Читать книгу The Vagabond - Frank Rautenbach - Страница 10

When I grew up, my understanding of eschatology was shaped by my limited understanding of heaven and hell and God’s Kingdom. Eschatology is literally the ‘study of last things’.

Theologically speaking, it is the study of how things end up for us as human beings at the end of time as we know it, or when we die. In other words, where do we end up? Heaven, hell or nowhere?

Well, how I lived my life as a teenager was shaped by one simple question: ‘Do you know where you’re going to go when you die?’

I remember hearing many sermons growing up, ending with these words, followed by, ‘If you’re not right with God, you will end up in hell.’ It scared the living daylights out of me. I mean, who wants to spend eternity in hell? The preacher would then follow this up with, ‘If you’re not sure, come to the front and say the sinner’s prayer. God will forgive your sins. You will be born again and secured a place in heaven.’

Even though it scared me, I always thought it was a good deal. Yet, the next week would roll around; a few parties later and, in a flash, my born-again status would unravel. I’d go back to church the following Sunday, trying to calculate whether I had messed up enough to warrant a walk of shame to the front again.

Sometimes I was ‘brave’ enough to remain seated. After the service, I would ride my motorbike home and be petrified of dying in an accident.

I am sure many good and relevant sermons were preached while I attended church in high school. Even so, so much emphasis was placed on knowing where you were going after dying that this formed in me the worldview that there was nothing more to the practice of going to church. Hanging onto your going-to-heaven status, and making sure your behaviour didn’t screw that up.

This misconstrued understanding of God’s grace and plan for humanity not only led to zero moral transformation in my life, it left me with the paralysing job of trying to stay out of trouble before I died.

Not something I was particularly good at.

I remember one such occasion during my standard 9 year (grade 11). I had been invited to an end-of-term party. I was in the mood to have some fun, so put on my favourite shirt and jeans and got ready to party.

My parents were hosting a church small-group at our house that night. As I was leaving, I quickly popped into the lounge to say goodbye and check what time I needed to be home. There was a good mixture of young and old people and they all greeted me warmly. They invited me to stay, to join them for some praise and worship and Bible study.

I solemnly apologised – I’d already committed to plans for the night. Saying my goodbyes, I got out there as fast as I could.

At the party, I quickly scanned the landscape and noticed a cute girl I’d grown up with. For some reason, our paths had never crossed in the romance department. The timing, however, seemed just right on this particular night. I made a move … Let’s just say things worked out just as I’d hoped they would. Like a thirsty monkey who’d had his fill at the water hole, I eventually rode home on my motorbike.

It was about 10 pm when I got home. My parents and the small-group were still drinking tea and coffee as they finished up their meeting. Leaning against the wall of the big arched entrance to our lounge, I still felt pumped after a successful night.

I struck my best James Dean/Rebel Without a Cause pose, just sans the cigarette dangling out of my mouth.

I was about to ask them for a rundown of their meeting, when some of the women started giggling: ‘Wow, it looks like you had a pretty good night.’

I frowned.

‘She kissed you properly, huh?’ one quipped.

I had no idea what they were talking about. ‘Bed time for me. Goodnight, everyone,’ I mumbled like a responsible teenager.

I dropped my bike helmet and keys in their usual spot and made my way to the guest bathroom for some water.

In the mirror, my whole face and part of my neck was covered in bright-red lipstick. I looked like a three-year-old who had got hold of his mother’s make-up bag. It was smeared everywhere.

Growing up, I was excited about this new life in Christ I had received after being born again, and the ‘going to heaven’ status that came with the deal. Kind of like Christmas, someone else was born and I got presents. I also loved the idea of Jesus’ victory on the cross. That He ruled and reigned from his heavenly throne. I wanted to take part in that victory or, more to the point, I wanted to share in the benefits. There clearly was space for Christmas and Easter in my theology.

But I didn’t pay much attention to the messy bit in the middle, the actual life I would live from the cradle to the grave, where the Bible talks about, ‘Even though Jesus was God’s Son, He learned obedience from the things He suffered’ (Hebrews 5:8, NLT).