Recently, I was having a discussion with my kids about the afterlife, and they were sharing what they believed. The most fascinating aspect that stood out was that they said Heaven doesn’t exist. Everyone goes to Hell when they die. As I probed more for elaboration, they began riffing off of each other’s thoughts, adding to a more well rounded perspective. Essentially, Hell is basically their idea of Hades. There is no separation of realms (Heaven and Hell), and thus no separation of people based on a moral determination.
There’s just one afterlife. One realm.
One “Kingdom,” if you will.
And you can choose to stay there, or come back to this realm of existence here on earth. You can come back as anything you want—whether something living or non-living, animate or inanimate—the only caveat being that you can’t come back as something that already presently exists. And when you die, you return to Hell in whatever of the forms you’ve lived (they added that if you choose something that isn’t alive—their specific example being a can of CocaCola for some reason—you get to choose whenever you want to come back to Hell). You can do this existential recurrence as often as you want to, taking on whatever form you choose whenever you return to Hell.
There’s houses in Hell.
And they’re as big as they need be to “fit everyone in your family and everyone you love.” You don’t have to eat or drink unless you want to. People do what they want, including the work they want. You’re not sad when a loved one isn’t in Hell with you, because you “just know” they’ll be back again, “or you can go to earth and find them.”
Now I haven’t shied away about my actual views of the typical Christian belief of Hell and how what you believe about it moreso acts as a means of how you see and define G-d. I often folded that very ontological concept into my philosophy classroom. But because of what I believe, I lean more towards allowing my children to explore those concepts themselves, and come to me for guidance when they have questions, or if they’re curious what I believe. And if they never directly ask what I believe about the afterlife, then I must be doing something right, because it means they don’t feel the need to believe the same thing out of concern for what would happen if they didn’t.
Which fits my beliefs directly.
Anyway, this conversation with my kids about the afterlife happened to occur around the same time that this… “Atheist” Bible Study I attend was making our way through Matthew. There’s a section where Jesus just tells parable after parable to describe what the Kingdom of Heaven is. You see, Jesus didn’t preach himself, he didn’t approach people and ask them if they’d like to hear about him. No. He preached the Kingdom of Heaven and its immanency. That isn’t a typo on my part. I mean immanent (as in “inherent or existing within,”) and not imminent (as in “something is about to happen or coming soon”).
We were discussing the very Western Evangelical Christian dogma of preaching hard work and toiling through this life of misery, with the promise of reward in Heaven when my friend mentioned something about the Pearly Gates—a phrase I totally forgot about, but something that comes from Revelation 21:21 in a description of the “New Jerusalem,” often associated with Heaven itself in Christian theology.
“And the twelve gates were twelve pearls; each one of the gates was a single pearl.”
So in order to get into the Kingdom of Heaven, you have to pass through a pearl.
Suddenly, Matthew 13:45-46 stood out to me.
“Again, the Kingdom of Heaven is like a merchant seeking beautiful pearls, and upon finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.”
See, one of the only actual commands Jesus ever gave (another singular command simply being to love—G-d, yourself, your enemies, your neighbors) was to seek first the Kingdom (Matthew 6:33). But if the Kingdom is indeed immanent, then it’s everywhere. Perhaps it’s “all things.” And so if it’s everywhere, then you can find it anywhere.
And YET…
In this parable—one directly following the parable where Jesus describes the Kingdom of Heaven as a hidden treasure—the Kingdom of Heaven is itself the thing doing the seeking. It’s a merchant seeking fine pearls. But not just seeking. Finding. The Kingdom of Heaven is obsessed with fine pearls, but is also a promise of finding a fine pearl—one worth everything.
The Kingdom is everywhere, its 12 gates are pearls, it goes out seeking beautiful pearls, finds them, and gives everything for it.
Do you know what makes a pearl not only beautiful (the Greek word there is kalos), but valuable? Its luster. Luster is the most important factor in determining a pearl’s beauty, and generally speaking, the higher the luster, the more valuable the pearl.
A pearl forms around a wound in an oyster’s body. To put it another way, an oyster first experiences a pearl as pain. Torment. Suffering.
It secretes nacre, a material made of aragonite and conchiolin, to coat the wound and protect itself from the torment and suffering. The more the nacre (the reactive response to the wound and pain), the more luster the pearl has.
So what makes a pearl full of luster—beautiful (kalos)—and thus, more valuable? You could argue more suffering and torment on the part of the oyster.
The kingdom of heaven is made up of twelve gates created through torment and suffering, seeking out torment and suffering, finding it, and giving up everything for it. The number 12 is a reoccurring number in the Bible. It’s generally interpreted to symbolize completion, but specifically the word “telos” for completion/fulfillment; while also meaning purpose/function. Furthermore, 12 is generally interpreted to symbolize unity. 12 gates made of pearls to enter the Kingdom of Heaven means there’s not just a purpose or function to the pearly gates, there is unity in the pearly gates.
It’s been my personal experience that when I see people desperately seeking the Kingdom of Heaven, they’re doing so in things like Bible studies, workbooks, programs, and schools. But they’re not really seeking the Kingdom as much as running from the pain in their hearts.
As if the solution to the pain was a lack of pain. As if the definition of peace was a lack of suffering and torment.
As if the only freedom from a life that hurts like Hell, is Heaven.
Hell has often been interpreted in Western Evangelical Christianity as what’s often described as “eternal conscious torment” (meaning torture and suffering that you are always fully aware of and experiencing, forever and ever), or “eternal separation from G-d” (which is just a vanilla, friendly way of saying the first one). Either way, Hell has always been expressed as a place of torment and suffering that you want to avoid at all costs.
Unless you ask my kids.
I saw a mug at Target the other day that said “Hell is other people.” Maybe that’s actually true. After all, most of our notions of torment and pain and suffering come at the hands of other people more than say, natural disasters or something. We hurt each other far more and far worse. I recently wrote a very long piece about why (hurting) hurt people hurt other (hurting) hurt people. (It’s actually the longest piece I’ve ever written to date) But what I concluded was that we hurt because we lack. We’re not broken, just incomplete. And that incompletion, that lack, causes desire, which causes suffering.
I stated that suffering isn’t a personal failing, but an ontological characteristic of the human condition. The problem is seeking solutions and promises of fulfillment as a solution to that lack and incompletion. Because we’ll always be incomplete (that’s just another ontological characteristic of the human condition).
I concluded though, that it shouldn’t be about filling the unfillable, but accepting it. And more than just accepting it, acknowledging and sharing it. Suffering leads to empathy and empathy leads to connection. I ended eluding to partaking in the sacrament of communion as a solution to hurting each other. When we focus directly on pain and suffering, with our hands full of bread and wine, we can’t really hurt each other.
Where do we actually find the Kingdom of Heaven? In our pain. In our suffering. In our torment.
But more importantly, where does the Kingdom of Heaven actually find us? In our pain. In our suffering. In our torment.
To avoid your pain is to avoid what your pain gets turned into: a pearl of great luster and value.
In yourself, or in others.
And when you can’t see that, you can’t see the Kingdom of Heaven, especially not for what really is: with gates—not just entrances, but the outside—made from the same pain and torment and suffering.
To avoid your pain is to not see that it’s WHEN and IN your hurt and pain and torment and suffering that the Kingdom of Heaven, like a merchant, is not only seeking you out, but that’s where it finds you.
I recently completed the Manitou Incline wearing a 30lb vest (watch the video by clicking the link) and it caused me to reevaluate a lot of what I’ve said about what I feel regarding my pain and I’m currently making a video about the lessons learned in reflecting on that journey. But the point is this: as I made my way up the incline, I met and talked to others on my way up. We all were facing the same burden and painful task of ascending the incline, but while I talked about my pain and burden of the extra 30lb to others that I met, I didn’t share it with them. It didn’t make me as present as I have talked about experiencing pain doing in the past, it made me detached. Why? Because even though I met people on the ascent, I still did it alone. I didn’t allow others to share in it with me. Eventually all I focused on was to keep going. I even forgot I was wearing the vest (in case you want to watch the video of what I learned, and the full breakdown of what I’m saying here, click this link to go to the second video). The burden and suffering became so much a part of me that I wasn’t aware of them, just burdened by them. It became everything. I wasn’t “present,” I was on auto-pilot. I’m still a little jumbled about it all, and working through it, but some things have become very clear.
You can take communion alone, sure, but I think the real purpose is to take it with others. You can acknowledge pain and suffering and torment, sure, but I think the real purpose is to do so with others.
I told others what I was doing, they could see the 30lb vest, but I didn’t share with them how I was feeling, I didn’t share my thoughts. And more than anything, while there was a spirit of encouragement on that incline, I’m not aware of anyone that was hiking it with the express purpose in doing so with everyone else on the incline, to acknowledge and scale it with the intentional mindset of solidarity.
Earlier in the book of Matthew, Jesus warns against throwing your pearls before swine (Chapter 7). Saying that they’ll trample your pearls and turn and attack you. These same pearls of value that solely exist because of pain and suffering and torment. Maybe the warning here is to not share your suffering with those who don’t share theirs. Yes, suffering brings forth empathy, but only in those who acknowledge their own suffering.
This to me is why the sacrament of communion is so important. That banquet table is where we acknowledge the universal lack, the incompletion, and thus, the universal suffering. I bring my suffering to that table in good faith knowing you and everyone else at the table are doing the same. It’s the focus and purpose of the table itself.
Don’t throw your peals before swine, but definitely throw your peals before wine.
Specifically the communion wine.
You’re not alone in your torment and suffering and pain and hurt. And I think that if you wish to find the Kingdom of Heaven (and that’s the promise, isn’t it? That if you seek it, you WILL find it), you must first look there: in your torment and suffering and pain and hurt. Because that’s where it’s seeking and finding you. And if we all do that, and then come to the banquet table that is communion, well then we make Hell into Heaven.
Or maybe the point is that it always has been. Heaven has always been Hell—suffering, torment, pain, and hurt. But that’s just been the last place we’ve sought to look for it, and the last thing we want to share with others.
I hope to share my Hell with you from now on, and I sincerely hope that you do the same. For I believe that’s where we’ll find the Kingdom of Heaven, here and now.
->and the world will be better for this…
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“This child will have no power over me.”
Leaving La Mancha 