Heaven & Hell

If you know me at all, you’d probably know that I am one of the few true loyalists of the whole “subjectivism” paradigm.

Subjectivism, as opposed to Objectivism, is a philosophical belief that an individual’s own subjective experiences and beliefs shape the way their reality exists. In other words, it’s a religious person’s worst nightmare(and for that matter, of a person of science as well). I believe that anything I say is true ONLY in confines of my own world shaped through my eyes and ears. It ceases to be an all-the-mighty truth or a hard-and-fast rule when it leaves my bubble of reality. In simpler words, I don’t really believe that there is a right and wrong. Something along the lines of “what YOU believe in YOUR heart and soul to be right and wrong is YOUR right and wrong, and what I believe in MY heart and soul to be right and wrong is MY right and wrong”.

But fuck that. That’s just some nauseating psychobabble and it’ll probably hurt your head because it hurts mine. I am not a philosopher because frankly I don’t fucking know OR care to even attempt to answer the mysteries of the universe. But I am a storyteller. So I do care about telling stories of these very mysteries of the universe.

But to set the stage, I wanna acknowledge that subjectivism is not a fun idea. And although it sounds quite noble in it’s all-loving, all-accepting, tree-hugging hippie nature, it offends more people than you’d think. But I’ve seen the world through this belief for as long as I can remember seeing OR believing. So I really couldn’t tell you when this belief came to blossom in the backyard of my brain. But again, I can tell you some stories of when that belief has flourished in that backyard.

Today’s story is from my high school days when I was too busy doing pretty much anything but high schooling. I would get some cancerous Lays bags, get in bed, and rewatch the same movies I’ve probably watched 17 times before. One of these days of hedonism comes a rewatch of Dead Poets Society(1989).

And not to spoil anything if you haven’t already watched the movie, which to be honest you probably should, but somewhere in the film, there’s a funeral. A very christian funeral. I remember watching this scene and somewhere along the way, I heard them sing this painfully beautiful(and apparently quite a popular) church hymn.

And especially in those days I didn’t care much about religion but something about this hymn I found so beautiful. I made quite the effort to find what the hymn is called because I wanted to hear more of it so I happen to stumble upon this version of it on YouTube:

And I am was just sitting there on my shitty old MacBook on my shitty old desk listening to this otherwise grander-than-life thing, and I felt a sea of emotions stab their way through my chest. Just the beautiful grandiosity of this congregational song felt so bittersweet. And I proceeded to read the comments and these new worlds opened up. I got a glimpse into hundreds of lives lived and forgotten. I read stories of these people’s sorrows and griefs and how their faith has brought them peace and beauty:

I am a bit of a cry baby and I could never explain to people the weight of being able to understand others people’s grievances. People treat stories like disposable tissues. Like their tiktoks they can swipe away but I don’t have that ability.

Somewhere along the way I read this one person’s comment that I can’t find anymore but that went something along the lines of:

“…this was my mother’s favorite psalm and she’s not with me anymore but I am at peace knowing she’s in heaven because God will not turn her away for all that love…….”

Just about killed me the way he wrote this.

I grew up in a place where people tell you you’re going to hell for not being a Muslim. And in that moment, I am living in that place but I just couldn’t bring myself to believe it.

Because for that one moment I am reading this comment, I am living the life of this person who’s not Muslim and in that life: my non-Muslim mother wakes me up on that sunday morning in spring when the sun is sharp but the wind is chilly. I take a cold shower to wake myself up. She makes me scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast and makes me say grace before I eat. And I’ve lived many such mornings filled with love and beauty. Until one day I have to wake her up because she’s old and needs my help. We never miss a Sunday. Until she has to. She’s gone but I still go to Church. I still sing the hymns she sang. Because I know she was right. And I know that she’s in heaven because of all the love she spread. Because of the way she lived up to the teachings of Jesus.

When I come back from this life, I can ask my Muslim friend and he will tell me it’s “haram”(prohibited/illegal in religion/unliked by god) to even listen to this hymn let alone sing it in a church.

And I don’t know about you but I can’t bring myself to believe it.

I wanna end this here by saying: I am unfortunately quite a selfish and self-obsessed person but I am also a person who was raised to be compassionate and empathetic. I am the kind of person who cries all night when I see a movie character commit suicide and I am the kind of person who lives another life just reading two lines about it. I am a person who doesn’t know if that person’s mother is in heaven or not, or if there even is a heaven or not. But I am not the kind of person to say she isn't. I am the kind of person who doesn’t believe you’re going to hell for doing what you know and believe to be right.