Four Arguments for Purgatory

The doctrine of purgatory is naturally associated with Roman Catholic theology, but some Protestant philosophers and theologians affirm the doctrine (albeit a version of the view which sees purgatory as serving the function of completing sanctification rather than providing final satisfaction for sin). One of the most prominent of these is Jerry Walls, who has published a trilogy of Oxford monographs on personal eschatology, as well as Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, a single volume treatment of the subject.

Walls, who is a Wesleyan, defends the doctrine of purgatory beginning with the basic idea that salvation is not just about forgiveness of sins but is mainly about spiritual transformation. So if salvation essentially involves transformation, “what becomes of those who plead the atonement of Christ for salvation but die before they have

From http://www.catholiceducation.org/en/
From http://www.catholiceducation.org/en/

been thoroughly transformed?” Such people, he says, “do not seem ready for a heaven of perfect love and fellowship with God, but neither should they be consigned to hell.” The standard Protestant view is that for such people full sanctification is accomplished immediately and painlessly “by a unilateral act of God at death.” This view, which some scholars call “provisionism” is deeply problematic, according to Walls. One of his arguments appeals to human temporality. Since all human moral growth and maturation on earth is a process that takes time, then it makes sense to assume that our moral progress in the next world will be a temporal process. This suggests something like a purgatorial completion of our sanctification. Walls also uses an argument from human freedom. The idea here is that all human sanctification on earth involves free human choices as we cooperate in the process of moral growth. A unilateral act of God that instantaneously perfects us would be a radical departure from this basic aspect of our experience.

Another Protestant advocate of purgatory is philosopher Justin Barnard. In his Faith and Philosophy article “Purgatory and the Dilemma of Sanctification,” Barnard emphasizes two further considerations. One of these is the problem of personal identity that provisionists face. With such a radical sudden transformation of one’s moral nature, as provisionists propose, how can one be properly considered the same person afterwards? Preservation of personal identity through time requires more gradual change, Barnard would say, and this suggests a slow purgatorial transformation.

But Barnard’s primary concern regards the problem of evil. If God can perfect us morally suddenly after death, then why doesn’t he do it now? The fact that God waits suggests that there is a lot of evil that God cannot remove “without thereby sacrificing any significant good.” Here some appeal to the idea that God refrains from perfecting us on earth in order to respect our free will. But then this implies that God takes away our freedom when he perfects us in heaven. But if that’s not problematic in heaven, then why would it be problematic here? Barnard proposes that the doctrine of purgatory—or his “sanctification” version of the doctrine anyway—avoids this problem, as it says that the process of moral perfection that we begin on earth is simply completed in the afterlife—gradually and eventually completely.

Personally, I am not a proponent of the doctrine of purgatory, but I must admit that such arguments give me pause. While they might never ultimately persuade me to accept the doctrine, I certainly respect the view and see why it has been affirmed by so many great Christian thinkers down through history.

Heaven is Little House on the Prairie

Being a mom calls for many sacrifices. Giving birth, years of sleepless nights, sitting on the soccer sidelines in the freezing rain as well as the blistering heat. So much of your life is given over to the health and well-being of others that your free time becomes precious. I pity the child who calls down for a glass of water when I have “punched my time clock” and crashed in front of the TV for a little Netflix action. And despite the fact that I am the adult and the one who is supposed to know all about dying to self, it still takes a serious act of self-discipline to let the kids watch “American’s Funniest Home Videos” when I want to watch “Masterpiece Classics.” (I actually forced the boys to watch Sense and Sensibility with me a while back. Highlight of the experience? Sam passionately declaring “If Willoughby turns out to be a bad guy, I am going to be so mad!”) No one ever told me that parenthood would require laying down my leisurely pursuits along with all the more anticipated sacrifices. The worst part is that not only do my kids want to watch their shows but they want me to watch with them.

This also goes for whatever books they are reading. Silly me, I thought that once most of them were reading on their own, my time with books well below my reading level was over. So I have read books about the offspring of the Greek gods, books about the adventures of children in underground worlds, books about a world full of wizards and witches (okay, Harry Potter is awesome. I just didn’t need to read the series three times.) When I suggest books that I liked as a kid, all I get is blank stares and polite silence. But a few weeks ago, I caught a break when Bailey’s class was assigned Farmer Boy for book club. The Laura Ingalls Wilder books are everything I love rolled into one: farm life, history, moral lessons and amusing antidotes about childhood that magically capture life from a child’s perspective without a hint of condescension. I have tried for years to get the kids to read one of these books and now here was my chance. I loved the book so much I broke the cardinal rule of book club: No reading ahead. Sorry Bailey.

One can’t read Farmer Boy without being struck by how hard the Wilder family works to provide for themselves. Basically, the majority of the book is taken up with detailed descriptions of how they grew their food, how they made their clothes, etc. And I couldn’t get enough of it. They seemed so full of purpose and directions. I found myself longing to be transported into their world, a world in which there seemed little room for ambiguity.

While I still have dreams of owning chickens and livestock, the reality is that I am town folk, at least for now. But someday, even if I have to die to get there, I will get my little farmhouse. I will work all day and enjoy the fruits of my labor. Everything I do will have purpose and meaning. Only in this reality I won’t have to put up with the lack of indoor plumbing or stay up late worrying if the corn crop is going to freeze.

As strange as it might sound, I long for a Heaven of work, not rest. The white-cloud-and-harp Heaven is for the birds. I want a Heaven in which we can work but never tire, a heaven free of sickness and anxiety but full of chores to be done. So much of what wears me out in this world isn’t the work itself but rather my uncertainty regarding the meaningfulness of that work. I long to be in the presence of my Creator so that I might receive clearly and from His owns lips, my to-do list for the day, or possibly my to-do list for the next thousand years. Either way, when I pass through those pearly gates I will be ready to roll up my sleeves and dirty my hands with the soil of Heaven. Maybe that sounds more like Hell to you but to me it’s sounds like Paradise.

What if No One There Likes Me? (and Other Thoughts on Heaven)

With all the stir lately regarding Rob Bell’s book on hell and what heresies Bell may or may not be promoting, I have chosen to confront some of my own “heresies” regarding, not hell, but heaven. I am not sure where Gandhi is spending the hereafter but I am confident I will be singing with the angels in the sweet by and by. This is, for the most part, something I look forward to but must confess, I have a few misgivings about passing through the pearly gates. So I thought in a spirit of authenticity which I am sure Mr. Bell and his emergent friends will appreciate, I would like to share a few of my heaven fears and hopefully I can convince myself of their errancy.

1. I am a big bluegrass fan and love to listen to men with names like Sparky singing in rattly voices about the day when they will fly away from their lives of toil and sorrow and be with Jesus. The trouble is that as stressful as my life is at times, I like it here. I love my husband and kids; my family; Costco pizza (both cheap and delicious) and Diet Coke. I am blessed that in heaven I will be reunited with many loved ones but if I were to die today, I fear I would miss out on seeing my kids grow up not to mention all the things I still hope to accomplish, see and do. I suppose this is arrogance on my part. If God has numbered all my days then surely He has given me enough to achieve all that I am meant to. And if I trust in His love for me than I can know that when I crossover the river Jordan it will be to something better, better even than the love of my family, the soft fleshiness of my kids’ hugs and even of hot Costco pizza for $2 a slice.

2. Okay, so now I am arriving in heaven. Jim has done quite a bit of research on near-death experiences and for those who are believers, they all seem to start off pretty well. Grandmother is there and maybe my favorite dog. I just died so odds are my body wasn’t feeling so great on earth and that is now all a thing of the past. A significant number of these experiences, however, also include a life review and this is the part that has me squirming in my heavenly robes. First of all, I hate looking at myself. I don’t like having my picture taken or my voice recorded. I run to catch the phone as quickly as I can in order to avoid hearing myself on the answering machine. Now here I am with Grandma and Murdock (I was a big A-Team fan growing up) and Jesus and we are all sitting down to watch my life’s home movies. All the times I yelled at the kids, rolled my eyes behind Jim’s back, the time I kicked a kid in the shin at Christian summer camp. I don’t want to say that this is my idea of true hell but it certainly has a purgatory-like element to it. Of course, Jesus already knows these things. He was there when they happened. They were the reason He was tortured, nailed to a cross and died. Grandmother babysat me enough to know I am no angel, so I guess that just leaves me (and the dog, who I think will love me anyway). My fear isn’t exposure to others but rather finally being confronted with myself—my selfish, corrupted self. But the life review isn’t the end. Confronted with my unworthiness in its full glory, I get to see Jesus with His mercy in His full glory. That seems well worth the embarrassment of everyone seeing me cheat on my second grade math test.

3. My final fear is that no one will like me in heaven. I have lots of heroes to meet up with in paradise. I have visions of myself walking the streets of gold, map in hand, tracking down all those who went before me; a heavenly version of “See the Stars’ Homes.” “On your left is Jane Austen’s palace—built for her by Jesus, of course. And coming up on your right is Charlotte Brontes’ residence.” I have read these women’s books like letters from a friend, but who am I to them? Or what about my relatives? The Bible says there is no marriage in heaven but I like hanging out with Jim and what if we get to heaven and he just wants to kick back with his homeys, Berkeley and Edwards? How do we get face time with Jesus? Is there a sign up sheet? A seniority system? For this fear, I can only hearken back to times of true fellowship with my sisters and brothers and that feeling that the Spirit was binding us all together. If there are no tears and no sorrows then there is no loneliness or envy. Still, just so you know, if I get there before you, I call Austen for at least the first hundred years.

Hell and the Undermining of Heavenly Happiness

Lately, I’ve been pondering some of Thomas Talbott’s arguments against the traditional doctrine of hell (in his 1990 Faith and Philosophy essay “The Doctrine of Everlasting Punishment”).  He makes many interesting points, both in criticism of eternal conscious torment and in defense of universalism.  One of the things he discusses is how damnation of the lost will affect those who go to heaven.  I’m sure that most Christians have wondered how we could be truly happy in heaven if we knew that some of our loved ones were suffering the agonies of hell.  Talbott addresses a few popular lines of response to this problem.

First, some argue that when we get to heaven we will be see the justice in God’s damnation of our loved ones, so it won’t cause us sorrow or otherwise undermine our happiness.  But Talbott notes that seeing the justice in our loved ones’ punishment would not eliminate the sadness of their plight.  After all, even when our loved ones suffer just punishment in this life, we are still reasonably sorrowful about it.  Moreover, we could still regret that God did not move in the hearts of our loved ones to prompt repentance in them as he did those of us who are redeemed.

A second way of dealing with this problem is to propose that God will change our attitude towards our lost loved ones.  In short, God will turn our love for them into hatred.  We will despise them for their wickedness, just as God does (assuming that God truly hates those he damns, as the traditional view seems to entail). This approach is even more problematic, however, since (1) God commands us to love others, even our enemies, and (2) our love for those closest to us is so tied up with who we are that to so dramatically change such attitudes and affections would be to fundamentally alter one’s character.

So if these lines of response are of no help in explaining how we could be happy in heaven despite the on-going agonies of some of our loved ones, then what alternative explanation is more promising?  If there are no better approaches, then chalk this up as another point against the doctrine of eternal conscious torment.  

Talbott recognizes that affirming the eventual annihilation of the damned does circumvent this problem, which is somewhat of a relief to me, as a conditional immortalist.  Still, his analysis left me wondering whether even conditional immortalism supplies a sufficient shield against this problem.  After all, might we not also be saddened that some of our loved ones were destroyed and that we will never see them again?  This, too, appears to undermine our heavenly happiness.  Clearly, the problem is not as severe for conditional immortalism as it is for the traditional view of hell.  Given conditionalism, at least the sufferings of your loved ones will eventually end.  Not so for the traditionalist, whose loved ones’ unspeakable agony will continue for eternity.

Heaven Can’t Wait

Whenever I go on Amazon.com, which is sadly at least two or three times a day, I feel the full weight of the finiteness of our time on earth. Along with having a thing about food, I also love books, which translates into an obsession over my Wish List almost as much as my Netflix queue. I love browsing for books I will never buy and buying books I will never have time to read. But as I sit staring at the mile-high pile of books on my bedside table, I whisper a short prayer that goes something like this “Dear Lord, please help me to live long enough to have more than five minutes at a time to read interesting books. If I could just have a few years of enjoyable reading, Lord, I could go to heaven happy.”

I do realize that this actually borders on sickness and perhaps even heresy. In essence what I am saying is “No, Lord, I don’t want to live in eternal bliss with You in Paradise just yet. Please let me at least finish Team of Rivals (which I wanted to read before President Obama started using it as his new Bible) and all of the works of Elizabeth Gaskell and Charlotte Bronte. Then I think I could go in peace.” I have actually started to have panic attacks when considering how little time we have on earth to do things that are truly pleasurable. When you add up all the teeth brushing, house chores, and waiting in line at the bank, half of your life practically disappears. Not to mention sleeping, eating, and wasting time playing Settlers of Catan online. (Maybe that last one is just me.) But I have had an epiphany. It is as if the heavens have opened and the voices of the angels have spoken to me in perfect harmony saying, “THAT’S WHAT HEAVEN IS FOR, YOU IDIOT!”

I must confess that my theology regarding heaven has been shaped more by Hollywood than Scripture. I have more than once pondered the possibility of being, well, not unhappy in heaven, but perhaps being a bit bored. I have swallowed the picture of robes, singing choirs, and cloud-floating without even thinking about it. I fall into despair over the thought of leaving Jim and the kids behind (not to mention those unread books) and the only time I get really excited about going to heaven is when I think of all the cool people that are going to be there.

But this is all going to change. For one thing, I must change my thinking or face up to my hypocrisy. Here I am gripped with fear when driving through a dangerous neighborhood, and in the same car ride I glibly pontificate on the wonders of heaven to my kids. Perhaps it is the kids who have helped to change my thinking. They talk about heaven a lot and with seemingly little fear of the door through which we all must walk in order to gain entrance. This might be because they haven’t given much thought to death and the fact that to them heaven seems like the zoo, the circus, and Disneyworld all rolled into one. They marvel at the abilities they will have, the idea of having no bedtime, and playing with animals that would gobble them up for a snack on this side of eternity.

Of course, heaven isn’t just about all the great stuff we will be able to do or even the loved ones with whom we will be reunited. It’s about worshiping God, right? And here is where my lack of faith really shows. I have fallen into the Sunday School myth that says worship is what you do on Sunday mornings while wearing panty hose and uncomfortable shoes. What a crock! Worship is playing with a saber-toothed tiger before breakfast and a woolly mammoth after lunch. It’s reading books for a thousand years without getting a headache or needing a nap. It’s the lion eating straw and the child putting his hand in the viper’s nest (I am sure this verse refers to one of my boys.). It’s not some other-worldly experience. It’s this world, only lots, lots better. Worship is enjoying the presence of God and his creation in all its forms. So while I still intend to continue my quest to one day have read all the books on my Wish List and to avoid the avoidable dangers of this world, I am leaving behind my cloudy visions of heaven and planting my feet more solidly in the Kingdom. I am sure Elizabeth and Charlotte would approve.

A Series of Deaths

I have a good friend who likes to say that “life is a series of deaths.”  In saying this, he is referring to the fact that our journey on this planet involves many farewells and demands of self-denial—and each of these represents some kind of permanent loss.  As you grow your childhood perishes.  With each graduation during your school years you say goodbye to friends, many of whom you will never seen again.  And the ones with whom you do stay in touch you will never know in that context again.  When you marry, much of your freedom dies, and with the birth of each child you must lay aside worthwhile projects and even some dreams.  And then come the real deaths.  You lose friends to accidents, cancers, and even suicide.  Your parents begin to fail and suddenly you find yourself having to parent them in return, perhaps nursing them into that good night—always half believing its not really happening.  It’s just one death after another.

Sounds pretty bleak, doesn’t it?  Well, it would be if that were the whole story.  And I suppose that if I thought it was, perhaps I’d have gone the way of some of my departed friends by now.  But it’s not the whole story.  Because with each of those deaths has come new life.  God has a way of replacing lost projects and dreams with even greater projects and dreams.  Far beyond the meager imaginings of my youth and even my young adulthood is the joy and satisfaction I’ve found in my wife and children as well as the broader community of which we are a part.  What calling is higher than investing your life in other souls?  Even the pains we feel in this context are, as C.S. Lewis would say, “more precious than all other gains.”

Of course, there are goodbyes ahead for all of these relationships as well.  More deaths to come in a seemingly endless train.  But it’s not really endless.  One day, we are told, all death will cease and God will wipe away every tear.  And, if Scripture is to be trusted, there are good things which emerge from our earthly trials—good things which are endless, such as the virtues we develop in persevering (cf. James 1:2-4; 1 Pet. 1:5-7).  God does not put us through this soul-grind without reason.  He does so to mold us into something wonderful, even the image of Christ.  And if that isn’t worth enduring a series of deaths, then nothing is.

Everything in Its Place

How I clean my house is, I’m afraid to say, indicative of how I live my life. I often care less about whether things are actually clean than about whether they have the appearance of cleanliness. I love people coming to my house when the floor still smells like Pine-sol and you can make out the tracks of the vacuum cleaner. But if you happen to open the wrong closet door, beware of the avalanche of “yet to be filed” items that will shower down upon you. In the same way, more frequently than I care to admit, I find myself greeting people with all the visible surfaces wiped clean and the scent of pulled- togetherness hanging about my head. Upon such occasions, if you were to peek in the windows of my soul, you are more likely to be shocked by the resentful insecurity and anger that are lying about like dirty socks which missed the laundry basket than bedazzled by how pristine my heart is.

My superficial approach doesn’t stem from a desire to impress but rather a terror of disappointing people with the reality of my inner life. This is one of the reasons I love my husband and need him so desperately, both in my housekeeping and in my spiritual life. He will spend three hours cleaning our stove and can’t stand for people to see the evidence of the frenetic cleaning which took place five minutes (sometimes less) before their arrival. He is very methodical in his cleaning, just like his approach to spiritual development—slow and steady wins the race. His substance draws me back to reality and his graciousness has helped me to feel less fearful of being a disappointment to people.

Lately I have been connecting the dots as to how my fear of discovery bleeds into every area of my life including my hobbies and interests. I love Victorian literature because of the formality and restraints of the time, not in spite of them. I love going to the movies and eating out, having an experience and leaving behind all the dirty dishes and the empty popcorn boxes. I love organizing and putting things where they belong.

One of my favorite sayings of my dad’s (though I must confess to not particularly appreciating it in my younger years) is “a place for everything and everything in its place.” As I look back, I realize that this desire to be tidy has paralleled my desire to be more spiritually mature and serious. I used to be an absolute slob. My father, a methodical cleaner just like my husband, once accused me of starting a new landfill in the backseat of my car. Soon after I got married, however, when the rubber of married life was hitting the road of my need to change my selfish ways, I began to enjoy cleaning. Now that I have four kids, my standards have lowered significantly but I can spend a good hour organizing my daughter’s bookshelf by subject, size, and age appropriateness. Of course, you could be eaten alive by the dust bunnies hidden under the bookshelf. Still, I will defend my longing for order.

When you study the Bible and see all of God’s wisdom and promises fulfilled, you see we weren’t meant for this chaotic, grey world but a world revolving in perfect harmony around the God who created it with “a place for everything and everything in its place.” My penchant for categorizing everything is my longing for heaven, an attempt to make sense out of chaos. Maybe my desire for things to be orderly isn’t a desire to appear perfect so much as a reflection of my desire to be made perfect.

Kitty Heaven and the Challenge of Faith

Recently the kids and I found a stray kitten along the side of the road. When I say kitten, I mean tiny fur-ball-with-tail, fit-in-the-palm-of-your-hand size kitten. While this description may conjure up adorable calendar-worthy pictures in your head, this kitten was—how shall I put it—repulsive. Let’s just say she had eye “issues.” Still, eye infection or no, we couldn’t leave her, so we took her home with us. Since Jim is an animal lover, much more in practice than I am in theory, she settled in to await adoption. (The first order of business was clearing up the eye goo which increased her curb-appeal ten-fold.) We were soon the family to be avoided as the rumor circulated that we were desperately trying to give away a kitten.

 

Unfortunately, Bootster (admittedly a less than stellar name lovingly bestowed by Sam) didn’t last long enough to know that she was unwanted. One morning a few days after she arrived, Bailey woke us to say that Bootster was dying. Jim and I hurried downstairs to discover the kitten in obvious pain and quickly fading. Jim and Bailey took her to the vet where she was “put to sleep” (a phrase surely created to terrify children into never closing their eyes again). Each of the kids reacted in their own way—Bailey crying, Sam acting as if nothing were the matter, Maggie immediately going to draw a picture for Bootster, and Andrew standing poking at the body and saying “booboo?”

 

But later in the day things got really interesting. We were holding graveside services for our little furry friend when I suddenly realized that Maggie and Andrew (four and two respectively) had no idea what we were doing. As far as they knew, we were getting ready to bury Bootster alive. I had sudden visions of them trying this out on one another and gently tried to guide them away before Jim threw on the first pile of dirt. Alas, I was too late and Andrew threw his hands up in outrage as he watched Daddy “being mean” to kitty. I tried to explain but as the words were coming from my mouth I realized the absurdity of what I was trying to convince him of. Had it been one of my own would I have so glibly said “Child X (I can’t even bring myself to insert one of their names) is in a better place? He/she is with Jesus and waiting for us in heaven.” Heck no! I would have been right there along side Andrew, throwing my hands up in protest to heaven and begging for him/her to be spared.

 

As Maggie began to chime in, probing about the process by which we enter paradise, I realized how hypocritical we are with our kids when we try to whitewash death. Or maybe I am not so much a hypocrite but rather one who is greatly lacking in faith. It’s easy to believe that kitty is better off. After all she was a bit smelly and, frankly, a pain in the rear to take care of. But would I be willing to put my money where my mouth is when it comes to those I love, who are a bit smelly as well and often a pain in the rear but who are also the center of my small world? I pondered these things while I watched the kids play at Taylor Lake that afternoon, marveling at how quickly they seemed to recover. I sit here now, calling up each of their dear faces, half paralyzed in fear at the thought of them being taken from me. My conclusion? God knows how small I am and how very limited is my thinking. He doesn’t ask me to understand His ways, only to take His hand as I walk away from the graveside of my expectations, hopes, and dreams and trust that Daddy isn’t really being mean after all.