The Flat-Earthers

What you don't know could fill books from here to eternity

A communist-era guard tower on the Romanian-Hungarian border, taken from the train. There was a line of them, stretching off to the horizon.They're not there anymore. Too bad. They should have made a museum of them.

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He sits there, wringing his hands and saying, “But I’ll fall off!” A friend says, “Nonsense! The earth is round! You won’t fall off.” Others, who have never been there but have read lots of books, shake their heads and frown: “Don’t do it. No one has ever come back.” And they go about their flat-earth lives, tightening down their flat-earth proofs and teaching each new generation how to live flat-earth lives.

There is a God in heaven. He knows everything and tells us, from his infinitely high perspective where he sees everything, that there is no edge. “You can’t fall off! Why won’t you believe me? I know. I see. I’m telling you: you can go into your horizon. Don’t listen to the flat-earthers. They don’t know what they’re talking about. They couldn’t: they’ve never tried.”

We say, “But don’t people who do that die?” And God says, “Sure, everyone dies. But not because they fall off.”

“But it’s a difficult life, out ‘there’. ”

“It’s a difficult life everywhere. Life is tough.”

“But I know how to live here.”

“Oh, I think we all know that’s not true!”

“What about my children?”

“What about mine?”

“But I have a house, a job, my children are in school and have friends, and... I have debts.”

“Wow! Really? I had no idea!”

“Now you’re being sarcastic.”

“Yes, but if I know everything about you, don’t you suppose I know everything about the horizon too?”

“But if I don’t take care of my family I’m worse than an unbeliever.”

“And if you do you’re no worse than an unbeliever?! That’s your life goal: to be no worse than an unbeliever?”

“But you said it.”

“Actually, Paul did. But I’ll back him up on that.”

“And... ?”

“The horizon won’t harm your children.”

“But they’re children. It’s too much to ask.”

“Fine. But after they’ve turned 18 you will give me the rest of your life. Deal?”

“But what about my grandchildren?”

“I’m not asking you to move to Mars! They have these things called airplanes now.”

“You’re being sarcastic again.”

“No, I’m being realistic. Okay, have a good life. I’ll catch you on the flip side.”

“Well... okay. But there’s still heaven, right?”

“Heaven’s past the horizon.”

“What does that mean? I can’t go?”

“Now you want what’s past the horizon?”

“Yes! But after I die. Will I go to heaven?”

“Will you do what I want then?”

“I thought heaven is a place of rest. Abraham’s bosom.”

“Abraham did everything I asked. I wanted him to have the joy of welcoming his people so I gave him that. He’s a bit 50-50 on it now. Turns out it’s not so much fun sometimes. I told him he could take a break after the crucifixion but he said no: I want to finish it. It won't be much longer.”

“Huh?”

“You do know that no one stays in heaven, right? After I create the new earth you’ll be resurrected and live there.”

“And the new earth is past the horizon too?”

“Way past.”

“What is the horizon?”

“Everything you don’t know.”

silence.

“Look, if I let you do what you want here, and if I let you relax in heaven, and if I put you on the new earth to live forever, will you do what I ask then?”

“Forever?”

“Of course not! Only the first half.”

“You’re making jokes and I’m having to make a serious decision?”

“The question is simple. Do you want to go there or not?”

silence.

“You’re thinking about it ?!”

“You’re asking me to make a decision when I have no way of knowing what I’m agreeing to.”

“If I remember correctly, that’s how this discussion began.”

silence.

“Look, you have lots of time. You’ll be 48 when your youngest child turns 18. I’ll give you the first half of your life and you give me the last half. You’ll live until you’re 96, and I won’t ask you to do anything in heaven. Okay?”

“What if I get Alzheimer’s or something? 96 isn’t so great if I’m in a nursing home.”

“It would be so much better if you trusted me.”

“But how can I know? How can I make such a serious decision without knowing?”

“You can’t. That’s why you need to trust me.”

silence.

“You have a lot to think about.”

“This doesn’t seem fair. I have to decide right now about the rest of my life, and heaven, and the new earth?”

“Yes. You do. That’s the deal. That was always the deal.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“I agree. It’s not right for them to tell you what's beyond the horizon when they don’t know. But I do know and I’m telling you.”

silence.

“Take some time. Think things over. Decide if you can trust me or not, and we’ll talk again.”

silence.

We listen to our fears instead of God. He tells us the truth (God cannot lie!) but it’s too frightening so we develop a logical explanation for why God doesn’t expect us to do it. Ever. We invent impossible scenarios to prove it can’t be done (Come on! No one can sell everything!), why it shouldn’t be done (Sell my house? Quit my job? Then who would support the missionaries?), why we are doing it already (our church supports over 50 missionaries), why God doesn’t want me to do it (it’s hyperbole), why I am not going for the right reasons (if God “called” me I’d go), and why it may apply to someone else but not me (obviously God called them).

Seriously: if we weren’t afraid of what’s out there our view of the word of God would be completely different. We like Jesus’ words only if they don’t require us to do something fearful. If it is fearful we invent a way for him to not say what he said.

We say Jesus didn’t say it—not because there is something unclear in what he said—but because we can’t let his words be true. It costs too much. He wants us to go; we want to stay. He wants us to give; we want to keep. The demands are too uncertain, too frightening.

The only true issue is, can we trust God? There is no confusion in the Hebrew or Aramaic or Greek. We know what he says. We know that he tells us—loudly, clearly, frequently—to go, to give, to follow.

Living as flat-earthers is offensive. God is up there. Guiding. Leading. We huddle in our homes, afraid of the horizon, inventing plausible-sounding explanations for why we don’t have to do it.

I’ll tell you a secret. There is a horizon. It’s not like a rainbow that moves away as we chase it. If you walk toward the horizon, you’ll get there. There is a definite ending to what you know and a beginning to what you don’t.

But there is no unknown. He knows. And he doesn’t like it at all when we tell him, “Sorry, that’s just not good enough.”