Infinitely Greater than Sports Cars and Sports: Pondering Heaven

"Oh, Bob's up there right now, putting for Birdie on the 18th on that flawless last hole in the skies."

You've heard drivel like that, too, at funerals all the time: "Aunt Madge loved to swim, you know. Can't you just see here up there, soaking in that crystal sea?"

But it's not just lay people who talk this way. I remember pastors talking about heaven. One particular case I remember involved cars. This pastor loved cars and he pointed out (in all seriousness) that "his" heaven is going to be filled with fast cars. In fact, he went on to say that heaven without cars wouldn't be heaven.

Another pastor I remember gave a sermon once pointing out that he loves to work, loves to be busy. "His" heaven, he said, "would be a place where he'd have a job to do."

We all think this way to some extent: we all have notions of what heaven will be like, of what heaven will contain.

But we also have ideas about what we hope heaven will not be like. Not too long ago, I was talking with a friend about Rob Bell's new book, Love Wins. In the course of the conversation, my friend pointed out that he agreed with Bell that it's a scary thought to imagine (as some do) that heaven is an eternity of us sitting around on clouds, stroking harps. "I mean, really" my friend explained, "who'd want to spend an eternity doing that? Wouldn't it get monotonous after just a couple songs?"

I've had the same thoughts. In fact, I've always imagined heaven to be composed of big (but easy to climb) hills. Hills that overlook valleys of flowers and tall grass, valleys filled with butterflies and absolutely NO mosquitoes or biting flies. A place of constant fallish weather (oh, about 70 degrees with a mild breeze) and, of course, no rain. I imagine spending my time sitting on one of those hills, watching the world below and relaxing. Like one big, long vacation.

When I'd read about the elders in Revelation, how they'd throw their crowns around the throne of God and fall down and worship on a regular basis, I'd get scared. I'd worry that all of heaven was going to be like that: all praise and no fun.

But it hits me now what a sad, misunderstanding of God all of these ideas represent.

Once we enter eternity, we're not going to be thinking about sitting on a happy little hill or our short game or taking a dip and catching some rays. Once we're in eternity Porsches and BMW's aren't going to matter.

We'll find ourselves in the presence of God. Not some boring, benign, grandfatherly figure who spends his day strolling through the rolling hills with bluebirds perched on his outstretched fingers. No. We will be in the presence of God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth.

We will be in the presence of the most Ancient of all Beings--a pure Spirit--less an old, wrinkled man and more a burning, consuming fire.

We will see a Being that our brains cannot even begin to fathom here on earth. And at the same time, we will see ourselves.

We will see ourselves as God sees us. We will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the depth of our sins. We will know the pain we have caused our Father. We will initially mourn the hours we wasted on earth worrying about cars and golf and all that stuff. And we will know that we are only there by the Grace of that God and the Sacrifice of His Son.

And when we realize that: that we owe everything to this God who pulled us up from the depths because He loved us, we will kneel and we will worship with a depth and reverence greater than anything we've ever felt on earth.

It's ridiculous to think that when confronted with the presence and reality of God Himself we would choose to give even a single thought to a driving a fancy red car around swerving "professional driver on a closed course" hills or a golf ball over heavenly fairways. It's silly. It's sad.

God Himself is there--the point of and reason for our very existence--and we think we'll be interested in looking at or thinking about something else? Something less? And then we take it a step farther and tell ourselves that an eternity of praising God while we're in His presence is somehow "not heavenly enough?" That it's too boring? That we couldn't possibly spend an eternity doing that?

Instead, we will see the 24 elders around the throne and we will long to join in with them. Finally seeing our Creator and being able to bow and adore Him will be infinitely greater than sports cars and sports. To suggest anything less is to fail to grasp even the vaguest conception of God.

Tired of Thinking

For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.

I've been tired. Really tired. Almost too tired to think.

Now, that's played out in our home with our kids who ask about 1001 questions every hour, but it's also played out in my faith.

For example, I've been exploring Catholicism for about 2 years now. Maybe longer. It's been an interesting journey, the hardest part of which has been the constant perspective shifts. Growing up in a staunchly Protestant family, I naturally have held, up until the last couple years, staunchly Protestant beliefs. So, to think Catholic thoughts is taxing. To think that those Catholic thoughts might possibly be correct is absolutely exhausting.

Earlier this week, I was hanging out in an Adoration Chapel at St. Francis parish right by my work. In the course of the time I was there, I found myself trying to come to terms with the Catholic concept of the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. When my brain basically shut down at that point and said, "sorry, we're done here," I pretty much threw up my hands.

I was just too tired to think this stuff through anymore. Too tired to keep slogging uphill to overcome my previous beliefs and entertain thoughts of this new and ancient faith. I'd try to think about it, try to come to terms with what I believe, and my little brain would just shut down. No more juice.

To be honest, the whole experience made me angry. Faith shouldn't be this hard. I'm doing the best I can--I'm struggling to know the Lord better. I'm not sweating blood, but I'm sweating.

Well, I was sitting there, getting all angry and bent out of shape--you know, railing at God a little bit for making things so complicated--and then the verse above hit me: "and that (faith) not of yourselves: it is the gift of God."

Suddenly, things made sense: I've been struggling to grow my faith. I've been digging in and trying to do the lifting myself. But that's not how it works. Faith isn't something I pull off. It's a gift.

God is watching me struggle around on my own--watching my frustration and my exhaustion--and He's likely thinking: ask me, stupid. I'm waiting to help.

That all went through my head in a split second and I sat there for a few minutes longer before asking God to increase my faith. And suddenly, the load was lifted. It wasn't up to me anymore to shoulder the weight. It was only up to me to be ready and willing. God's here and he's looking for work.

The Shrine of the Cross in the Woods

This year on our vacation, we went to the Shrine of the Cross in the Woods in Northern Michigan. We all enjoyed this place immensely, spending at least 3 or 4 hours scattered over 2 visits.

Here's what the kids thought:

The First Ringing of the Alarm

He who does not love does not know God; for God is love.

--1 John 4:8

The phone call came as a bump in my morning, a little bump in the normal, steady flow of the day. The buzz caught me off-guard--a bit of a startling intrusion that snapped me out of my own world of thoughts and got my heart thumping a little faster--the way the unexpected usually does. I looked at the caller ID, recognized the number and flipped it open.

My quick "hello" was greeted with a slower one--a quieter one--and I realized almost immediately that the reason for the call wasn't a happy one.

I listened to the bad news and I felt appropriately bad. I felt bad for the situation, bad for the people involved, bad for their kids, bad for their parents, bad for the whole stupid thing.

And then it was over. The conversation ended and I hung up the phone and I did what I had promised (because I'm such a profoundly Christian man): I said a prayer.

"Dear Lord, please be with so and so and help them with such and such. They're in a tough situation, Lord, which you, of course, know. In fact, I probably don't even need to say that. I mean, the part about their situation. You were there for the phone call--you know what's going on. In fact, now that I think about it, you were there before she even called.

In fact . . . and this is really cool, Lord . . . you were there when the situation occurred that prompted the call. Now that I think about it, you probably prompted the call to me in the first place--so I could pray for them. Wow, Lord--you're using me to be your hands and your feet. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for bringing this situation about so I could be like you. Amen."

And that was that. I didn't feel bad anymore. I'd listened. I'd prayed. I'd been Jesus to my friend on the phone.

And then I continued with my day. I dealt with work problems and work projects. I wrote a blog entry about paint, a couple radio shows for tomorrow, and I made notes and plans for a weekly Manager's Meeting.

Eventually, 2:15 pm rolled around and I decided to sneak out for lunch. Not to eat, but to pray.

I drove to St. Francis De Sales, parked outside the adoration chapel and let myself in using my card key (I feel very important with my card key and use it even when the door is not locked just because I have one).

I let myself in and glanced, as always, at the candle. (I don't know what this particular candle is called, but knowing Catholics as I'm beginning to, I am absolutely convinced that there's a special Latin name for it). Whatever it's called, it was burning and that meant the Lord was present, body and blood, soul and divinity in the Blessed Sacrament inside the tabernacle--or, as I often think of it: the little box in the center of the room.

Out of respect and adoration, I genuflected (a word that feels foreign on my tongue, but an action that feels perfectly natural given the scenario) and made my way to one of the kneeling benches.

And I began to pray. I prayed and prayed in that stifling, unventilated room. Sweat ran down my back, trickled over my arms and beaded on my forehead. At several points, I stopped and just sat there for a few seconds, wishing they had a shower here for when I left. (And then I spent a few seconds wondering if that was irreverent.)

After a long time of praying and sweating and thinking about showers and the True Nature of Irreverency, I shifted off the kneeling bench and slumped back into my chair. I checked the clock: It was almost time to head back to work. I decided that for my last few minutes, (because I'm quite big-hearted and like to let God do His thing from time to time), I'd sit silently and let God speak to me.

Now, I'll be honest and admit that God normally doesn't speak to me when I do this. I just sit there in silence for about 10 seconds and then my brain thinks it hears something and says: "Was that Him?" And then I listen really hard for about 10 more seconds. "Nope. Just a bird. Out by the window. Oh yeah, there he goes. What's that thing he's got? A cigarette? Oh, no--it's a sucker-stick. Wonder where he picked that up? What's he doing with it? Taking it to his nest? Do male birds even have nests? I bet they don't make them themselves. Probably just find one that's already done and . . . what was that? Was that Him?"

I normally do this for about 5 minutes and then I just figure God doesn't have anything to say and I go back to asking for things.

Well, today I sat there, staring at the Tabernacle, imagining Jesus standing right in front of me, trying to wrap my brain around the Catholic idea of the Eucharist. And while I sat there, doing all these things, a sudden, single thought shot through my head: "You go through all of this but don't love."

Reading it just now, it seems vague. But when I thought it today, I didn't have to ask what He was getting at or if it was really Him speaking. I knew the answer to both questions: It certainly was Him and He was talking about my phone call from earlier today. Or rather, He was using my phone call from today to make a larger point about my life in general.

It was painfully clear and painfully painful. In the 10 minutes or so that followed, I very clearly was confronted with the ugliness that our words can so easily hide. I realized how I can muster some emotion when necessity dictates. I can feel bad when I should. I can get a lump in the throat when things call for one, but that's about it.

There's no way in this world that I can say I feel another's pain as if it were my own. I don't churn and ache inside when friends struggle through tragedies. I don't lose sleep over their hurts. I rarely even lose my appetite.

Oh, I like to think that I'm Jesus' hands in this world, but I realized today how much of a sick joke that thought really is. Jesus touched lepers: I can't even google images of lepers. Jesus built His life around the needs of others: I cringe when the phone rings because I'm afraid somebody might ask something of me. Christ wept. I yawn and look at my watch.

God made it abundantly clear to me today that Love bleeds and cries. Love doesn't "feel bad". Love doesn't "say a prayer" and then move on. Love is aching muscles, blistered feet and dirty hands. Love is inconvenient. But the amazing thing is that it's only inconvenient in the beginning when it's just awakening.

When Love finally opens it's eyes, it hungers. It hungers to give and touch and heal and carry and it won't be satisfied until it's poured itself out at the feet of another.

Because that's what Love did.

For me, I've got to be honest: Love's still sleeping. But maybe morning's coming. Maybe today was the first ringing of the alarm.