Why Am I So Afraid of Getting It Wrong?
Hell does not exist, I try to tell myself.
When my parents told me about hell, I believed them.
I mean, I was four years old.
Which is the perfect age to talk to your child about eternal damnation. Have them take a break from playing with their toy truck and sit them down to discuss what happens when they die. Hey, if they’re old enough to be hit every few days with a windshield wiper (doesn’t leave any marks) when the express age-appropriate emotions — I mean disobey (because of original sin) — they’re old enough to be tricked into accepting Jesus as their Lord and Personal Saviour.
Hey kid, let’s talk. Do you want to spend eternity in lake of fire with unbelievers and whoremongers?
What’s a whoremonger?
It’s a person who has has repeated dealings with a prostitute.
What’s a prostitute?
See that woman over there, yeah, our neighbor. See how she’s wearing all that horrible makeup and that short skirt? That’s a prostitute, okay. But’s let not forget the real issue. Do you want to go to heaven to be with Jesus and mommy and daddy and all the people from our church (well, maybe not Tanya or Rachel or Evan, we don’t actually think they’re real Christians).
