Getting into heaven

Before I left Jordan a few weeks ago, I had a cool experience that I wanted to share on this blog. I’m interested in sharing it because it helps illustrate the truth behind one of religion’s most controversial issues: how “to get into heaven.”

So, most religions make claims of an afterlife – something after death. Basically, we go on living in some state or another after we die, and religions generally make an attempt to describe that state. That there is indeed an afterlife I am certain. Not 100% scientifically certain, but then again not even scientists are 100% certain of anything. There is always an error term, no matter how small. Suffice it to say that I’m pretty sure that this life isn’t the end of the road. But there’s a common understanding of the monotheistic description of the afterlife that doesn’t sit right with me.

To put it simply, most major world religions – and certainly all three of the monotheistic ones (Islam, Judaism, Christianity) – claim there are two worlds that exist, heaven and hell, and that we will all be sent to one or the other after we die. Heaven is a good place – you want to go there. Hell is not. You don’t want to go there. How do I know which one I’m destined for? Well, religions try to answer that question, and basically it comes down to this: if you’re a member of the correct religion (i.e. ‘ours’), and you’re a reasonably good person, you go to heaven. Otherwise, you’re hell-bound.

It’s as if there are certain conditions you have to fill – like boxes you have to check off on a “to-do list” – in order for some austere God to let you pass the “gates of heaven.” It’s almost like God is an immigrations officer at an airport, carefully checking your passport for all the requisite stamps, visas, etc, and making sure you haven’t been to Las Vegas too often, before letting you into the country.

Some of my friends have asked me how such a view of God is consistent with the often-heard claim that he is loving, caring, compassionate, and devoid of any hateful feelings or desire to harm. How can such a being thrust someone down to hell?  I mean, isn’t hell endless torment? I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, so how could a loving God do such a thing?

These are very good questions. My recent experience might provide some illumination.

So I lived in Amman, Jordan, during this past summer. Jordan is a predominantly Muslim country – though there are a few Christians and other religious minorities too. The Muslims in Jordan tend to be quite conservative and practice their religion, at least more faithfully than many Christians in the West do. Anyway, the month of Ramadan was ongoing at the time, which means that Muslims don’t eat or drink from sunup to sundown each day. As soon as the sun goes down, they have a huge meal called iftar, after which they sit around for hours enjoying their favorite vices (coffee, cigarettes, etc – many of them don’t drink, as it’s forbidden in Islam) while generally shooting the breeze and relaxing. It’s fairly challenging to fast all day for an entire month, so as soon as the sun goes down Muslims tend to reward themselves for their abstinence with a larger-than-normal amount of their favorite pleasures – food, coffee, tea, sweets, cigarettes, talking, joking, sitting around and generally relaxing.

I got invited to iftar by a couple generous brothers – both about my age – whom I had met just the day before. There were a number of young men at their house – maybe 15 or 20 of us in all – and we were sitting outside in the garden shooting the breeze after the meal was finished. The house was quite large, especially for Jordan (a relatively poor country); my friends’ father was clearly someone important and influential.

I didn’t have to wait long to learn more about him though, as he soon entered the garden from the street. As soon as he did, the atmosphere changed completely. Everyone put out their cigarettes, set down their coffee, and stood up. There was complete silence, except the quiet sound of this man’s steps as he approached our group. I have never experienced the word “patriarch” quite like this before. He was a middle aged man, dressed in a long white robe (a ‘dishdash’ in the local dialect) which came up to a collar that buttoned at his neck. His arms were hidden in his billowing sleeves, so that all you could see of his body were his face, hands, and sandal-clad feet.

He had a kind, pleasant face with a bright smile, and he greeted each of us in turn, shaking our hands. All of us remained completely silent while this was going on, and only sat down when he finally did. In a quiet voice (he didn’t need to speak loudly, as there were no other sounds to speak over) he politely asked about those of us whom he didn’t yet know. No one spoke unless spoken to, and then each responded quietly, modestly, and respectfully. After inquiring about iftar and wishing us a happy evening, he arose and entered the house.

The change in the atmosphere was again as sudden as when he had entered the garden. It felt as if the very air had been holding its breath, trying not to make a sound, out of respect for this man; as if his presence required everything around him to exist in perfect order and peace; as if he couldn’t tolerate disorder or chaos, and wherever he went these things fled, or else were temporarily held in obedience.

After he left, you could almost feel the group of us sigh in relief, slouch down in our seats a little more, light up cigarettes again, and resume our casual jokes and conversation.

As soon as things went back to normal, the thought crossed my mind that what had just happened was somewhat analgous to being in God’s presence, in heaven.

I want to make a few observations that I think are pivotal to understanding this concept of “getting into heaven.” First, there was nothing compulsory, or forceful, about my friends’ father. To use a favorite phrase of mine from the Doctrine and Covenants (a book of scripture of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints), his effect on us occurred “without compulsory means” (D&C 121:46). He didn’t force us to stop talking, put out our cigarettes (I’m speaking for the group – I don’t actually smoke), and stand up as he walked over. He didn’t even ask us to. We did it naturally, on our own. We chose to behave that way out of respect for the kind of man he was.

Second, being in this man’s presence was ennobling. It brought out the best in each of us, and made us wish we were nobler than we were. it also made us wish we had more to show for our twenty-some-odd years on Earth. It was clear that my friends’ father was evaluating what we had done with our lives so far. This judgment was anything but severe – he inquired respectfully about each person he didn’t know and never expressed disapproval. But the sense of assessment, of evaluation, was unshakable.

Finally, being around that man was hard. What exactly do I mean by that? Well, as I said before, being around him made us want to be our best – and that takes hard work! It really does. It means you have to suppress decisively the impulse to settle for something less than what you’re capable of. When he left, the collective sigh of relief was quite audible (after he was out of earshot, of course). We each slumped back down to the mediocre state we spend most of our lives living in.

It was kind of like an electron in an excited state. An electron in an excited state has more energy – and therefore more potential – than it does in the ground state, but it doesn’t last there for long. Nature prefers lower energy states (the lower the better), and systems tend to move that direction over time in the absence of an external source of energy.

Similarly, you and I have more energy to be the kind of person we know we should be – and that, deep down, we really want to be – when we’re under the influence of an ennobling force. But it takes real effort to remain there, fighting the urge to just accept mediocrity and give up on excellence. To be honest, our group of twenty-somethings was perfectly happy to slide back down to our ground state, so to speak, as soon as the patriarch left.

So what does all this have to do with “getting into heaven”? Quite simply this: there are no walls around heaven designed to keep people out. If there are walls and a gate, they are purely cosmetic – and the gate is open 24/7. Anyone who wants to come to heaven can, and no one will stop her – except, perhaps, herself. You see, the catch is this: to live in heaven, you have to be able to endure it.

It isn’t easy living with God. He brings out the best in us, and giving him anything less is unacceptable. Not because he would expel us if we didn’t, but because we would expel ourselves before we dared. Anything that isn’t pure, honest, virtuous, kind, true, and noble can’t endure God’s presence and would rather flee than be less than he knows we can be.

So we have two simple choices: conform to the holy order that his presence requires, or live according to our own personal preferrences somewhere else. Those who don’t live in heaven don’t live there because they chose not to live there. In fact, God begs, persuades, and cajoles all of us to come to heaven, and throws the gates wide open. But some of us will decide that they would rather live elsewhere – because they can’t live up to the caliber of man that he is, and couldn’t possibly feel comfortable being anything less around him.

There is a simple principle taught in the Doctrine and Covenants that beautifully summarizes what I’ve tried to explain. And small wonder: it’s the reason I believe what I do. “For he who is not able to abide the law of a celestial kingdom cannot abide a celestial glory.”

I guess I’ll finish with one final question and answer as food for thought: how do we become able to abide a celestial glory? We learn how here, on Earth. The things we experience here, during our mortal lives, are preparing us to be able to endure the loving, ennobling, glorious presence of God.