When I Think of Heaven...

“When I think of heaven (Deliver me in a black-winged bird)

I think of dying

Lay me down in a field of flame and heather

Render up my body into the burning heart of God in the belly of a black-winged bird”

- “Rain King” by Counting Crows

If you want to spark a really interesting conversation, ask someone what they imagine heaven to be like.  In a flash, it leads one to consider the sometimes anxiety-ridden reality of death and whatever profound hope they have for the other side of it.  It is awash with fear and precious longings, longings that reveal a lot about the current struggle and sense of meaning in one’s life. 

Some have standard, predictable musings on the landscape of heaven, replete with golden gates, St. Peter’s ominous book, and cherubim-shaped hedges that are always fully grown and perfectly manicured (unlike the dolphin bush people grow by their pool that is never quite finished and often resembles a cage of leaves with a only one distinct flipper). This is surely the iconic picture of heaven, (or the St. Regis) but is it what we really long for?

At funerals I hear people speak about a different kind of heaven, one in which the beloved is surrounded by a throng of relatives and friends who have long anticipated their arrival.  In this heaven, the exquisite hedges and chocolate fountains are completely irrelevant, lost in fact, against the brilliance of smiling faces and the sweet lull of familiar voices.  They are the same voices that you remember rocking you to sleep as a child, nestled on a warm lap, during the later hours of a family Christmas party.  The dimensions of time and space begin to taper off into cloud dust.  The big book of judgment is nowhere to be seen.  It is the heaven of familial comfort and timeless, relational bliss.

But what of the almighty God, where and when does this figure emerge?  The classic Christian theological portrait of heaven is one in which we are consumed in perpetual adoration of the face of God, caught up in musical rapture with the angels and cherubim, forever loving and forever loved.  This vision does not concern itself with multiple longings; there is only the one, all-consuming desire that draws us like moths to a flame, uttering ecstatic cries of holy, holy, holy. 

I clearly remember one conversation about heaven that I had with a group of fellow Religious Studies majors (surprise, surprise).  My friend, Jessica, startled me with a very perceptive interpretation of the beatific vision, saying, “I do believe that to be in heaven means to be completely selfless, as in losing yourself to something greater.  I can imagine heaven like that because as I reflect upon the most joyful times of my life, I notice that they are all moments in which I have simply forgotten myself in loving another person or in giving myself to a greater cause.”  Jessica’s words lingered with me for a while.  She was right, real ec-stasy means the annihilation of the ego, an out-of-oneself experience.  The paradox, as most mystics would suggest, is that as the self is absorbed it is not lost but fully realized in the presence of this greater Beauty.  And so St. Teresa of Avila can claim, “Any real ecstasy is a sign you are moving in the right direction, don’t let any prude tell you otherwise.”

Over the years I have repeatedly returned to this vision of selfless ecstasy, asking whether I am developing a taste for a heaven such as this by practicing selfless acts of love here on earth.  My idealized self would probably think and dream and pray with this beatific vision in mind, but more often than not, my real self is starting from a different place, one that must acknowledge the wearisome persistence of suffering.

In truth, my personal yearnings of heaven have formed like inkblots on tear-stained pillows.   Any time that I have had to surrender a lost love, unrequited desire, or daily frustrations, I have found myself praying that God would hold that broken thing, that expansive aching, which I cannot bear myself.   But you see this is a conditional surrender I’ve worked out with God.  I boldly expect that everything entreated to God will be given back to me in some mysterious way when I reach heaven.  I trust there will be answers for the absurd bouts of suffering and if not answers, certainly the kind of touch that tenderly acknowledges hurt and in doing so, absolves us of the need for an answer.  In this heaven, every tear that is wiped away, for petty and noble reasons alike, is not lost at all but gathered into something merciful, like a shower of stars that trickles across every sore on your body until the old wounds begin to dazzle.

My dreams of heaven are not particularly sophisticated or selfless.  They are not born on clouds but in the dirt, out of my encounters with suffering, which are ubiquitous to every human life.  They come from a very intimate and visceral ache, a place filled with many wordless groans.  Yet, if you are not permitted to pray or dream with your gut, in artless groaning, where shall that grumbling find peace?  I am not beginning with an abdication of self, but with a very intentional surrender of all the parts of myself that ail.  And, for that matter, I do not think that the relational heaven of family and friends is that far removed from the theology of ecstatic union with God.  I mean who doesn’t get swept away in a crowd of loved ones?  What is the mystical Body of Christ if not cosmic web of relationships made whole? 

All of these visions may be mere intimations or child’s play. But I think that if they are moving us at all towards ecstasy or helping us to recognize shivers of heaven and ultimate meaning on earth then they are serving their purpose well.  Dreams of heaven are telling and they matter deeply for the here and now; Even as I await the perfect healing of all that is soaked within my pillowcase, would you believe I am kissed?   Not completely healed, but undeniably kissed.