From the Rector…
Years ago, I took a group of youth to Orlando on a mission trip. We partnered with the Episcopal Diocese of Central Florida and several youth groups from across the country for a weeklong building and VBS project in a government housing community that was home to more than a thousand families. Our youth were divided between the “sports camp” and the “littles camp” for children ages five to seven. They had a great time, as evidenced by their smiles and engagement with the kids.
At the end of the first day, everyone gathered under a large pavilion for a puppet show. Right before it started, one of my youth came to me because she was concerned about the message the show was giving. She had been recruited as one of the puppeteers, but she was unsure whether she should participate. After a brief conversation, I realized why she was so troubled. In the storyline, her puppet’s dog died. When the puppet asked the priest puppet if her dog would go to heaven, she was told no—dogs did not go to heaven.
Elizabeth, my youth volunteer, firmly believed that dogs did go to heaven, so this line in the play deeply upset her. I told her I would speak with the person in charge. After a few minutes, however, I realized the conversation was not going anywhere and went back to Elizabeth. I told her the decision was hers. She could opt out, and I would support her and explain that she could not participate, or she could continue with the performance. She chose to go ahead with the play.
After we had cleaned up, prepared for the next day, and boarded our bus, we had a deep theological conversation about the puppet show. Several of the youth were upset by what had been said because they, too, believed that all dogs go to heaven.
For the record, I believe all dogs go to heaven. When God created humans and animals, God breathed life into them. The Hebrew word often associated with that life is nephesh, and it is used in scripture for both humans and animals. Nephesh is often translated as “living being” or “soul.” God breathed that life into everything that draws breath. When we die, I believe that life returns to God—which is why I believe all dogs go to heaven.
I sometimes wonder why we feel the need to draw such sharp theological lines around questions like this. What is gained by telling a group of children that their beloved dog will not be in heaven? It seems unnecessarily harsh. I don’t often offer easy answers simply to make someone feel better, but the truth is that none of us can speak with absolute certainty about what eternity looks like for God’s creatures. So why insist on certainty where mystery exists?
I suspect part of the answer is that some people believe faith is strengthened by having definitive answers. But faith is not the same thing as certainty. Faith requires trust, humility, and a willingness to live with mystery. For many people, mystery is uncomfortable. I understand that impulse, but I also think something important is lost when faith becomes more about possessing answers than living in wonder.
A faith built entirely on certainty leaves little room for awe, curiosity, or holy imagination. And perhaps those questions—the unanswered ones—are part of what draws us deeper into the mystery of God in the first place. I don’t know if all dogs go to heaven for certain. But I’m not sure I want to go to heaven if there aren’t any dogs there. And yes, I believe all cats go to heaven too…though I am certain they only go if they want to.
Light and Life,
Candice+