Where in the 'Hell’ are you?

When Adam and Eve were cast out of the Garden of Eden, they were not merely expelled from a place of abundance—they were severed from the immediate presence of the Lord. There, they walked with God, their lives always in His light and love. But with their transgression came exile, a step beyond the divine veil, and in that separation, the seeds of hell were sown. Scripture and theological thought suggest a profound truth: to be out of the Lord’s presence is itself a form of hell, and the further one drifts—or is driven—away, the deeper the torment grows.

 

Since the presence of the Lord is the source of peace, joy, and wholeness, Eden was not just a physical paradise but a spiritual communion, where humanity stood unashamed before its Creator. Cast out, Adam and his posterity entered a world of toil and estrangement, a state of existence diminished by the absence of that divine nearness. This initial separation marks the baseline of hell—not fiery pits or gnashing teeth, but the aching void where God once was. It is a condition of being unmoored, a soul adrift without its anchor.

 

Yet, this is only the beginning. Sin, like a relentless wind, pushes us further from that lost shore. Each act of rebellion, each choice to defy the Lord’s will, widens the gulf. The further we stray, the greater the hell we inhabit—not merely as a future punishment, but as a present reality. To live in sin is to pile distance upon distance, layering darkness over the faint memory of light. A lie might nudge us a step away; malice or pride might hurl us miles. The degree of hell corresponds to the degree of removal—nearness to God brings life, while remoteness breeds despair.

 

This is not just a matter of geography, but of the soul’s orientation. Hell deepens not because God withdraws, but because we do. Out of His presence, we are already in a state of loss; sin amplifies that loss, turning exile into agony. The scriptures warn of this trajectory: to be “to be shut out from God's presence” (2 Nephi 6:3 CE) is torment enough, but to persist in wickedness is to dig deeper into the abyss. The further we flee, the more we feel the weight of our own making—a hell measured not by flames, but by the fading echo of divine love we once knew.

 

Thus, the story of Adam’s fall is a mirror for us all. Out of the Lord’s presence, we taste the bitterness of hell; through sin, we carve its depths. Redemption lies not in erasing the distance overnight, but in turning back, step by repentant step, toward the One whose presence alone can heal the hell we’ve wrought.

So, where in the 'Hell' are you? Think about it--just for the Hell of it.

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved

 

Challenge of the Kings - and the rest of us

The Weight of the Crowd: Pontius Pilate, King Noah, and the Sway of Public Opinion

In the accounts of sacred scripture, two figures stand similarly at a crossroads of justice and power, each poised to release an innocent man yet ultimately yielding to the clamor of the crowd. Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea, and King Noah, a Nephite ruler from the Covenant of Christ/Book of Mormon, faced parallel dilemmas: Pilate with Jesus Christ, and Noah with the prophet Abinadi. Both men, vested with kingship-like authority, wavered under the pressure of public opinion, choosing short-term expediency over long-term righteousness. Their stories reveal a striking similarity in human nature—the tendency to bend before the cries of the masses, even when the stakes are eternal—and offer a profound lesson on the frailty of leadership when divorced from moral courage.

 

In parallel scenarios, Pontius Pilate’s encounter with Jesus Christ, as recounted in the New Testament (Matthew 12:17-33 RE, John 10:1-16 RE), is a study in conflicted authority. As governor, Pilate held the power of life and death over his subjects. When Jesus stood before him, accused by the Jewish leaders of claiming kingship, Pilate found no fault in Him. “I find no fault in this man,” he declared (Luke 13:15 RE). He sought alternatives—offering to release Jesus as part of a Passover custom, suggesting a lesser punishment of scourging, even sending Him to Herod. Yet, the crowd’s relentless shouts of “Crucify him!” (Mark 7:21 RE) drowned out his instincts. Fearing a riot and the potential loss of his precarious standing with Rome, Pilate washed his hands of the matter, condemning an innocent man to the cross.

Across the ocean and centuries, in the Book of Mormon, King Noah faced a similar test with Abinadi (Mosiah 7-9 CE). Noah, a wicked ruler who indulged in luxury while his people languished, was confronted by Abinadi’s bold prophecies of doom unless they repented. Initially, Noah ordered Abinadi’s death, but the prophet’s divine protection stalled the execution (Mosiah 7:19-20 CE). One of Noah’s priests, Alma, pleaded for Abinadi’s release, believing his words (Mosiah 9:1 CE). For a fleeting moment, Noah wavered—perhaps sensing the truth in Abinadi’s message or fearing divine retribution. Yet, the outrage of his corrupt priests, who demanded Abinadi’s death, tipped the scales. Noah relented, and Abinadi was burned alive, his warnings unheeded (Mosiah 9:5 CE).

In both cases, the innocence of the accused was evident to the rulers. Pilate explicitly acknowledged Jesus’ lack of guilt; Noah, though less vocal, showed hesitation that suggests an awareness of Abinadi’s righteousness. Both men stood on the brink of releasing these figures—Christ, the Son of God, and Abinadi, His prophet—yet the cries of the people proved too potent a force.

 

In the clamor of the crowd, what force compels a man, even one with kingship powers, to falter in such moments? The answer lies in the intoxicating sway of public opinion and the immediate pressures it exerts. Pilate and Noah, despite their authority, were not immune to the human desire for approval and stability. Pilate governed a volatile province under the watchful eye of Emperor Tiberius; a misstep could cost him his position or life. The Jewish leaders’ threat—“If you let this man go, you are not Caesar's friend!” (John 10:10-11 RE; TSJ 11:13 RE)—struck at his political survival. Likewise, Noah ruled a court of sycophantic priests whose loyalty propped up his decadent reign. To defy them risked unraveling his power base, a prospect too daunting to contemplate.

This capitulation reflects a shortsighted calculus: the preservation of status in the here and now. Pilate chose peace with the mob over justice for Jesus, believing it would quell unrest and secure his tenure. Noah opted for the approval of his priests over the prophet’s call to repentance, preserving his indulgent lifestyle. In both instances, the roar of the crowd drowned out the whisper of conscience, revealing a shared flaw—prioritizing fleeting safety over enduring truth.

 

Consider the short-term pressures vs. the long-term benefits.The irony is stark: what seemed expedient in the short run proved disastrous in the long term. Had Pilate released Jesus, he might have faced a temporary uproar, but history could have remembered him as a just ruler who defied the mob to spare an innocent man—the Messiah. His name, enshrined in the Apostles’ Creed (“suffered under Pontius Pilate”), would bear a different legacy, one of courage rather than cowardice. The long-term benefit of aligning with righteousness could have outweighed the immediate backlash, granting him a moral victory transcending his temporal rule.

For Noah, the stakes were equally high. Releasing Abinadi and heeding his call to repentance might have spared his people bondage under the Lamanites and preserved his kingdom. Instead, his decision to execute the prophet fulfilled Abinadi’s prophecy: Noah himself died by fire at the hands of his own men (Mosiah 9:17 CE), and his people suffered captivity. The long-term benefit of embracing truth—divine favor and a reformed nation—was sacrificed for the short-term comfort of silencing dissent.

 

There's a natural anxiety when confronted with competing options. The parallel between Pilate and Noah underscores a universal tension we all have: the battle between immediate pressures and eternal principles. Both men wielded significant power, yet their kingship faltered when tested against the crowd’s fervor. This waffling stems from a deeper human condition—the fear of loss, whether of power, prestige, or life itself. It’s a fear that blinds leaders to the broader horizon, where justice and integrity yield lasting rewards.

Pilate’s hand-washing and Noah’s acquiescence to his priests are acts of abdication, not authority. True kingship, as exemplified by Christ and echoed in Abinadi’s steadfastness, holds firm against the tide, valuing righteousness over popularity. Pilate and Noah, in contrast, reveal the peril of leadership and life tethered to the whims of the moment rather than the anchor of truth.

 

So, what's the lesson? The stories of Pontius Pilate and King Noah compel us to ask: what sways us when the stakes are high? The cries of the crowd—be they literal voices or the subtler pressures of societal expectation—still echo today, tempting us to trade principle for peace. Yet, the long-term benefits of standing for what is right, as history and scripture attest, far outweigh the fleeting relief of giving in. Pilate and Noah, men of power who waffled, serve as cautionary tales: even kings fall when they let the mob rule their hearts. In the end, it is not the crowd’s approval but the quiet verdict of conscience—and of God—that endures.

Your kingdom may be small but you indeed are the King or Queen of it. What kind of ruler are you?

 

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved