Following protocol, the father executes the standard career query. I explain that we're still new in town and that I'm currently teaching Driver's Ed, having spent the past 10 years in ministry. He too is a pastor, “a Southern Baptist preacher at a growing missional church I started called Illuminate.” Catchy. He's not into denominations, but “all good churches are Baptist.” I tell him I spent my ministry career in Baptist churches, but am not really committed to any one group these days.
He begins to sermonize on absolute truth and hell. This will determine my orthodoxy. Not wishing to offend, I nod politely and respond that such topics are certainly difficult. He disagrees. He just believes what the Bible says. I know where he is going. I smile. He waits. Sighing, I explain that I am not a literalist. I believe the Bible to be authoritative but not inerrant, so my conclusions may differ from his.
Smiling brightly, he speaks with exactly the tone I would expect from someone who just handed me a crisp new hundred dollar bill, “You know what your problem is, you probably aren't really saved.”
Color me illuminated. Following a brief but anatomically detailed analogy of homosexual and adulterous behavior, he explains that those who do not feel convicted about wrong beliefs or behavior do not have the Holy Spirit and are, therefore, not saved. I suggest the wrong behavior of apathy in many conservative Christian communities. He doesn't want to talk about that. I observe that it seems convenient to say that everyone who disagrees with you is going to hell. He doesn't want to talk about that either.
I tell him of my own faith in Christ. He is unconvinced. He interrogates me. Twists my words. Maneuvers the conversation to put me on the defensive. Apparently unable to find a suitable weak spot, he remarks, “Well, I guess it is possible to be saved and still be ignorant of the scriptures.”
I let his words hang in the air for a moment. With reservation, I respond that his inerrant, literal standard renders virtually the entirety of Western Christianity prior to the 18th century ignorant of scripture and probably condemned to hell.
“Don't be mad at me,” he says through the teeth of a car salesman.
Gee, why would I? I put on the smile I keep in my pocket just for car salesmen. “Since we began this conversation,” I gently point out, “you have called me both hell-bound and ignorant. You are unlikely to have many meaningful discussions with people if all your conversations go the same way.”
“Well, I did say a person can be saved and still not know anything about the scriptures.”
I sigh. He calls to his kids and prepares to go. He reminds me of his name and wishes me a Happy Thanksgiving as he walks away. I return his sentiment and wave goodbye.
I imagine him shaking the dust off his feet as he returns home, praying for my soul, congratulating himself on a fine demonstration of Christian faith in the face of adversity. I think about how sometimes even faith can divide the world into “us” and “them” over the pettiest of things. I rake the remaining leaves into the ditch and set them afire. The flames dance, the heat and the smoke burn my eyes and lungs and skin and I think about hell and heaven and Jesus and judgment.
I think about how those who are the most sure about hell seem equally convinced it is for those who believe or behave differently from themselves. I think about how powerful a motivator is fear. I think about 1 John 4:18, “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.” When only ashes remain, I walk slowly back home, thankful.
