Can You Pass the Test? Choosing Love Over Dogma.

Listen to the full podcast episode, including a group discussion.

By Aaron Van Voorhis, Lead Pastor at Central Avenue Church in Pasadena, CA

A few weeks ago, I came across a story from the ancient Hindu epic, the Mahabharata. It tells of a king who dies and arrives in paradise, only to discover that his family isn't there. They're suffering in hell. 

The king asks the god of death to take him to them. When he sees the people he loves in torment, he's devastated. After a while, the god tells him it's time to return to paradise. 

But the king refuses. 

"I can't enjoy heaven while my family suffers," he says. "I'll stay with them." 

The god smiles. 

"You have passed the final test," he says. "Take your family and enter paradise together." 

When I first heard this story, I couldn't help wondering: What if this were the real test? 

More importantly, aren't many Christians already facing this very question?

Can We Really Enjoy Heaven While Others Suffer?

If we believe that people who don't believe the "right" things, or belong to the "wrong" religion, or fail to say the correct prayer will suffer eternal torment, what does it say about us if we can accept that without protest? 

How could anyone experience perfect joy while knowing loved ones are being endlessly punished? 

There's something deeply unsettling about that picture of the afterlife. 

Ironically, the king in the Mahabharata reminds me far more of Jesus than the common image of Christians comfortably celebrating in heaven while others suffer below. Jesus consistently taught self-giving love: 

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for another. 

The king refuses paradise if it means abandoning the people he loves. 

That feels remarkably Christlike.

The Test We Face Today

During Pride Month, I find myself thinking about another kind of spiritual test. 

Many Christians sincerely say something like this: 

"I really wish I could affirm LGBTQ people. I love them. They're my friends, my family members, my children. But I have to obey what the Bible says." 

I used to make that argument myself. 

But there's something fascinating hidden inside it. 

When someone says, "My compassion tells me one thing, but God requires another," they're unintentionally admitting that they believe they're more compassionate than God. 

Most people resolve that tension by saying God's ways are simply higher than ours. Even if God's commands appear cruel, we must trust them anyway. 

But notice what's required in order to make that move. 

You have to distrust your own moral conscience. 

You have to silence empathy. 

You have to override compassion. 

I don't think that's faith. 

I think that's failing the test. 

Passing the test means trusting that love, empathy, and human flourishing are not obstacles to knowing God, they're among the clearest ways we encounter God.

The Bible Is Full of People Who Argue With God

Some people assume that faith means unquestioning obedience. 

The Bible tells a different story. 

Abraham challenges God's plan to destroy Sodom, asking: 

"Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?" 

Moses argues with God after the golden calf incident, pleading with God not to destroy Israel. According to the story, God changes God's mind. 

These aren't examples of weak faith. 

They're examples of courageous faith. 

The faithful person isn't someone who shuts off their conscience. 

The faithful person wrestles. 

Questions. 

Pushes back. 

Seeks justice. 

Even when doing so means challenging long-held religious assumptions. 

This has always been part of the Jewish tradition. The Talmud itself is essentially centuries of rabbis debating Scripture with one another. Wrestling with sacred texts isn't rebellion. 

It's faithfulness.

Where Did Biblical Inerrancy Come From?

One of the biggest obstacles to this kind of faith is the doctrine of biblical inerrancy: the belief that every word of Scripture is without error because it comes directly from God. 

Many Christians assume this belief has existed since the earliest days of the church. 

It hasn't. 

The modern doctrine of biblical inerrancy emerged in America during the late nineteenth century as a response to new challenges from science, historical scholarship, and biblical criticism. As discoveries about evolution, history, and the origins of Scripture raised difficult questions, many religious leaders responded by insisting that the Bible must be completely free from error. 

In many ways, inerrancy was a reaction to a church experiencing a crisis of authority. 

Understanding that history changes how we think about the doctrine today.

Every Christian Cherry-Picks

Here's something I freely admit: 

I cherry-pick. 

I choose to emphasize the biblical themes of love, justice, mercy, compassion, and liberation over passages that endorse slavery, patriarchy, violence, or exclusion. 

I'm comfortable saying that because I don't believe the Bible is flawless. 

It's a deeply human collection of writings that reflects centuries of people wrestling with God. 

But here's the thing. 

Everyone cherry-picks. 

Conservative Christians do it too. 

The difference is that biblical inerrancy often prevents people from admitting it. 

Once you acknowledge that Scripture contains tension, disagreement, and development, discernment becomes necessary. You have to ask which voices in Scripture lead toward life and which reflect the limitations of their historical context. 

That's not abandoning the Bible. 

That's taking it seriously.

We're Responsible for the God We Proclaim

I believe we're responsible for the image of God we present to the world. 

If our theology harms people, excludes people, or drives people away from love, then it's worth asking whether we've misunderstood God. 

The church should always be challenged to read Scripture in ways that are liberating rather than oppressive, healing rather than harmful, loving rather than fearful. 

Especially when it comes to LGBTQ people.

What Does It Mean to Pass the Test?

To be honest, I'm not entirely comfortable with the language of "passing the test." 

It can sound like we're earning God's approval. 

That's not what I mean. 

Passing the test simply means letting go of beliefs that no longer produce life, and embracing ones that do. 

It's the work many people today call deconstruction. 

That process isn't easy. 

It can feel disorienting. It can shake your faith. It can require grieving beliefs that once gave you certainty. 

But reconstruction is possible. 

And if you're reading this, there's a good chance you're already walking that road. 

You've chosen compassion over fear. 

Curiosity over certainty. 

Love over exclusion. 

I want to encourage you to keep going. 

Because whenever our faith becomes more loving, more just, and more life-giving, I believe we're moving closer, not farther, from the heart of God.