Saving Heathen Babies From Hell—Part 1

The Problem 

When I was a sixteen growing up in the 70's, I worried a lot. I worried about getting kidnapped. I worried about getting a brain tumor. I worried about being so bad that my parents would send me to a detention home where I would be forced into a gang and be made to steal lip gloss from Safeway—I worried, because I didn’t even wear lip gloss. But this would lead me to a life of crime and then I would go to prison where I’d lose my only good eye during a riot in the chow line and be totally blind like those monks in the dark ages.

My parents, probably in an effort to steer me clear of a life of make-up crime sprees and monk-like blindness, sent me to the Lutheran church down the street. It was a pretty church with pretty white people who came on Sunday and sang comforting songs. But the songs weren’t comforting to me at all but opened another Pandora’s Box of concern.

When we sang, Onward Christian Soldiers Marching Off To War and I worried that if I really gave my life to Christ would I have to go to war too? Who would I fight? The Baptists? The Catholics—my parents never seemed to like them very much. After letting my Froot Loops get soggy a couple of mornings mulling over this question, I finally asked my Sunday school teacher.

“Oh, no, that is an old song that the Christians probably sung during the Crusades when they were fighting the Muslims. The Baptists and the Catholics are technically in the body of Christ.”

“You mean they are going to heaven?” I asked.

“Yes, they are going to heaven.” He replied, pretty happy about his church’s progressiveness.

“What about the Muslims? Aren’t they going to heaven?”

“ No, they are going to hell because they don’t believe Jesus is the son of God.”

I was stunned. I walked off numbly, not really liking God at that moment. God kinda reminded me of my gym teacher, Mr. Rodriquez who also played favorites with all the kids with Mexican names. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t my fault I was born with a Norwegian name. And it wasn’t fair that all those Muslim babies would be burning in hell just because they were born into the wrong religion.

I decided to go to my brother Peter. He was always a fount of wisdom. Maybe he knew something the Sunday school teacher didn’t. “So, are all those Muslim babies burning in hell?” I asked as we were walking home from church.

“Afraid so. God has rules.” He said picking a scab on his elbow.

“But it’s not fair. God should know it’s not their fault!” I pleaded.

“Sorry God can’t change what’s on those tablets. Remember, “There shall be no other gods”—It came from Charleton Heston and he wouldn’t be in a movie unless it was really the truth.”

“Well, I don’t care if it’s the truth! It’s not right, all those poor Muslim babies.” I muttered trying to force the lump in my throat to go down. And then my brother dropped the bomb.

“ Not just Muslim babies, Buddha babies, bald little Hare Krishna babies at the airport and curly sideburn Jewish babies too —they don’t believe Jesus is God either so they are in hell.”

It was all too much. “ But’s that’s practically everybody!” I said really worrying about all the billions of babies burning in hell at that moment.

“Doesn’t matter, they are all wrong. There is only one way—the Jesus way—it’s in the movie. Not the Tablet movie but the Robe one.” My brother was rarely wrong on these points which made me very sad.

I moped for days. I paced internally examining my options. What could I do? Then I had an epiphany. I would become a missionary— no better yet a nun then I could travel all over the world converting parents of all other doomed religions to believe in Jesus and that way saving their babies from hell!

Becoming a nun looked easy and even if it wasn’t, I thought I could manage. I had seen A Nun’s Story, The Bells Of St. Marys, The Song of Bernadette and Mary Tyler Moore and Elvis Presley in A Change of Habit almost every time they came on T.V. and that was before cable! Plus, I watched David Steinberg talk about God every time he was on The Smothers Brothers and Johnny Carson. So even though he wasn’t a Catholic but a Jew and technically going to hell too, I was hoping that God would count that in my favor that I was interested in God no matter who was talking about him.

It didn’t matter—my dad turned green and red as soon as I said “Nun.” He was screaming something about being a pope-loving wench and sent me to my room—grounded. Didn’t he know that I was on a mission of mercy to save the unborn babies? “Okay, God, “ I wrote in my journal. “I want to serve you but it will get me grounded forever. Isn’t there any other way to save the babies?”

Christmas week, I got my answer. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. I just thought that I discovered a cute guy in my friend’s history class with an accent other than a west Texas twang and he was nice too. His name was Mustafa—he was from some Middle Eastern country and he was half Swiss too. Did I say he was nice? I mean’t, he was nice to ME. This being a rare occurrence with kids in general and boys in particular—I let him call me.

We talked a lot. We talked about all the languages he spoke, which were a bunch including Arabic and German. We talked about his dead father and my dead mother and believe it or not, we talked about God. He was the first person, besides my brother who knew a lot about God and liked to talk about Him without talking about going to hell. So I let him know about my beef with God. “I mean how am I supposed to teach all those other religions about Jesus if I can’t become a nun?” Mustafa really didn’t have answer to that or maybe he just didn’t have the English words.

The next day he gave me a book called, The Eternal Voice by Cordielia Norder. It said that all religions were one. It was just the same God speaking through different messengers and that there was a new one! And the new messenger whose name I couldn’t pronounce said that he was the return of the promised ones of all the other religions. It was different. It was confusing. It made me worry.

How can all the religions be right? In Sunday school, I learned that Jesus was the Messiah (even if the Jews don’t believe him) and he was the only way to God. Jews were still waiting for their person and believed they were chosen. I learned in history class that Muhammad said he was the way to God and the last messenger too. And this latest messenger (I couldn’t pronounce his name) was a bit cocky, I thought. I mean, how can he be the return of everyone?

Mustafa saw the screwed up look of confusion on my face and asked me if I wanted to have dinner at his house. I met the American family that he was staying with. Jim was the dad, tall, lanky with a very mellow voice. His wife’s name was Sylvia—just like my sister. They had three kids at home that I recognised from school and they were all so nice.

“How can all the religions be right?” I asked.

“What was your first grade teacher’s name?” Jim asked.

“Uh?” Okay, I thought, if this guy tells me that my first grade teacher is a messenger of God, I am going home!

“Your first grade teacher—What was her name?” Jim was very patient and smiling.

“Her name was Mrs. Baird, ” I said.

“Was she a good teacher? Did you like her?” He asked.

“She was okay.” I said. Actually Mrs. Baird nick named me Pokey because I could never get my math done before lunch.

“Did you learn things from her?” He asked.

“Yeah, I learned to read and write and do math.” I eventually learned to do math faster after I got a standing ovation from the class for finishing before lunch!

“And your fourth grade teacher what was her name?” Mr. Collins pressed me.

“Mrs Podgorskie.” Who could forget a name like that? She looked like Karen Valentine except blonde.

“And what did you learn from her?”

“ Same stuff just harder…especially the math.” I confessed.

“At any time, did Mrs. Baird say in the first grade, this is all you will ever have to know. You don’t have to go to school anymore?” Mr. Collins asked.

“No, of course not.” I laughed at the idea but then reveled in the fantasy.

“Did Mrs. Podgorskie ever tell you to forget all the stuff Mrs. Baird taught you that she is the only teacher you will ever need?” He again asked.

“No. She would remind me that I learned addition in first grade and do it over right.”

“And multiplication tables?” Mr. Collins asked gently.

“Mrs. Podgorskie would tell us to memorize our multiplication tables then we can do algebra faster in the 7th grade.”

“Why didn’t Mrs. Baird teach you algebra?” Mr. Collins asked.

“What?” I laughed. Either Mr. Collins was pulling a trick on me or he was a little dumb. “ We were only little kids! You can’t just teach algebra to little kids! They wouldn’t get it. They need to learn 2 plus 4 first, then 2 times four then fractions and then they might be ready for Algebra!” I glanced over at Mustafa on the couch and kinda knowingly rolled my eyes.

I was feeling pretty smart at this point. This was the first time I got one over on a grown up. And then Mr. Collins asked me a question that totally changed my universe.

“Boy, I wonder if God does it that way in the school of life?”

END OF PART 1 CONTINUE READING PART 2 (link below)