Heaven is and has always been an extension of our deepest desires for peace and security. Heaven has never been a place of intense pleasures, sexual or otherwise, but of tranquility, based primarily on biophilia, which is the love of nature, that is, its peaceful aspects.

I thought about this when I remembered a hymn we used to sing in our little fundamentalist church long ago:

 

There’s a city of light where there cometh no night

For the sun never sets in the sky

In the Bible we’re told that the streets are pure gold

And a cool gentle river runs by.

 

Little children will play and our hearts will be gay

As we stroll through that city of gold

No more dying up there, no more sorrows to bear

And nobody will be feeble and old.

 

This is based on symbolism from the end of Revelation, which itself is based on Ezekiel. It was not meant to be taken literally. But being fundamentalists, we had to argue over it. Revelation does not indicate that Heaven has streets, plural, but just one street. I wonder if the streets-faction split away from the street-faction.

This song sounds a lot like the place I live now, a suburb outside of Strasbourg, France. There is very little crime, and my wife and I can walk anywhere without fear. Most people are polite, and the socialist society takes care of all of our needs. A situation such as this has been extremely rare in human history, including French history. The European Union has come closer to being heaven on Earth than any group of humans has ever been; and it won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2012. Right near our house, our favorite place to walk is along the Ill River, which is gentle and cool, just as in the song. Its flow is almost constant, varying by about 15 cm between rains and droughts, at least during the two years we have been here. The river we lived near in Tulsa varied from dry sand to flood stage within weeks. Partly the gentle flow of water in the Ill is natural, but is also because there is a canal system that regulates water flow in the rivers Ill, Muhlwasser, and Aar.

 

France is politically more like Heaven than anywhere else I know about. Racial strife occurs, but it is very quiet. France absorbs immigrants but requires them to become French. All of the hijab-wearing and African women around here speak French (not surprising, since they come from former French colonies). A recent advertising campaign showed Muslim and African women, and indicated that people frequently asked them, even politely, Where are you from? The correct answer, said the advertisement, was, I’m from here. As in our idea of Heaven, people from everywhere blend together.

The song makes Heaven sound like such a wonderful place that one can overlook some obvious problems. If little children are playing, does that mean they were children when they died? And will they remain children forever and never grow up? This is a question without a logical answer and lends itself only to humor, such as what Mark Twain used in Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven.

Anyway, I thought I would send you greetings from Heaven.

Washing Dishes in Heaven?

Especially after reading what Mark Twain wrote about Captain Stormfield’s visit to Heaven, I used to think (even when I was conventionally religious) that the Christian version of Heaven sounded pretty boring, certainly not someplace that a spirit with a conscious mind would want to spend eternity. Strumming harps and singing hymns nonstop for eternity? Remember that spirits do not need to sleep and, according to Revelation, there is no sunrise or sunset in Heaven. How could anyone think up such a version of eternity, much less desire it?

But experience can teach us differently. At least it did in my case. May Day is a serious national holiday in France; even the trams do not run in Strasbourg. Everybody stays home and eats with their families and friends. You cannot have barbecues on apartment balconies, but there are thousands of garden plots (jardins familiaux), rented long-term by families, that allow barbecues, and they were all smoking away on May Day this year. My extended French family was no exception. Instead of a rented garden area, one of the elder uncles has a house and yard in a little town near Strasbourg, where he and his wife used to spend the summers. They now live in the city but their house is available for family gatherings. The whole family pitches in to keep the the fruit trees trimmed. They maintain electricity and water there, though the house is usually empty.

And didn’t we have a fine lunch there on May Day. Whenever my son-in-law’s father is there, we have wonderful barbecue. He was elsewhere on this day, so we just had soup. But it was the finest split-pea soup I’ve ever had, made by my son-in-law’s aunt. Even without the fine beer and wine, I would have been drowsy afterwards. Drowsy, but unlike the uncle, I did not sleep through the early afternoon. I was just awake enough to watch the kids playing. I felt an amniotic fluid of goodwill washing over me which I could not have put into words even if I had tried to do so. The breeze was just slight enough, and just the right temperature, to make me feel as good as I have ever felt in my life. It occurred to me that this state of mindless pleasure might be what Heaven is like, if there is one.

And then the women, and a few men (not us elderly ones) washed dishes. The kitchen and its sink were cold and dark, so they moved the operation out into the yard under the shade. Washing, rinsing, drying all occurred on folding tables. They were having a good time. Of course this seemed heavenly to me, sitting as I was in perfect comfort and being served by them. But I realized even at the time that, maybe the next time, I would enjoy helping out with the dishes. It was not the experience of being served that was pleasurable to me, but the experience of being in a family where everyone enjoyed serving everyone else.

In theological Heaven, no one has to eat. If there are endless banquets, the serving ware either magically vanishes or cleans itself, I suppose. No one has ever written a theological treatise on heavenly dishwashing. But the indolence of letting other people, or letting magic, take care of all our needs is not what I was enjoying. Maybe instead of Heaven being a place of perfect rest, as the hymns say (“There is a place of quiet rest near to the heart of God…”) (“…while the peaceful, happy moments roll…”), it is a place of endless cyclical mutual service.

And there must be some exercise in Heaven, as well. I like to imagine long hikes in wooded vales and over mountaintops, all without muscle pain. Dream on, you say? Thank you, I believe I will.

Emails from Hell, part nineteen

When last we saw our correspondent, Al Franken was leading him down a dungeon corridor in Heaven to meet somebody.

{beginning of email}

            The man Al Franken showed me in the dungeon scarcely looked like a person, or even an animal. He huddled in a little ball. He had boils all over his skin. The man scraped pus from them with potsherds, and dogs licked his wounds. The man looked up at us piteously. He had long hair and a beard.

            He spoke in a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone about the dogs. They are my only comfort. You know, dog saliva has antibiotic properties.”

            “You told me last time,” said Al.

            “How’s Mom?” he asked.

            “She’s still active,” said Al. “Still fishing people in. Let me introduce you to [name omitted].”

            “Pleased to meet you. Any friend of Al’s is a friend of mine.”

            I didn’t need to ask Who He was. With a Mom who was fishing people into Heaven? Who Else could He be? I couldn’t speak.

            He told me, “I am so sorry for what my supposed followers are doing,” He said. “They are trying to do everything the opposite of what I taught and the way I lived. I am, as you can guess, the Original Bleeding Heart of them All. Oh, we have another visitor.”

            “Hi, Mo,” Al said to the turbaned and robed man who entered.

            “Greetings, all. Hey, Jesus, you were saying how ashamed you were about the way your supposed followers are acting? Well, same here, buddy. If I walked into their midst right now, they would probably treat me about the way they are treating you.”

            “Somebody should get Him out of here,” I said.

            “Well,” said Jesus, “I am performing one of the functions for which I was begotten. I am suffering eternally in place of the sins of humankind. There, little buddy,” he said to one of the dogs who stuck his muzzle in a little too deep.

            “Been there, done that,” said Mo. “Enough already. You’ve suffered enough. We both gotta get out of here. Down to Hell with Moses and Noah and all the other great figures who were the founders of your religion and of mine. And that is just what I came here to do. We finally have a chance to escape.”

            “Strange that you didn’t mention it last time you visited me. Oh, can I bring the dogs?” Jesus smiled at his only admirers.

            “I have brought a heroine who will lead us forth in victory,” said Mo. Mo turned around as a girl in a robe and hajib approached. “As soon as you have finished your math homework, Malala, we can get started.” Mo looked at me. “Despite what you may have heard, I actually approve of women’s education.”

            “I confess, O Prophet, that I didn’t finish problem number three,” said Malala. “That double integral is a killer.”

            “Well, time is running out. You can finish later. I feel that we should get this done before God finishes his rant. Say, where did you Americans find this guy? We have some blowhards down in the Arabic countries too. Why not one of them? Well, no matter. Once we are finished here, there won’t be any need for any of them. Well, Malala, it’s your show now.”

            “Hehya!” Malala cried, and jumped up in the air. “Bear but a touch of my hand,” she said to Jesus, who didn’t have to even grasp her hand in order to suddenly rise, healthy and whole. We all ran down the dungeon hall. The only one huffing and puffing was Al, who told me he had eaten too much crow in the Senate Cafeteria.

            When Henry VIII saw Malala, he didn’t even have time to say anything. She yelled, “Begone, Piggly Wiggly!” He shriveled up into a little waif who struggled to get out from under the weight of gold and silver and silk and jewels and silk and silver and gold. Maybe he could start his life over again and get it right this time.

            We were outside in the Heavenly City, and we ran down the street. We came to the Great Wall that God had built. Malala jumped up and gave the wall a horizontal kick. It fell down like a line of dominoes. All of the men turned and looked at her. A fire came out of her mouth and evaporated the cloud the men were sitting on and they fell down and splatted on the glassy sea. So did all the Christian and Muslim fundamentalists who had been shooting each other. God hid behind a curtain. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” he yelled. But Malala tore down the curtain and wrapped God in it and marked the package “Return to sender” and put American postage on it.

            “You go, girl!” said Mo as we all ran after Malala.

            Then Malala found the cranberry woman and stopped in front of her. “I can’t give you a brain but I can give you the next best thing!” she said, and handed the woman a diploma.

            The assembly of souls down in Hell all gathered for the celebration. They clapped for Malala, who smiled so big that you could hardly see her face. Mo stayed out of sight and just enjoyed everything. There were special chairs for Moses and Andrew and Peter and all the others, but they chose to sit on the ground in a lotus position. Everyone cheered as Jesus got up on the big platform that had once held seven billion poor people.

            Jesus officiated over the reunion of Charles and Emma, and over the marriage of Philomena and Stonewall. And then it was reefers for everybody! And afterwards, everyone was very hungry.

{end of email}

            Postscript: I suspect, after reading these last emails, that Our Man In Hell was either dreaming—for how else could the Afterlife have people in it who have not yet died?—or having a hallucination. But I had to pass them on to you, because although I cannot verify their authenticity, neither can I prove them to be fraudulent. You be the judge of the truth, literal or otherwise, of these dispatches!

Emails from Hell, part eighteen.

Our visitor is about to see God Himself!

{beginning of email}

            “Frankenstein, come hither posthaste!” yelled Henry VIII.

            A man with dark hair and dark framed glasses came running. “Yes, your majesty.”

            “Another peon who wants to see inside of God’s Assembly,” the King-turned-Chamberlain said.

            “I’ll see to it right away, Your Majesty,” said the man, bowing deeply. Andrew chose to stay behind. The man led me through a dark hallway.

            “Are you, I mean, the real Frankenstein?” I was frightened in the darkness. “The monster?”

            “Actually,” he man said, “Frankenstein was the scientist who made the monster. Who wasn’t really a monster until the fundamentalist villagers started shouting out for his blood, or whatever he had, to be shed. And my name isn’t Frankenstein. It’s Franken. Al Franken.”

            “Name rings a bell,” I said.

            “Don’t tell Fatso who I really am. I was a comedian back in the United States. Then I got elected to the Senate from Minnesota. And, much to my regret,” he said, stopping to speak to me directly, “I stopped being funny. I regret that. The Senate was so fucked up that they really needed a comedian. Once the Republicans took over, the Senate was so dysfunctional that it would have been a comedy in itself if it weren’t so pathetic. But wait till you see this!” He continued leading me.

            He opened a little panel so that we could see The Assembly of God without being seen. About a hundred souls who had been white men were assembled in an amphitheatre. Communion was being served. Barbecue instead of bread, sauce instead of wine.

            “I thought all these jokers were out shooting and being shot by Jihadists,” I said.

            “They take turns. They come here every seventh day, or what would be every seventh day if we had days up here. Oh, here He comes.”

            And my eyes beheld God.

            A man who looked a lot like Henry VIII stood on a dais. His hair looked like he had held the blow-dryer in the wrong hand. He wore a New York suit.

            “I love you all!” God yelled. He men cheered loudly. “But I’ll tell you whom I do not love. All of those bleeding-heart liberals!” The men cheered more. “When I first came up here and assumed the role of God, a lot of bleeding-hearts were getting in, right through the gate! Can you believe it!” Some of the men shouted yes, some shouted no. “But we got that straightened out. We built a big wall to keep them out, and made St. Peter obey new orders, ones issued from me! Now the only problem is that Virgin Mary. She keeps trying to sneak people in. Just like those women who sneaked people into America from Mexico. Come to think of it, Mary looks sort of Mexican or whatever. She must be hysterical. And even though she is a virgin, she must be bleeding out of her whatever.” The men cheered.

            “We have a special guest,” said God. “May I introduce to you Vladimir Putin.” The men cheered. “Now, here is a real leader! He knows how to stand up and get his way! You do what he says, or its polonium for you! He endorsed my presidential bid, you all remember. And red-blooded Americans, such as you all were, appreciated the endorsement of Comrade Putin!” More cheering. Putin gave a lippy smile, waved, and sat back down.

            “And now, for entertainment, we have the one and only graduate of My University. Let’s hear it for Supply-Side Jesus!”

            A man dressed in a jester’s costume jumped up on the dais.

            “There’s Jesus!” I said. “I thought Harry said he was second to God.”

            “This isn’t really Jesus,” said Al. “This is just a comedian. And not a good one. I could do better.”

            “Greetings, everyone! I just flew in from Jerusalem and my arms are tired!” The men cheered. “And, being Jesus, even though I flew, my robe was not the least bit sullied or ruffled. And what a robe! I paid handsomely for it! Because of the money I paid for this robe, ten craftsmen were able to feed their families! And because of my money, I was able to hire a pedicurist too.” He stuck out his sandaled foot. “Wouldn’t you like to kiss these little piggies? The pedicurist used to be a prostitute, but now she is living up to her full potential as a woman!”

            “Outrageous,” I said. “But kind of funny.”

            “Well, he should be. Most of what he is saying he plagiarized from one of my books.”

            Supply Side Jesus continued. “Back when bleeding hearts used to get in here, one of them asked me whether I should feed the lepers. But that would just make them lazy! And maybe I should heal the lepers? But no! If I just healed them, there would be no incentive to avoid leprosy!”

            “I think I’ve seen enough,” I told Al.

            “No, you haven’t,” he answered.

            Just as Supply Side Jesus was saying that wealth was a sign of God’s favor, I said, “Oh, but I have. I’m about to…can people vomit in Heaven?”

            “You’ve seen enough here,” said Al, closing the panel. “But there is someone you should see.” He led me back down the hall. Just as we were leaving the crowd behind, I heard God say, “I love you because you first loved me.” We turned into a dungeon corridor.

{end of email}

Tune in next time to find out whom our Man in Hell saw in the dungeon!

Emails from Hell, part seventeen.

{beginning of email}

            It was easy for us to find the Chamberlain’s house. It said Chamberlain on the entablature in flashing neon. All the houses looked like the wood frame houses from a medieval village, all crowded together.

            The man who answered the door must have been an impressive piece of work when he was alive. He was tall, fat, and had red hair. He wore gold and silver and silk and jewels and silk and silver and gold. He had a crown on his head. He yelled at Andrew. “Andy, if you weren’t Pete’s brother, I’d have your head struck from your neck. Not that it would do any good, of course. And who is this miserable commoner?”

            [Response omitted]

            “And why should I let this person in to see God?” Then, to me, he said, “Kneel down before me, you loser. Grovel! Don’t you recognize me?”

            “And if I don’t grovel?” I asked.

            “Look, Harry, do I have to remind you each time? I don’t tattle on you when you come down to visit the whorehouse, so you let my guests in for a visit. That’s the deal. Grovel or no grovel.”

            “And no, I don’t recognize you,” I said. “But you look like a king of some kind.”

            “Took him long enough to figure that one out,” said the Chamberlain.

            “And you have a British accent. Harry. Wait! You can’t be…”

            “Oh, yes, he can,” said Andrew.

            I was standing in the presence of King Henry VIII.

            “Isn’t it kind of a step down to be a chamberlain?” I asked him.

            “I’ll brook no disrespect, no disrespect!” He was fuming and out of control. “One word from me and you will…oh, I guess you will not,” Harry said, calming back down. “A step down? Not really. I am second only to God, in Heaven as I was on Earth back when I not only was the head of but when I started the Church of England.”

            “Second to God?” I asked. “Aren’t we forgetting someone?”

            “I’ll explain it when we get back,” Andy said.

            “So, you want to see God? Well, he is a lot like me. He yells a lot, always angry; he has reddish hair; he demands deference from everyone who approaches him; and he has had lots of wives. Like me in all four ways.”

            “Gee,” I said. “I wonder who God could be? Someone who is angry, demands deference, has reddish hair, and lots of wives? And, of course, thinks he’s God.”

{end of email}

Tune in next time to find out who God is!

Emails from Hell, part sixteen.

Dear reader: We are about to reach the climax!

{beginning of email}

            “Well,” said Andrew. “It’s time our guest should make the pilgrimage to the Great Assembly at the Throne of God. No more telescopes for you, my friend.”

            “How does one get there?” I asked.

            “First, you enter the gate,” said Andrew.

            “But, they won’t let anyone from hell get into heaven, will they?”

            “The gates of heaven are presided over by Peter, who happens to be my brother. He’ll let me in anytime, for a visit, and whoever I bring with me.”

            So Andrew and I went off to visit heaven. We approached a large gate. A steady stream of people, all of them apparently Christian fundamentalists, walked on a yellow brick road that led directly to it. Dozens of them, but nothing compared to the many thousands of people who died each day around the world. There was a man with a big book.

            “The book is just for show,” said Andrew. “Peter actually uses an iPhone app to keep track of the souls who are entering into bliss.”

            “That’s Peter?” I exclaimed.

            “Why, yes,” Andrew answered. “He has a fishing hat on.” He did, complete with big hooks piercing the brim. “Who else could he be? We were fishermen when Jesus came along and invited us to follow him. He said, I will make you fishers of men. He didn’t mean it literally, since people catch fish by tricking them with lures or kidnapping them with nets, that is, catching them against their will.”

            “Some churches are like that,” I said.

            “True enough. But Jesus wanted people to follow him of their own free will. Jesus just said ‘fishers of men’ to be friendly to us. Ah, that was a long time ago.”

            Then one of the people on the yellow brick road started yelling. “I specifically asked for a condo with an ocean view,” he screamed.

            “All we have is the little hut in the nature preserve,” Peter told him. “But I assure you you will like it there. Lots of birds and flowers. And a pond. And, this being heaven and all, no mosquitoes. And a little creek with clear water. You can go fly-fishing.” Peter looked dreamily upward, as if he wanted to be at that little hut right now.

            “I don’t like fly-fishing, I like deep-sea fishing,” yelled the man. “I’m gonna sue!”

            “Where you going to find a lawyer?” asked Peter. The man had no response to that.

            Then Peter glanced over and saw us. “Andy!” he said. He put up a sign that said Gone To Lunch and closed the gate. People on the yellow brick road started shouting, but Peter told them, “You got all the time in the, er, world.”

            When Peter got to us, he said, “So, whom have we here?”

            [Response omitted]

            “And so you want to see God? Well, first you have to see his private chamberlain. But that can be arranged. Oh,” said Peter, looking inside the gate. “She’s at it again.”

            “Who’s at what?” I asked.

            “The Virgin Mary,” said Peter. “She’s always helping people sneak in.”

            As I watched, I saw a woman wearing a blue robe (ah, so the Catholics were right!) letting a rope down over the wall and helping people—usually people who had had some kind of physical deformity when down on Earth—over the wall.

            “She thinks they suffered enough down on Earth, and deserve Heaven,” continued Peter.

            “They don’t stay very long,” said Andrew. “Once they see what is inside, they come running out. But Mary just keeps fishing them in. Sorry, that phrase just kind of slipped out.”

            “Why has nobody on Earth ever heard of this?” I asked.

            Andrew answered, “Actually, one of your lesser-known authors, a certain Frank Harris, wrote a short story in 1924 in a collection called Undreamed of Shores, in which he described this very phenomenon. I was in it, and so was Peter. Jesus was in it too, and he expressed frustration at what his Mom was doing. The story was called St. Peter’s Difficulty.”

            “Yes, I liked that story,” said Peter. “Now, [name omitted], you just follow that road and you can’t miss the Chamberlain’s house. You going with him, Andy?”

            “I am, Pete,” said Andrew. And we went on and left Peter to his work.

{end of email}

Emails from Hell, part eleven

Yet more amazing adventures awaited our correspondent in Hell!

{beginning of email}

            “PSST!” I heard from somewhere off in the mists, which is what Hell has instead of clouds.

            We were all surprised. I was no longer the only one who seemed clueless about what was going on. We all looked around to try to locate the source of the sound.

            “Over here,” came a loud whisper.

            Philomena had returned from her conversation with Pope Francis. She had very acute hearing and located the person who had made the sound.

            “Why, look what the cat dragged in!” she said, as she pulled a spirit person out of the mists and into our circle of camaraderie. It was a man whose clothing had been made from a Confederate flag. “You must have done something really bad, to be a Confederate who ended up in Hell,” she said.

            The man introduced himself. “I am Stonewall Beauregard,” he said. “And, I will let you know right away, please keep me hidden. I have been condemned to Heaven, and I’m not supposed to be down here. But, I just needed to talk to someone who actually thinks about things. Say, Ma’am. What’s your name?”

            “They called me Philomena, and I was of African descent back on Earth.”

            Stonewall smiled broadly. “I am so glad to meet you.” He knelt down. “Please forgive me for siding with the Confederates. And all of the rest of you: Please forgive me.”

            “I forgive-a you,” said Pope Francis.

            “Me too,” said Philomena. “My ancestors were still in Africa during the Confederacy, so my forgiveness doesn’t mean much. I was born in Benin. I suffered a lot of prejudice when I moved to America, but not from Confederates.”

            “Ah, there’s where you err,” said Stonewall. “I did not live during the Confederacy of 1861-1865. I lived in Oklahoma in the twenty-first century. I was one of those Confederate sympathizers. I drove a big truck around with Confederate flags flapping from it. Then I had a little too much to drink and ran my truck into a ditch. Soon as I woke up, there was a welcoming committee for me in Heaven. The Confederate sympathizers who had gone before me were playing in a big band. Dixie, of course, but also The Bonnie Blue Flag. I should have been happy but, you see, I felt guilty when the welcoming committee greeted me. I did not feel forgiven for the way I had lived, until this very moment. What joy you bring me, Philomena, and—who did you say you were, sir?”

            “Call him His Holiness,” said Karl.

            “Don’t-a call me that-a,” said the Pope.

            “I’m so ashamed of the way I behaved on Earth,” continued Stonewall. “And I’m even more ashamed of the way the other guys behave up in Heaven. You know what they do all day?”

            “Yes,” I said. I have described the daily ritual in Heaven in an earlier dispatch.

            “I’m going to have to get back before they miss me. Back on Earth, I used to slip into the bushes to read inspirational books by Frederick Douglass and Booker T. Washington and Martin Luther King. I told everyone I needed to go see a man about a dog. But up here, we don’t have bowels so I can’t make that excuse any more. But I am so glad I found all-y’-all.”

            “Please feel free to come by for a visit when you can,” said Andrew.

            “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for a whole pot of crawdads,” said Stonewall. “And especially meeting you, Miss, or Ms., or whatever…I forgot your name…”

            “Philomena,” she smiled.

            Stonewall pronounced her name like it was a delicious piece of chocolate spread all over his spiritual teeth. He and Philomena held hands a little longer than was necessary before he shot back up to Heaven.

{end of email}

Emails from Hell, part eight.

Here is another email I received from our correspondent in Hell. Guess whom he meets this time!

{beginning of email}

            “HUT, two, three, four, HUT, two, three, four…” The man, wearing what appeared to be a World War Two American Army uniform, marched along. As he drew closer, I saw that his simple uniform bore a lot of insignia. He turned and saluted us—me and John and Joe and some others—and kept marching.

            Curious, I called out to the man. He stopped, at attention, then turned in military style toward me. “At ease,” he commanded himself. Then he slouched a little and sauntered over to us. He sat down.

            “You wouldn’t mind telling me who you are, would you?” I asked.

            “MacArthur, Douglas, General, serial number 3-point-14159.”

            “A nice round number,” John whispered to me.

            “If captured, we can only tell the enemy our name, rank, and serial number, which they can read off of our dog tags,” said General McArthur.

            “I would say I was surprised to see you here, General, but I just finished speaking with the pope. You were one of the most famous men in American history, but coming right after His Holiness…”

            “Right.”

            “Well, sir, might you tell me why you are down here in Hell?”

            “I served at the command of a socialist president, for one thing,” the general said.

            “Ah, yes. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, author of Social Security, the New Deal, and lots of social services. I assume I will meet him sooner or later. Socialist as he was, he was so popular that he had to die to get out of office, and Americans had to add an amendment to the constitution to keep it from happening again. Four terms! You said, for one thing. What other reason?”

            “I was the Supreme Allied Commander in Asia,” he said. “Eisenhower’s counterpart.”

            “Yes. Go on.”

            “In August of 1945, the Empire of Japan surrendered unconditionally.”

            “Yes, they did. Soon afterwards, the Japanese people heard the voice of an Emperor, for the first time in history, telling them they had to accept this defeat. Go on.”

            “Unconditionally,” said the General.

            “Your point?”

            “That means that our troops could have run all over the place raping and pillaging to their hearts’ content.”

            “But,” I said, “they didn’t. Two reasons. First, they were for the most part humanitarians, and they did not want to act like madmen. Second, you commanded them not to. At first, some of the American soldiers consorted with Japanese women, but not, as I understand, by force. But then even that stopped. But what I don’t get is how that landed you in Hell.”

            “Well, I disobeyed the Bible,” said the general. “In Deuteronomy 7:2, God commanded the Israelites to show no mercy to the inhabitants of the conquered land, to utterly slaughter them, and to make no treaties with them. I disobeyed all of those commands. We showed mercy to the Japanese, and even helped them start their economy back up. We made treaties with them and even wrote their constitution for them. This constitution included a provision that they would not have an army capable of fighting outside of Japan itself, a provision that persisted until the year 2016.”

            “But, sir!” exclaimed I. “That was a brilliant move! Japan grew rapidly and became one of America’s best allies, which was important for our security and for world peace! Why, sir! They loved you! When you said you wanted to run for president, some of them put up campaign banners for you! The banners said…”

            “Yes, I know,” said the General. “They said, we play for your erection.” John started laughing but the General said, “No, seriously, they did. But great idea or no, it was a direct violation of God’s command.”

            “In the Old Testament, not the New,” I said.

            “The fundamentalists who get to choose who goes to Heaven and who doesn’t use Old Testament rules,” the general reminded me.

{end of email}

Emails from Hell, part six.

The sixth in a series of email dispatches I have received from our correspondent in Hell.

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            As Joe, Andrew, and I came back from lunch, we saw the spirit of a young woman sitting on a rock, looking very despondent. I started to ask my companions why she was sad, but Andrew said, “You’d best go talk to her yourself.” They left me alone.

            I walked up to the young woman and introduced myself. She looked up and gave me a little smile, then resumed her somber, pensive stare at nothing. I could tell that while she was alive she was attractive in a petite, small-faced sort of way. Maybe it was her big eyes, but I had the impression that she did a lot of thinking and reflecting back before she was in hell, too.

            “So,” I said, “I’m new here, so you pretty much know what I’m going to ask you.”

            “I was a history teacher,” she said.

            “That doesn’t exactly answer my question. Why should a history teacher be in Hell?”

            “I was a history teacher in Oklahoma,” she said. “Does that help?”

            “Not really,” I said.

            “I taught AP history,” she added.

            “As in, advanced placement?”

            “Yeah. High school kids could take AP courses and get college credit. It helped to reduce college expenses and also it helped them get into the better schools. I didn’t get paid very much. Teachers in Oklahoma barely get paid enough to survive on.”

            “But, it sounds like you were doing a valuable service to your students,” I said. “I still don’t understand. How could the conservatives—the ones who get to determine who goes to hell or not—possibly object to that?”

            “It was the content of the course,” she said. “That’s why they outlawed it.”

            “When did they do that?”

            “January of 2016. I stopped teaching it when it was outlawed, but I was still guilty of having taught it.”

            “You put some stuff into your course that the conservatives didn’t approve of?”

            “Actually, it is a nationally standardized course. I only taught what the course required. Oh, and I didn’t get paid much.”

            “So, let me get this straight,” I said. “The conservatives in Oklahoma sent you to hell for teaching a nationally-standardized history course. So, what was in this course that they could have objected to so strongly?”

            “They said that high school history teachers should just teach good things about what white Americans have done, and none of the bad things. So, during the course, I taught that Europeans introduced diseases such as smallpox that killed up to 90 percent of the Native Americans. I taught about the genocide—I didn’t use that term at the time; I do now, because it doesn’t make any difference anymore—of Native Americans at the hands and bullets of the white Europeans and, later, white Americans. And I taught about slavery. And I didn’t get paid much. Did I say that already?”

            “But, those things all happened, didn’t they? Slavery and all?”

            “And more, but I could barely scratch the surface of the evils that white oppressors inflicted upon non-whites.”

            “Well, if you were to not teach those things, what exactly were you supposed to teach?”

            “Watch your head,” she said.

            “That’s impossible. Nobody can watch his or her head. Your eyes are inside of your head, and you can’t see your own head…Ouch!” A large object hit me on the head that I was not watching. It knocked me to the ground. Of course, being a spirit, I could not die. I looked at the object. It was a large, leather-bound book. I heard loud laughter from above me, coming from Heaven. I looked up and saw the spirit of a fat white man pointing at me and laughing more.

            Then I looked at the book. It was engraved, Oklahoma Version of American History. I went over to pick it up. I opened it randomly in the middle. It was a pop-up book. Up popped a cardboard cartoon version of a Pilgrim man with musket and white collar and black hat. There was also a cardboard cartoon of an Indian, with feathers, begging him for mercy. I read the accompanying text. “The Pilgrimes brought Christianity to the Injuns, and if they had only humbly accepted it, this glorious gift from the Conqueror God, then it would not have been necessatory to kill them.”

            I opened to another page. Up popped the cardboard simulacrum of an Indian with sores covering his skin. The text read, “God sent smallpox and other diseases as punishings against the Injuns for not accepting His Holy Word.”

            Another page showed a well-dressed, clean black slave smiling as he picked cotton. “Most slaves had a lot better life on the plantation than they did back in Aferca.” Right then, from inside the spine, a Confederate flag on a penile pole popped up just as straight as you please.

            Another page showed Native Americans being herded into forts by white soldiers.

            “This must be the Cherokee Trail of Tears,” I said.

            “Every tribe, all five hundred of them, had their own Trails of Tears,” said the teacher.

            The text said, “While in forts and later on reservations, the Injuns lived on welfare handouts from the white government. The government gave them flour, salt, oil, and baking soda. They should have been thankful that we encouraged them to invent frybread.”

            On another page, a big penile oil derrick popped up. The woman gagged just a little when she saw it. “That was my least favorite part,” she said.

            The text read, “The Injuns in Oklahoma had land with oil under it that they could not use, so the white Americans had to take it away from them.”

            I was getting tired of this. As if she read my mind, the woman asked, “Are you getting tired of this?”

            “This is what they wanted you to teach?”

            The voice from Heaven laughed loudly again.

            I hurried to the end. The last page said, “All true history comes from the Holy Bible. Throughout the six thousand years of human existence, white people have been God’s people, starting with Adam and Eve…” Who were, of course, standing right there, in the altogether but tastefully hidden by leaves and fruits and snakes and mushrooms and beavers.

            I slammed the book shut. At that moment, I noticed a little filament connecting the book to Heaven. The filament yanked the book right back up to the fat man, who threw it back down. This time it handed on the woman and squished her. She was a pile of guts, but slowly she reformed into a woman—even her spirit-clothes were clean again—and the book flew back up to heaven. The man threw it down again, and pulled it back up.

            “You should get out of here,” I said.

            “And go where?” she asked.

            “Advanced placement classes help students get into good colleges, and help them afford college, any college. Oklahoma legislators were willing to close that door of opportunity for their own students?” I was puzzled.

            “They considered it a small price to pay for proving to everyone that they were God’s chosen people on Earth,” she said. “They underfunded education, refused to raise the minimum wage, refused to allow unions, gave the oil companies anything they wanted—they basically insured that Oklahoma would be a source of cheap labor and raw materials for the rest of the nation and the rest of the world.”

            This time the book hit me. After I reformed, I answered her question. “Join us. John, Andrew, Joe, Mickey, and the others. We’ll form a little discussion group and go around looking at things. And if the book lands on the rest of us, I think we would gladly put up with it for the pleasure of your company.”

            “That is the nicest thing anybody ever said to me…”

            I told her my name. She was Philomena. I think she had been black back when she was on Earth, but she had blanched so much from depression that it was hard to tell.

            “One last question,” I said. “Doesn’t that man up there ever get tired of throwing the Book at you?”

            “No,” Philomena said. “These are the people who seriously think you can be happy by sitting around the glassy sea and chanting praises to the Lamb with the Seven Horns nonstop forever.”

            We rejoined the others and I introduced her, to the great pleasure of my friends.

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