As a student at Princeton Theological Seminary, I chose Near-Death Experiences (hence, NDE) as a topic for an educational psychology paper. I spent two weeks in the Psychological library of Princeton University, poring over every issue of the Journal of Thanatology, gathering the most professional NDE data I could find. Upon graduation and ordination, in my first church in Dallas, Texas, my hard work as a student was blessed by a whopper of an account: 

Bob was one of those highly-motivated Bible students you love and endure simultaneously. He was a devout, well-informed follower of Jesus. He had several mail-order degrees from magazine-ad Bible colleges, none of which I knew, which means he was in my office twice a week to challenge me on the finer points of scripture and doctrine. 

Bob entered the hospital with a massive stroke and was there for months. Elders and I prayed over him, anointed him with oil, and waited. He was moved to intensive care, and we awaited the phone call telling us he had gone to be with his Lord. The phone call came, but it wasn't what we expected. 

Over the phone, his wife pleaded with me, "Please come; Bob woke up, and I think he's been to hell—all he kept saying was 'I don't want to go back! I don't want to go back!'" I zoomed to the hospital, knowing that this was likely an NDE. When I entered the room, Bob looked relieved and pleased to see me. I sat down and asked him to tell the story from the beginning. I should say that Bob was not entirely as he was; he was emotional and poetic, and his heart was on the surface, eager to please and lovingly warm—very unlike the Bob I had known. He began: 

“I went there! I was in heaven! And Pastor, it's all just like it [the Bible] says. Everything was gold: the streets were gold, the buildings, the statues—everything—and it's not like the gold here. Oh, Pastor, you're going to love it! The gold there was pure. It was so pure you could see through it. It was so pure it made you pure to be near it. I wanted to see Jesus; I wanted to be with him, and I could tell where he was, and I went to him, but there were huge golden doors with no handles on them, so I started knocking and praying and asking to be let in. This guy comes up to me and asks me what I'm doing. I said, ‘Jesus is in there, and I want to be with him.’ He says, ‘You can’t.’ I asked why and he said, ‘because Jesus needs to be alone sometimes.’ I didn't like that, so I said, ‘Well, who are you?’ He said, ‘Paul.’ And I said, ‘Paul, who?’

At this point, Bob's eyes seemed filled with authentic shame, and his face folded up in tears like a small child’s: “He said, ‘PAUL!’ And I felt so embarrassed. But then others were there: Philip and Bartholomew and others. And it was so wonderful being with them; you could ask them anything, and they'd tell you.”

I interrupted Bob and asked him what they talked about and for how long. He said a long time, but he could remember nothing of the discussion. There was a break in Bob's memory of the experience at this point, but it picked up again toward the end. 

“I finally got to see him[Jesus] and Pastor; it was so wonderful! It is what we're made for—I was on my face before him, and was everything complete and perfect. I just wanted to stay there forever—someday we will—and you're going to love it. To be there praising him was the completion of my soul. It is for all of us. But after a while, Jesus said I have to go back, and I said, ‘WHY?’ [when he said this, it was whiney like a child] He said I had more to do, but I didn't want to go. Finally, I said, 'Okay, Lord, whatever you want, and I started getting pulled away from him. It was the most painful thing I can imagine feeling—to be so near him and then being drawn away—it was impossible, and I changed my mind, and I pleaded: 'I don't want to go back! I don't want to go back!'“ Again, these were the words he said aloud as he sat up in ICU out of his coma.

I asked him if there was anything he learned of the mind of Christ while he was there--could he remember anything Jesus had taught him or revealed. He seemed to be searching and unable to remember anything, but then it came to him in a flash: 

“Oh yes, there's one thing. Do you know how churches always fight and argue about their differences and all the different splits and denominations? Jesus hates that!” 

This was from the mouth of one obsessed with right-thinking, correct interpretations, and proper doctrine. 

I promised Bob that he would have the chance to share his story with the congregation in time. He remained in the hospital for several more days and was released. The stroke had caused him uncontrollable drooling and weeping, but he was sound in mind and retraining himself for public life. 

He and his wife returned to church about six weeks later. I asked him if he was ready to tell his story to the congregation sometime soon, and he said, "What story?" I later sat down with him and recited his account to me verbatim, and he remembered none of it. 

Two signs of his experience lingered: one was his solid, convictional faith in Christ, and the other was an event I observed during Sunday School. As I walked around checking on the different classes on Sunday, I listened at the door to a discussion involving Bob. The subject was death, and Bob—now usually rather quiet—piped in: "You don't have to worry about death! There's nothing to be afraid of at all!" I stepped in and challenged him: "How do you know that, Bob?" He looked at me as though I had questioned the most obvious fact in the universe. He seemed to be searching for an answer—or the source of his conviction—and said, "It's in the Bible!" I smiled and nodded. †