Every Halloween the church down the street hosts something called “Judgement House.” A few days later, on some years, I have to go to that same church to vote, which I think is something of a conflict of interests.
“Judgement House” always brought to mind images of a Christian haunted house: pious hams in demonic costume raving about the consequences of premarital sex, abortion, and an activist judiciary against a painted backdrop of flames and damned souls. It was something I have always felt compelled to experience—one of American Protestantism’s unique offerings, for want of a 21st century version of “Sinners In the Hands of an Angry God.”
I was to be profoundly disappointed. Of course, having attended no prior Judgement Houses I can’t say how this one compares; I speak only of the general experience.
First, we were required to register. This was actually required in advance, so you begin to understand my commitment to the experience. I signed in under a pseudonym: Sam Simms.
The evening of the event was damp and chill. A persistent gloom blotted out the stars and shed icy mist onto those of us awaiting entry to the church-cum-Judgement House. I learned that we would go through in groups of ten or so, with ten minute intervals between groups. Of those I spoke to outside, none were return visitors. Judgement House was clearly a “once is enough” experience.
Finally my turn came, and instead of a menagerie of mincing homosexuals and pinch-mouthed adulterers, I was greeted with lukewarm amateur dramatics. Judgement House, it seemed, was essentially a live performance of a Pacific Garden Mission “Unshackled!” radio drama.
We went through several rooms, across which we were told the story of a young girl named Samantha who—Oh, you know. She finds Jesus and then she dies, inspiring her drunken and sinful father to repent his evil ways. Pretty standard stuff, but distinctly unentertaining.
We were then presented with a “judge” who ruled on the damnation or exaltation of the various characters from the playlet we had just witnessed. The judge then read out each of our names in turn, and explained that there was still time for us to choose our ultimate fate. I felt a giddy rush at hearing him call out “Sam Simms!” It was as if I were some kind of spy infiltrating secret proceedings. “Your identity for this mission will be Sam Simms: a simple sinner in search of salvation.” I resisted the temptation to take surreptitious pictures with my phone.
After that we were taken to hell. Rather than being accosted by comically-attired buffoons with pitchforks, we were instead crowded into a room not quite large enough for all of us. It was dark, vaguely smelly, and kept just barely too warm by the aid of out-of-sight space heaters. All told I was somewhat impressed by the subtlety of the presentation. Still, I don’t think that minor physical discomfort is a proper analogue for the eternal separation from the divine spirit, but I’m no theologian.
A shadowy figure then introduced himself as Satan and briefly lectured us on how rejecting the salvation offered by Christ will doom us to an eternity with him. It took a tremendous feat of willpower to avoid saying something snarky (“Why should we believe you? You’re the devil!”), but I prevailed. I was determined to see this through.
Our group was then paraded into another room where we were presented with—I shit you not—bibs. Well, our guide somewhat sheepishly told us that they were robes, but they only covered our shoulders and part of our chests. I found myself salivating out of some Pavlovian expectation of a rack of ribs.
Our next stop was the empyrean heights themselves: Paradiso. This was not as impressive as hell. Composed largely of bright lights and white fixtures, it looked more like a photoshoot at an abandoned house. We were greeted by a figure who claimed to be Jesus and he told us pretty much exactly the same thing Satan told us, which I thought was odd. I mean, if Satan was telling the truth about how to get to heaven, is he really that bad of a guy? That’s not exactly behavior befitting a Prince of Lies. What else are we not being told about Old Scratch?
After that we handed in our bibs—distressingly free of barbecue sauce stains—and moved right to the “Would you like to accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior?” bit.
I declined, and apparently did so casually enough as to pierce my facade of legitimate interest. My “encourager” and I locked eyes, and in that moment my deception was revealed. I was no penitent seeking absolution. I was one of the heathen horde, holding his beliefs in silent contempt. We looked at each other from opposite sides of an impassable gulf, each regarding the other with silent pity. Beneath his feet yawned the abyss of damnation, and only by the grace of God did he avoid plummeting headlong into its depths. Beneath my feet was only the whirling crust of the earth. Never the twain shall meet.
I left for the parking lot, where Judgement House’s previous patrons fled the grounds in their cars. Did the weather or the message propel them with such curious urgency? Did they feel God’s arrow aimed at their hearts, ready at His command to be made drunk with their blood?
“The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours.”
I walked home as the gloom began to part, if only for a few minutes. Through the rent I could see Orion, and I remembered the story of his punishment by gods older than Yahweh—but no less spiteful. Behind him stretched not the void of damnation, but of eternity.
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