Or, more accurately, how I see how we see things, the “we” being LDS people.  I do not usually write a lot about the spiritual aspect of things, not in specific.  I save that for the appropriately titled page.  But here I am on Sunday, when I’m supposed to rest from my labors.  And I suppose that trying to work out mortal life on paper could be considered a labor—like walking around Disney World non-stop is a labor.  The caveat: THIS IS MY OWN WAY OF SEEING IT.

And besides, I have a lesson to deliver in a couple of hours, so this is what I am thinking of: the meaning of life.  And so here I am, thinking with my fingers. 

Some people think that LDS people are not “Christian.”  I think this is arrogant of them, as though they invented the brand and there’s some kind of copyright on the content.  In my book if you believe in Christ, and you use the bible, you have every right to figure that you’re at least some kind of Christian.  But in some ways, I guess in that majority-rule branding sort of way, they’re right.  Because some of the things we believe are very different from what many mainstream protestants and Catholics count as dogma.

We believe that we – you, me – have existed since the beginning of – well, whatever the very beginning was.  That we are made of eternal stuff, and that God gave us our us-ness.  And that he designed a plan, a plan by which we – intelligent raw material as we might have been – could become more, become as like him as we are able.  Realize, in other words, our potential.  We believe there was a sort of conference held, before the earth was made, and the plan was explained – that we would become mortal, taking on these bodies and this physics and this configuration of linear time (sort of like going on a survival excursion), and in the process of the experience, prove ourselves – to ourselves and to him.  Become or not become.  Choose, in very real terms, what we will be when we come out the other side.

There were many catches – pain, sorrow, suffering, fear, confusion, too much to choose from – but the most dire was this: that once we had made this choice and taken on a mortal body, we could never return to a state of being that would let us once more walk in our Father’s reality with him.  In taking on the body, we were lost forever to that state.  We would have no power to change that.

And so the elegant and awful centerpiece of the plan: that One would come, as we had come, taking on a mortal body, living a mortal life – but being half mortal, half immortal – a teacher, a brother to us on every possible level (including a common mortal experience) – and he would become, in the end, the sacrifice – for all of the rules we were going to break along the way, the mistakes, the faltering in kindness, even the cruelty and stupidity and greed that put us deeply in debt to the law of the plan – He would pay that debt, taking responsibility for our imperfections and tragic lapses.  He would answer them all with his innocence.

And we would be free to choose.  Free to make our choices – to eat too much or to use our heads, to grab or to offer, to steal or to bless, to destroy or protect – all up to us.  Each of us, with the capability of changing the world for others, for the good or for the evil.

And when that One, taken by us, brutally treated, finally murdered in his more than complete innocence, died at our hands, that death would satisfy the rules of this reality.  By that death, then, all were saved.  All would be resurrected, none lost.  The door, once shut tight, is flung open, the grave, which has more to do with being shut out from our Father than with laying down a body, gives up those who were once, by their choice to become mortal, damned.

“Who shall I send?”  God asked, meaning, who will he trust to do this thing?  Who could he trust to commit to such a staggering responsibility?  Because once the plan began, all those hosts of spirits who had committed were lost – who could he trust not to let them languish forever?  Who would not just change his mind and give up?  Who would be brave enough, true enough, strong enough – be possessed of so much love – as to take on this part and see it through to the remarkable and terrible end without faltering?

And Christ said, “Here I am; send me.”

As we knew he would.

But then Satan stepped forward and said the same thing.  And went on to explain the flaws in the Father’s plan – too chancy.  How could you give these idiots (he didn’t say that, as far as I know) control over their own lives?  Under this plan, they were just going to screw up over and over and over again.  They’d never forgive each other.  They’d mess up everything.  They’d never, on their own, realize their potential, and the whole thing would be a waste of time.

He offered a slightly different plan.  He’d make sure that each person made the right choices.  He’d protect them from themselves.  He’d compensate for the short-sightedness, the selfishness.  He’d intervene so that there would be NOTHING to sacrifice for.  Life would be perfect.  Everyone would love him.  No mistakes.  No ugly bulges.  No pain.  No sorrow.  No tragedy.  And certainly, no one being able to harm or interfere with another.

The Father refused him.  And in a fury, an explosion of spleen, a rage of frustrated ambition, Satan stormed off, shouting to the hosts, inviting those who wanted a sure eternity, a peaceful and certain fate, to follow him.  And a third of them did.  A third of them left with him, maybe thinking that God would change his mind, eventually, and choose the safer way.

But God didn’t change his mind.  And neither did Christ.  And so here we are, invited and taught on one side, beleaguered and harassed on the other by those who are still furious, who hate us, who have a vested interest in the failure of the plan.  By those who spend their eternity in hate and envy and frustration and vengefulness of heart.  By those, in other words, who live in hell – and have no way out for all eternity.

We LDS do not speak much of Hell.  By virtue of our choosing Christ in the first place, of our taking on the mortal body and trusting him—by virtue of his honor and love and sacrifice, his Atonement, in other words – hell is out of the picture for us all.  The formal hell, that is.

And that philosophy makes us different.

There are other hells – the hell of helpless regret.  The hell of opportunities forever lost.  The hell of really knowing what you have done, the harm, the hurt, and that you can’t go back and erase it.  The hell of loneliness and of pain and of human rejection (both of the doing and the receiving).  Many, many hells.  But those, we build for ourselves.  We are not sent there.

So, what about our mistakes?  Our stupidities?  Our brutalities?  What about our goodness?  Our being true to the law?  Our choosing what is right and good?

Our works?  Obeying the commandments?  Practicing mercy?  All of those things?  Why bother with repentance?

Is anyone ever perfect?  Are prophets perfect?  Have you read the Old Testament—because if you have, you know the answer to that question.  All are saved from death, from the hell of following a person who hates God and keeps minions as mirrors to soothe his forever dissatisfied ego.  But all of us have just as much opportunity to turn themselves into a duplicate mass of seething unhappiness and anger.

Repentance, on the other hand,  is a tool of happiness.  Of peace.  Of community.  Of the opportunity to build and sustain love.  A window that opens to the scents of spring.  There is never complete safety while we live on this earth.  But, as so many have pointed out (notably done in The Hiding Place), there can be peace even in the deeps of mortality.  But beyond even that is the concept of eternal life.

For us, the popular concept of “heaven,” which really isn’t usually much of a concept past a nice, safe place, is very short of the mark.  Being saved is being able to return to God’s reality.  But that reality has laws and limitations of its own.  In it, we are safe from Satan and Satan-like dangers.  In it, we don’t fear for our lives.  We can go on without fear forever.  Which is a nice thing.  But when you think about it, if that’s all there is to your existence, that and singing praises, heaven begins to sound pretty darn boring, really.

The way I see what we believe, our “works” here, our behavior, the habits of thought and feeling and action we develop during our mortal experience – they are us when we walk through the veil into the next experience.  If we were selfish here, we’re selfish there.  If we depend on chemistry to calm us down or make us mellow (‘m talking about emotionally, here – not clinical emotional states) – we’re going to be in trouble making it where there’s no such crutch.  If we depend on money to define us, or even more fundamentally, if we depend on ascendancy over others, social hierarchies, status to define who we are, what joy does heaven have to offer?

So we believe that our comfort and happiness in the after-life depends a whole lot on our “works” here.  And there, just like here in some ways – if you train yourself to run a marathon, you can run a marathon – if you don’t do the work, you don’t have the muscles and you can’t run one.  No big loss if you don’t really WANT to run one, huh?

If sex is what you’re all about – well.  Or power.  Too fixed in the short-term business of earth – remember all those jobs nobody has anymore?  The guy who delivered the ice from door to door? The expert on eight-track tapes?  The people who ran the Edsel plants?  Yeah.  All dressed up and nowhere to go.

If you train to understand physics, engineering, math – you can fix things, invent things, do things that you couldn’t otherwise.  but maybe you don’t care about that.  If you go to med school, study hard, learn enough to pass the exams, do your residency, satisfy the requirements to achieve a license to practice, you can do that useful work in the world.  If you don’t – you can’t. The law won’t let you, for one thing.  But there’s also the fact that you can’t do heart surgery without knowing what you’re doing (they call that murder).

So, the more prepared you are for the atmosphere and operating systems that make up God’s reality, the more freedom you have to move, to create, to praise, to solve problems, to serve, to create community, to do good things – to serve God himself – after this earthly experience is over.  The healthier your spirit, the more capable after.  The more obedient, the more you keep your covenants, the more ready you are to serve (see the Ten Virgins on that one).

Okay.  This is way, way long and preachy, and I have to get dressed for church and maybe even take a look at the hymns before I get up there in front of everybody and make a fool of myself (why should today be different).  So I’m going to stick this up there.  And maybe take it down later, if on second reading, it turns out to be way stupid.  But thanks for helping me think the lesson through.  I really appreciate it.