Hey, ancestors, I want to talk to you about mom. You all know she’s in assisted living and on hospice care now. She knows the end is in sight, though we can’t judge the distance. I think she felt that nearness yesterday after a visit with one of the hospice folks. I called her last night. She’s afraid she’ll die and go to Hell.
We know that fear is groundless, but she very much does not. I feel a bit useless to her here because, although I can speak that language, my words don’t carry a lot of weight since I’m not a Christian in any way she recognizes. So I’ve encouraged her to talk to one of her preacher friends and the hospice chaplain.
At the moment, the thing I most want to do is rage against the evils of religion. I want to put down that voice inside telling me to be patient and fair. I don’t want to be fair. The devil is real and I know a few of his names. I want to curse all of them, from the daintily-dressed, incense-scented priests to the sweaty, screaming backwoods preachers. All of those with cruel hearts instilling hell-belief in pious, trusting, fearful souls.
… But I wait, and the rage passes. Now I’m just sad and tired.
The prospect of death is the true test of any worldview. I’ll do what I can to comfort her, and call on others with more credibility to talk to her. But what if, in a moment of sincere openness, she asked me what I had to offer in the face of death?
Images, really. Instincts. That feeling when something opens in me and beauty closes my mouth and quiets my mind.
So fluffy, right? Some of you are rolling your eyes at me. Look, I’m willing to be wrong; some of you—sure as hell—were wrong in your lifetimes.
When I think of you, ancestors, I imagine some of you as still sleeping; perhaps you recently passed through the ordeal of death and need some rest. I imagine some of you as the restless dead, who may have died suddenly or unjustly and are not yet willing to accept what has happened. I imagine some of you in sorrow, regretting the words, actions, or choices of your life. I imagine some of you taking those sorrowful ones by the hand and cooing comfort as you lead them toward healing. I imagine some of you as the mighty dead: ancient, fully healed ancestors who exercise authority with a benevolent watchfulness.
I do not imagine any of you burning. The thought would be ridiculous if it wasn’t so gruesome.
Ancestors, I have not taught my daughter hell-belief. Rather, I have told her it is a cruel idea. I have told her that if anything lies at the heart of the universe, it is love. If I have my way, mom will be the last of our line to have her final days darkened by hell-belief.
Ancestors, go to her now. Meet her in memories and dreams. Draw her out of this darkness and calm her fears. May she hear your voices again as you call her onward.