A Perilous Salvation

God is Good — but He isn't Safe

[A note before you read this essay. In my book The Kingdom of Cain, I mention a short story I wrote called “Jesus: The Movie.” I wrote: “It has never been published. I’m not sure it ever will be… I can’t think of a venue that would take it. I can’t think of anyone it wouldn’t offend.” Then, a few weeks ago, I discovered New English Review, an online literary magazine that combines courageous values with excellent writing. I submitted the story and am delighted to see it published. Please follow the link to discover this fine magazine, and enjoy one my best stories, “Jesus: The Movie.”]

Over the course of my church-going life, I have heard many sermons on what are sometimes called the “hard sayings” of Jesus. Judge not. Give away all your money. God, why have you forsaken me? And so on.

All of these sermons have followed a certain pattern. First, the preacher examines the saying. Then he reflects on the discomfort of those who first heard Jesus say these difficult things. Then he breaks the tension by explaining the saying doesn’t really mean what it so obviously means. When Jesus says “Judge not,” he’s really saying, “We shouldn’t judge hypocritically.” (Because if God hadn’t come to earth and died in agony on a cross, we wouldn’t have thought of that ourselves!) When he said, “Give away all your money,” he really meant, “Put more than a dollar in the collection plate.” And when he said, “God, why have you forsaken me,” he meant, “Always look on the bright side of life.”

All right, I’m joking — sort of. In fact, there are things that Jesus says that are so out of keeping with human nature that it is reasonable to think he did not intend for us to take him literally. Maybe “Give away all your money,” really does mean “Let go of the earthly things you wrongly cherish.” Or something like that.

But there remain some sayings that really trouble me. One is in Matthew 22. Jesus tells a parable of a king who invites his friends to his son’s wedding feast. When the friends refuse to come, the king says, “Screw those guys,” (quoting from memory here), and instead, he invites anyone who happens to be walking by.

The parable seems to be about the Jewish authorities — specifically the Pharisees, judging by their reaction. They were called to celebrate the Bridegroom Jesus, but they failed to show.

But then, there’s a coda. One guy who does come to the party is found not to be wearing a “wedding garment.” Seems like a minor faux pas. Nonetheless, the king has him tied up and cast into the exterior darkness. “Because many are called but few are chosen.”

What on earth? You’re called. You show up. But you forgot your tux, so go to hell? And that’s what happens to the many?

I suppose the easiest interpretation is that many people call themselves Christians, but don’t live the Word. Either, like Tucker Carlson and Candace Owens, they distort scripture and parade their piety in order to sell hatred and lies. Or, like Andy Beshear and Nadia Bolz-Weber, they use Gospel phrases like “love your neighbor,” to excuse all forms of criminality and perversion. I sometimes look at these folks and think, “With friends like Christians, Christ doesn’t need enemies.”

But there is another kind of Christian — a true Christian — who might lose his place at the table for a far more sympathetic reason.

The fact is — or at least I have experienced it to be a fact — that taking the Holy Spirit into your soul is a very dangerous business. As I understand it, the Holy Spirit comes into us when we enter a state of grace through baptism or other faithful, charitable and sacramental acts. The spirit then becomes a sort of inner conduit to heaven through which we receive gifts like wisdom, understanding, fortitude, knowledge, and the like.

But we are — at least, I am — fragile vessels, damaged by sin. We are not necessarily fully prepared to receive such gifts. For example, prior to my baptism, I was afraid that accepting Christ would turn me into a smiley-faced idiot, willfully blind to hard truths. But in the event, the result was exactly the opposite. Accepting Christ gave me a much clearer insight into my own sinfulness which, in turn, heightened my sense of the corruption of the world. It became painfully clear to me how easily the nicest of people could slip into dishonesty, cruelty and even mass murder.

So shocking a realization can transform you — or it can break you. It can make you angry. It can make you self-righteous. It can sap the joy that Christ came to bestow. The gifts of the Holy Spirit can hit your inner world like a bolt of lightning in a horror movie, suddenly illuminating the inner and outer demons who have been crouching in the darkness of denial unseen.

I remember, during the worst phase of the wokeness pandemic, when authorities were singing the praises of “gender affirming care.” This was their euphemism for brutal sexual butchery in the service of an academic theory that had no analogue in real life. My increased sense of God’s goodness left me appalled by humanity. I found myself wondering, “What world am I in?” And the not-very-edifying answer came back to me: “This world. Your world. The world.” I was tempted to dejection and to rage. I was goaded toward self-righteousness, wondering why I alone could see the moral truth of the matter. It took no small amount of spiritual focus to reclaim my joy.

I believe that Jesus came to make us see creation more rightly, more as he sees it, as God sees it. This is no small thing and no safe thing. Indeed, it’s a perilous magic. So bright a vision, over time, can sanctify the human soul. But it can blind us too. It can drive us mad.

As a novelist, I think often of the words of Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Kesey was once asked what advice he had for young novelists. He said it was the same advice they give you when you go to prison: Walk slow, and drink lots of water.

When the Holy Spirit enters you, you begin moving toward the light of revelation. Walk slow, and drink lots of water.