements of so-called “theologians.” People give me books by learned theologians on the “Problem of Evil.” Virtually all of their answers boil down to one of two arguments: Either they use the “you have no right to judge or question God, you little crud” approach (such as God used with Job), or else they use the “God can’t stop human pain and suffering without taking away our free choice” approach. I can accept this second argument in the case of the dying alcoholic whose liver failed after thirty years of drinking (even though I have difficulty in accepting it in the case of a woman who was assaulted and raped), but how does human free will excuse death from illness or disease? Sophia had a fatal heart attack—she wasn’t killed by some human being, exercising his sovereign free will upon her. If you, God, have the power to bring heart disease upon people, why did you bring it upon Sophia? And if you have the power to miraculously heal some persons, why didn’t you heal her?

  Oh, I almost forgot; there’s a third argument: “Sickness and death are the result of the sin and Fall of Adam.” Please. Even if Adam were a historical person—which seems rather doubtful, given the paleontologists’ findings of a gradual, unbroken chain of apelike hominids leading up to man—what is the logical connection between Adam eating a piece of fruit, and my wife and son dying? If Adam sinned by disobeying God, then fine, why not punish him? Why would some “Original Sin” that he committed be transmitted down to all of us? And doesn’t that nullify our own “free will,” if we are born with this so-called “sinful nature” that we can’t change? Why did Adam get the chance to freely “fall,” that we don’t get? I don’t care what Augustine or Anselm said; bring them before me, and let them see how hollow and foolish their arguments sound, when faced with a real-life tragedy.

  If these “comforting” arguments are so sound, why don’t they work for Sophia’s family? Why aren’t they comforted—they’re the “religious” ones, after all. Quite the contrary, they’re so devastated, they won’t even speak to me—not even at Sophia’s funeral. I know that Sophia’s father blames me for this happening, and that Sophia’s mother is upset that I didn’t call them before she passed away or have a priest there, but I didn’t have time! (Do they think that I wanted things to happen this way?)

  And of course, everyone tries to tell me that, “Remember, that this life is not the end. You must have patience; soon, you and Sophia will be united together again.” But how do they know? Why would God separate us, if he’s just going to reunite us again? What is the purpose of the separation, in that case? Maybe the God that chose to separate us here on Earth will choose to keep us separated in eternity. After all, where in the Bible or church teaching does it even promise that we will be “reunited with our loved ones”? Yes, I know all the books say that, but where does the Bible say it? Maybe all of these encouraging words are nothing more than wishful thinking. Suppose that “Heaven” is spent in contemplation of God, but without the presence and love of my darling Sophia? For me, there is no greater concept of Hell than to be consciously without Sophia for all of eternity, without even any hope of ever being reunited.

  Solomon was right; I would much rather have never been born at all, then to have to endure this kind of pain. The despair I feel is so all-encompassing, so overwhelming, that it blanks out any kind of hope I might have had otherwise for some future happiness. All I want right now is to sleep—dreamless sleep—forever. Probably the greatest blessing I could give myself right now would be to join Sophia, in death.

  But you’ve already thought of that angle, haven’t you, God? Even suicide isn’t an alternative, because of the possibility of eternal damnation. If I could be assured that I was putting my pain to an end permanently by committing suicide, I would do so in an instant—but suicide is a “mortal sin,” that will supposedly eliminate any chance of salvation I might still have. Yet, why is suicide supposedly one of the gravest among “mortal sins”? They tell us, “It is because you are throwing back in God’s face the gift of life that he gave you.” But did I ever ask to be given eternal life? How can you call it a “gift” if it’s nothing that I wanted in the first place? Why can’t I “opt out” of life? Why can’t I just choose eternal annihilation? Why must we go on forever?

  People say that, “You can’t question God, or his wisdom.” But why not? Because he is going to send me to Hell if I do so? (Seems to me like he has already done that; the physical pain of fire, and flesh-eating worms would be nothing compared to the emotional pain I am experiencing right now.) Why is God going to send me to Hell for questioning him, anyway? Is he going to get some sort of sadistic cosmic joy out of burning me for all of eternity? What is the point of perpetually prolonging my anguish forever? Wouldn’t even one hun
dred billion years be long enough? Or one hundred trillion years? Isn’t that long enough for you, God?—particularly when you consider that I never even really doubted or questioned you, until the day you took my Sophia away from me. (Don’t I get any “credit” for the fact that I was OK up to thaat point, and that I’m writing this under conditions of extreme mental and emotional anguish?)

  People tell me that I shouldn’t complain: “Look at all that Jesus had to suffer.” But Jesus also had some advantages that we don’t have. According to the Bible, Jesus could work miracles; he had a unique, intimate communion with God; he knew, at least in part, what the future held—he knew that he would be resurrected to sit at the right hand of the Father, and that he would come again in glory. If I had those kinds of powers, that kind of knowledge, it would be a lot easier for me to “have faith” like Jesus did, but the fact is that I don’t. It’s like watching the Ten Commandments on TV; I could believe, too, if I could see those kinds of miraculous things happening—but I can’t. All I can see is that my beloved wife was taken from me for no reason. And even Jesus had his doubts: One, at the garden, when he was praying to not have to go through with the crucifixion; and Two, after he had been crucified and was dying, he cried out and asked God why he had forsaken him? If Jesus, with all of the extra powers and knowledge that he had could lose faith in his “Father,” why should any of the rest of us be expected to have more faith than he did?

  People try and hold up examples to me, of people that have faced even greater adversity than I am experiencing, and who nevertheless came out of it with faith and hope. And there certainly are people who have, from an objective standpoint, suffered more than I have. People who lost not just a spouse and child, but whole families in the Holocaust. People have had to witness their loved ones dying in the most agonizing of circumstances, lingering over a long period. I stand in humility and awe of such people, who are able to work through the grief, and stay strong in faith. But unfortunately, I don’t have their strength; I’m just a regular person, with regular faults, whose heart has been irretrievably broken. It’s too much to ask. (But you know the interesting thing? The people who have themselves experienced great sorrow aren’t the ones who are offering themselves up to me as “examples.” In fact, I suspect that they would be the last ones to hold themselves up as paragons or moral exemplars for someone else.)