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June 12, 2021 iacobusm Faith and Sin

A Brief Visit to Hell

Who wants to talk about Hell? Just about nobody, and we can hardly blame them – why dwell on something as, well, hellish, as eternal torment? Many people, both inside and outside the Church, only mention the Abode of the Damned at all in order to discount it. At the same time, we don’t have the luxury of ignoring it. Hell and eternal damnation are spoken of often and explicitly in Scripture, very often by Jesus Himself. He tells us in Matthew’s Gospel, for example: “The Son of man will send his angels, and they will gather out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and throw them into the furnace of fire; there men will weep and gnash their teeth.” (Matthew 13:41-42) This is not an isolated statement, neither on the part of Jesus himself, nor elsewhere in the New Testament. The most vivid description outside of the words of Christ is in the Book of Revelation, which on four separate occasions refers to the “Lake of Fire” into which the Devil, his angels, and other evildoers are cast.

It’s difficult for us to balance the idea of a Hell of eternal torment with the image of a God who “is Love” (1 John 4:8), especially in our world today where sentiment is king: Hell “feels” wrong. In fact, I recently had a reader of my discussion of Pascal’s Wager who accused me of believing in a “monster” God who “would torture you forever” if you didn’t believe in him. I answered that neither I nor the Catholic Church believe in a God who “tortures” people “forever”, and I cited the Catechism:“The chief punishment of hell is eternal separation from God, in whom alone man can possess the life and happiness for which he was created and for which he longs.” (CCC 1035). I added that fire is an image used to describe the pains of Hell, but is not taught as doctrine.

My interlocutor was not mollified, suggesting that I was “playing a little loose with christian/biblical teaching”, and that I “Prob don’t accept the lake of fire from revelation either.” Ouch. At the same time, I can understand how it might look that way: this is a big and difficult topic, and it’s hard to do it justice in a few off the cuff comments. In order to understand we really need to make important distinctions: qui bene distinguit, bene docet. What follows, then, is an attempt, at least within the limits of a brief blog post, to give Hell its due.

First of all, there is simply no way for a believing Christian to get around the reality of Hell. Jesus Christ himself is quite explicit about it, as we saw above, and the Church has taught it as a foundational doctrine from the very beginning. The Catechism of the Catholic Church confirms that “The teaching of the Church affirms the existence of hell and its eternity.” (CCC 1035) Aside from the fact of its existence, the Church doesn’t give us much in the way of definitive detail other than this:

Immediately after death the souls of those who die in a state of mortal sin descend into hell, where they suffer the punishments of hell, “eternal fire.”The chief punishment of hell is eternal separation from God, in whom alone man can possess the life and happiness for which he was created and for which he longs. (CCC 1035)

That’s all the description we get. As I pointed out to my correspondent, the “fires of Hell” is put into quotes because it is an image of the torments of Hell; we are not required to take the fire literally, although we’re free to do so if we wish. Here’s the thing, though: it doesn’t really matter if Hell contains literal fire or not because no fire, not even a lake of fire, can compare to the torment of eternal separation from God.

So how, then, does the traditional teaching on Hell differ from the description of God as a “monster” who “tortures” people simply because they “don’t believe”? To begin with, there are a a lot of suppositions in that loaded description. The entry ticket to Hell is not simply lack of “belief”, it is a conscious rejection of God. Yet again, Jesus himself makes this distinction:

“Woe to you, Chorazin! woe to you, Bethsaida! for if the mighty works done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes. But I tell you, it shall be more tolerable on the day of judgment for Tyre and Sidon than for you. And you, Capernaum, will you be exalted to heaven? You shall be brought down to Hades. For if the mighty works done in you had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day. But I tell you that it shall be more tolerable on the day of judgment for the land of Sodom than for you.” (Matthew 11:21-24)

“But I tell you that it shall be more tolerable on the day of judgment for the land of Sodom than for you.” -Matthew 11:24

Sodom and Gomorrah Afire, by Jacob De Wett, 1680

The Catechism cites this passage specifically in its explanation that “God predestines no one to go to hell; for this, a willful turning away from God (a mortal sin) is necessary, and persistence in it until the end.” (CCC 1037)

Not only that, Scripture assures that the Lord does not want anyone to go to Hell: “As I live, says the Lord GOD, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from his way and live; turn back, turn back from your evil ways.” (Ezekiel 33:11) We see the same idea picked up in the New Testament again and again (see 1 Timothy 2:4; 2 Peter 3:9; John 3:16-17) No, God is not a monster, nor is he a tyrant who imposes Heaven on us: he has given us the gift of free will, which we can freely use to reject his offer of salvation.

Our freedom to choose is an important aspect of our understanding of Hell. Not only is it something we freely choose for ourselves, it has always been understood that there is a sense in which we create Hell for ourselves, because Hell is the direct and logical consequence of our own actions. St. Paul tells the Christians in Rome:

But then what return did you get from the things of which you are now ashamed? The end of those things is death . . . For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 6:21;23)

The term “wages” is not accidental: sin “earns” us death, eternal death, by its very nature, but Jesus is offering to free us from its consequences. The God St. Paul and the other scriptural authors describe is not a sadist, and the torments of Hell are not “a kind of vengeance inflicted by God from without, but as following from the very nature of sin.” (CCC 1472)

Part of the punishment is simply having to spend eternity in the presence of others who are equally given over to hatred of the Good. Throughout the history of the Church any “tormenters” we see depicted in Hell are not God or his angels, but the fallen angels, fellow sufferers among the condemned. The mystic St. Faustina, from whose experiences we derive the Divine Mercy devotion, numbers the “constant company of Satan” among the torments of Hell. The self-worshipping denizens of Hell, it seems, all curvati in se (turned in on themselves), torment each other by their very presence.

We often find formal teachings reflected in the arts. When Dante composed his Divine Comedy over eight hundred years ago, for instance, he very vividly depicted the experiences of the residents of Hell as a direct consequence, an embodiment, of each person’s individual sin as well: flatterers are immersed in manure (because in life they were full of, well, you know . . . ), Fortune Tellers, who pretended to look ahead to the future, literally have their heads screwed on backwards, etc. The last and most striking image of the sinner as author of his own torment is Satan himself, the embodiment of futile pride and self-love. He is frozen forever in ice, forever beating his wings in an attempt to free himself, but with the cold wind generated by the beating of his wings forever freezing the ice that keeps him imprisoned.

Scripture and tradition is also very clear that God does not just have a mild preference that everyone come to Heaven if they can swing it, he really, really wants everyone to repent and join him. As Jesus says in Luke’s Gospel:

“What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness, and go after the one which is lost, until he finds it? . . . Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance. (Luke 15:4;7)

From Scripture passages such as this there arose a tradition (not a formal doctrine of the Church, but a very widely held pious tradition of the faithful) that God gives us all a last chance in our final moments of life (after death it’s too late) to repent and save our souls.This too is reflected in art, for instance in Mozarts Don Giovanni. In one of the greatest scenes in the history of the stage, the old rake Don Giovanni (Don Juan) is asked to repent by the ghost of the Commendatore, whom he had murdered earlier in the opera. In his pride Giovanni refuses, and is dragged off to Hell. I’m posting a clip below, but I recommend watching the entire opera if you can (and what’s stopping you, after all?).

That’s not to say that everyone does go to Heaven: it’s always been understood that many of us use our gift of free will as Don Giovanni does and reject God, even in the final moment. Again, the warnings about the dangers of Hell, especially but not limited to those from Christ himself, are too emphatic to disregard. That’s why Universalism (the belief that everyone goes to Heaven) is a heresy.

There is, of course, much more that can (and really should) be said on the topic of Hell, particularly in the light of God’s justice (after all, what kind of monstrous God would allow unrepentant tormenters of their fellow people to enjoy eternal bliss along with their victims?). Maybe we can get to that another day.

I do want to offer one last thought: the doctrine of Hell can’t be considered apart from the entire Christian revelation; fear of Hellfire alone is not a solid basis for a life of faith, and nobody is suggesting otherwise. It might be helpful to think about the experience of alcoholics who go into AA after “hitting rock bottom”. The realization that their current path can bring them only more suffering is not recovery, but it does provide the necessary impetus to turn around and take a different path. In the same way, the fear of Hell can turn us around and put us on the first step in the journey of faith, but unless the steps that follow lead us to embrace the Lord as our loving Savior, and to turn our lives and our wills over to him, we’ll end up sliding back the same old way.

Featured image above: “Lake of Everlasting Fire, Sandwich Islands” by Frederick Schafer

https://vimeo.com/196825301

May 26, 2021 iacobusm Faith and Culture, Faith and Sin

Sins Of The Fathers . . . And Of Kings

Language is a slippery thing. We often tend to think of it simply as a means of communication, but we underestimate its ability to twist and to hide meanings at our peril. I recently wrote about the word “debunk,” which is more often invoked to hide and protect bunk than it is to expose it. Today’s word is peccadillo, a Spanish word derived from the Latin peccatum, “sin.” The -illo on the end makes it a dimunitive, diminishing the meaning of the original to “little sins.” The implication is that the sins thus designated are small and unimportant, mere trifles. In current usage the word peccadillo almost invariably refers to sexual sins, and serves as a warning to the judgmental and puritanical among us not to make too much of such transgressions. These are, after all minor affairs, victimless crimes, even . . . aren’t they?

If this seems like an odd introduction to the post below, bear with me. I first published this piece (the most popular I ever wrote, if we are to trust Google Analytics) six years ago, on the occasion of the long-delayed Christian burial of England’s King Richard III, more than half a millennium after his death. Despite the brevity of his reign (less than three years), Richard remains one of the most recognized British rulers. He is himself a fascinating figure (especially after we get past Shakespeare’s villainous caricature), but he is also the link between two other monarchs: the father of his predecessor, Edward IV, and Henry VIII, the son of his successor. The “peccadilloes” of Edward and Henry, as we shall see, had reverberations far beyond any crimes Richard is alleged to have committed.

530 years is a long, long time to wait. On Thursday, March 26th 2015, England’s King Richard III, the last English monarch to die in battle, and the one of the last English kings to die a Catholic, finally received a Christian burial. Not a Catholic funeral, unfortunately, but his interment in the Anglican Cathedral of Leicester was a great improvement over the hasty, unmarked burying of his desecrated corpse after the Battle of Bosworth Field 530 years ago.

Richard remains one of the most controversial of British kings. He assumed the throne when his twelve-year-old nephew Edward V was declared illegitimate by Parliament. Edward and his younger brother Richard were sent to live in the Tower of London (which was not yet used exclusively as a prison), and their uncle became King Richard III. The two boys disappeared from public view and just two years after his accession Richard was deposed by Henry Tudor, who then became Henry VII. Richard has been suspected ever since of having the “little princes” murdered, although historians today (especially since Paul Murray Kendall’s 1955 biography of Richard) acknowledge that there is no convincing evidence that he was the author of their deaths, and that, others, including Henry Tudor, had far more motive to kill them than Richard did.*

As interesting as it would be to speculate on the probable guilt of the various parties involved (and, of course, it would be), that’s not the purpose of this blog. Instead, I’d like to focus on what can happen when we let desires untamed by a properly formed conscience have free rein. The connection here is that Henry VII, who drove Richard from the throne, in time bequeathed the throne to his son Henry VIII, who separated the English Church from the Universal Church and made himself its head. Henry’s action had profound consequences, and not only the destruction of Catholic culture in England along with a century and a half of strife and bloodshed (which was, in itself, more than enough). Historian Warren Carroll has demonstrated that the separation of the English Church went a long way towards ensuring that the Protestant Reformation became a permanent feature of religious life in Europe, a thing which might otherwise have remained a largely German affair. In later years, the growth of the British Empire ensured that the split in the Latin Church was spread over the whole globe.

An idealized portrait of henry VIII and Anne Boleyn

And all because of Henry VIII’s wandering eye. He did not set up his own church for theological reasons (he never considered himself a Protestant), nor was he compelled by a groundswell of anti-Catholic feeling in England, this last point thoroughly documented in Eamon Duffy’s The Stripping of the Altars. No, Henry was motivated by his failure to produce a male heir with his wife, Catherine of Aragon, coupled with an ardent desire to indulge in a more intimate relationship with one of Catherine’s ladies, Anne Boleyn. Anne’s price for returning the king’s affections was that she be allowed to take Catherine’s place. Since the Pope was unwilling to grant Henry an annulment, the English monarch simply made himself the pope of England, and, as far as he was concerned, the problem was solved. While it is possible that a Plantagenet descendant of Richard III, had he ruled instead of Henry, might also have split with Rome, it seems much less likely, since the actual break was precipitated neither by domestic pressure nor by external forces, but was instead closely tied to Henry’s personal desires and character.

On the other hand, however decisive Henry VIII’s libido might have been for the creation of the Anglican Church, there would have been no Henry VIII to have caused the split had it not been for another king’s lust. That king is Richard III’s elder brother, Edward IV, father of the little princes who were allegedly murdered in the Tower of London. Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville, a sudden and inadvisable match, came as a surprise to his family and advisors; he married her not because it was an appropriate marriage for an English monarch but because, as with Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII a couple generations later, it was her price for bestowing her favors upon the king.

Elizabeth brought her family with her, of course, whose ambitions after Edward’s death were so alarming that many nobles and Parliament called upon the late king’s brother Richard to serve as protector of the young Edward V and his brother. Soon it seemed expedient to remove the twelve-year-old king altogether in favor of his grown-up and capable uncle, especially after another sexual indiscretion of Edward IV’s came to light which allowed Parliament to declare Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville null, and the boy-king illegitimate. In other words, Edward’s lust-driven behavior in one instance created the unstable situation that made the deposition of his son desirable, and his libidinous behavior in another instance provided the grounds to do so. As we saw above, the consequences of these indiscretions can still be seen around the globe more than half a millennium later.

Board, Ernest; King Edward IV and His Queen, Elizabeth Woodville at Reading Abbey, 1464; Reading Museum; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/king-edward-iv-and-his-queen-elizabeth-woodville-at-reading-abbey-1464-41580

Few of us, of course, can expect our misdeeds to have anywhere near the impact of those of Edward IV or Henry VIII. Nonetheless we can see, as Scripture tells us, how “the iniquity of fathers” is visited “upon children, upon the third and upon the fourth generation” (Numbers, 14:18). Indeed, for centuries. The point is, we have no way to predict how far-reaching the consequences of our own sins will be, and how long they’ll last. Nobody who has seen the vast store of sociological data that has been amassed over the past few decades can deny that one of the greatest contributors to poverty and other debilitating social ills today is the break-down of sexual morality. The next time we are tempted, we might do well to remember what happened when Edward and Henry went astray.

*In brief, while Richard might fear that the princes could become a rallying point for those disaffected with his rule, he could point to the fact that they had been formally removed from the succession by act of Parliament, and that he had been legally crowned. Henry, on the other hand, came from a line that had been excluded from the succession generations earlier by Henry IV. He needed both Richard and the princes dead, because the justification for his rebellion was that Richard was a usurper: if so, then Edward V, and not Henry Tudor, was the rightful king; if not, then Richard III was the rightful king, and Henry simply a traitor. Either way, no Henry VII.

March 16, 2021 iacobusm Faith and Sin

St. Patrick, Julius Caesar, and Slavery to Sin

“You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God redeemed you; therefore I command you this today” (Deuteronomy 15:14-15)

St. Patrick is, of course, the Patron Saint of Ireland, but he wasn’t originally Irish. He was Romano-British, probably born in what is now southern Scotland, or possibly Wales. His first introduction to the Emerald Isle was as a slave, after he had been kidnapped as a youth by Irish raiders. In his difficulties he came increasingly to rely on God, and he believed that God was calling him out of captivity. He escaped and found his way home. His faith life deepened, and after a time he concluded that he was being called back to save those who had enslaved him. After ordination as a priest he returned to Ireland, where he successfully evangelized his former captors, and eventually became known as the Apostle of Ireland.

There is something profoundly Christian about St. Patrick’s story. Consider just how different is the story about Julius Caesar, as told by the Roman historian Suetonius. When he was a young man, Caesar was kidnapped by pirates, who held him for ransom. The buccaneers were charmed by the Roman aristocrat’s magnetic personality, and soon he was a participant, even a leader, in all their feasting and horseplay. Suetonius relates that Caesar often smiled as he told the pirates that, when he was ransomed, he would come back and crucify all of them, which apparently amused them quite a bit. As it turned out, Caesar wasn’t joking: after he was ransomed, he did return, and brutally avenged himself on his abductors.

St. Patrick came back as well, but in a spirit of love, not of vengeance, heeding the words of Jesus Christ: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34). He shows us in a very concrete way how the Wisdom of God is indeed different from the “wisdom” of the world (see 1 Corinthians 3:19).

St. Patrick came back as well, but in a spirit of love, not of vengeance, heeding the words of Jesus Christ: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34).

We don’t need to be kidnapped or enslaved in a literal sense to see how the lesson of St. Patrick applies to ourselves. Jesus Christ came to save us from slavery to sin. Many people who are now serious Catholics previously spent a significant part of their life separated from Christ, living in that state of servitude. Like St. Patrick, we are called to respond to that experience in love, and to try to bring others, even those who have wronged us, into the freedom of Christ. That, rather than funny hats and green beer, is the true Spirit of St. Patrick’s Day.

(Pictured above: “St. Patrick Baptizes the King of Munster”. Stained glass window from St. Patrick’s Church, Columbus, OH; photo Wikipedia Commons)

March 11, 2021 iacobusm Faith and Sin, Lent and Easter, Sacred scripture

Confession, Jonah, and the Prodigal’s Sons

There are many things for which I should be more grateful, and one of the greatest is the forgiveness of sins in the Sacrament of Confession. One of the graces of the season of Lent is that there are many things to remind my stubborn, sluggish brain of that fact. For instance, this past Sunday father dedicated a large part of his homily to explaining how a detailed examination of conscience can help us make a good confession, and illustrated with a model based on the Ten Commandments . He also very helpfully directed our attention to the stained glass window closest to the confessional, which happened to be a depiction of the Prodigal Son. That reminded me of a Lenten penance I received at confession a few years ago, an assignment which got me thinking . . . and led to the meditation on the Prodigal Son, the Book of Jonah, and the Power of Forgiveness that I have reposted below.

I was given an interesting penance when I went to confession recently. I was to meditate on the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32). My confessor emphasized that the father in Jesus’ story, who extravagantly welcomes back his wastrel son, is the true “prodigal”. In the context of the Sacrament of Confession we can see a clear identification between this father and the loving and forgiving God, with ourselves as the erring son who, having wasted his father’s generosity, returns home chastened and knowing that any kindness he receives will be more than he deserves. “Father”, he says, “I have sinned against Heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son” (Luke 15:18).

“The Return of the Prodigal Son” (1782) by Jean Germain Drouais (angry son at right)

There is another son in the story, however, the “Good” Son, who remained faithfully at home and, as he tells his father, “ ‘Lo, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command” (Luke 15:29). Angry that his erring brother is receiving a huge “welcome back” party, while his father “never gave me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends” (Luke 15:29), the obedient son stubbornly refuses to come in and join the celebration. He is, in fact, still obstinately standing outside the house at the end of Jesus’ parable, and the last thing we see is his father pleading with him “to make merry and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found” (Luke 15:32).

Thinking about this second son, I was reminded of the story of Jonah. I had never before considered how closely Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son parallels the last two chapters of the book of Jonah, but the comparison is striking. In the Old Testament book Jonah is sent to warn the people of Nineveh to repent their sins, or face the wrath of God. The Ninevites listen to the words of the prophet: like the Prodigal Son himself, they whole-heartedly repent, and in turn receive God’s whole-hearted forgiveness. Who could object to that? As it turns out, Jonah could, and does, object:

But it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he was angry. And he prayed to the LORD and said, “I pray thee, LORD, is not this what I said when I was yet in my country? That is why I made haste to flee to Tarshish; for I knew that thou art a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and repentest of evil. Therefore now, O LORD, take my life from me, I beseech thee, for it is better for me to die than to live” (Jonah 4:1-3).

“Jonah, Seated Under the Gourd, Contemplates the City” (1566) by Maerten van Heemskerck

Jonah is determined not to give up his anger. God tries to soften his heart, first with kindness, by growing a large plant to shield him from the sun. He then takes a harsher approach, in which he kills the plant and exposes the sulking prophet to the ravages of sun and wind. Jonah’s heart is unchanged: “I do well to be angry,” he says, “ angry enough to die” (Jonah 4:9). The story ends, as does Jesus’ parable, with the voice of the Father explaining to his still fuming son why it is better to show compassion for those who were lost in sin, but have found their way back:

“You pity the plant, for which you did not labor, nor did you make it grow, which came into being in a night, and perished in a night. And should not I pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?” (Jonah 4:10-11)

In both places, it is left unsaid whether the Father’s kindly words eventually pierce the heart of his stubborn son. We leave both Jonah and the unforgiving son still brimming with anger and resentment.

Which brings us back to Luke’s Gospel. The parable of the Prodigal Son is the culmination of a series of parables illustrating that, as Jesus says, “there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance” (Luke 15:7). He is addressing a group of Scribes and Pharisees who were grumbling about Jesus, saying “This man receives sinners and eats with them” (Luke 15:2). The angry son in the parable is obviously intended to represent Christ’s hard-hearted critics.

Scripture, of course, always works on numerous levels, and we can see other meanings in the unforgiving brother as well. As I meditated on this passage I could see myself in this unlovely figure; as much as I can identify with the erring but repentant son, I can also be the judging, unyielding son who refuses to share his Father’s joy in the redemption of those who had previously fallen. Sometimes, amazingly, I can be both at once.

In his way, the angry son is the worse sinner. There can be no doubt that the first son has indulged in serious and destructive wrongdoing, but because it’s so obvious, and the consequences so inescapable, he knows he needs to repent. The second son appears to be doing all the right things, and in fact he is . . . on the outside. He is really like (again) the scribes and pharisees, whom Jesus says “are like whitewashed tombs, which outwardly appear beautiful, but within they are full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness” (Matthew 23:27). The appearance of probity keeps him from seeing his own sinful heart, and he willingly removes himself from his father’s house. Jesus makes the same point with a different parable in Matthew’s Gospel:

A man had two sons; and he went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work in the vineyard today.’ And he answered, ‘I will not’; but afterward he repented and went. And he went to the second and said the same; and he answered, ‘I go, sir,’ but did not go. Which of the two did the will of his father?” They said, “The first.” (Matthew 21:28-31)

This is, I think, a good point to consider as we draw nearer to Holy Week. It may be that the inspired author of Jonah, and Jesus himself with his parable, finish with a open-ended question, because we, in the person of the (self)righteous son, are being invited to give up our stubbornness and embrace the Father’s compassion. All of us need to throw ourselves on the mercy of God, Who in his prodigal love for us gave His only Son to suffer and die for our sins. What are our little resentments compared to that?

An earlier version of this Throwback Post was first published 21 March 2016.