Hope

Asking For a Friend - What Actually Happens in Heaven?

Luke 23:39-43

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” 

But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” 

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come in your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”


We don’t talk much about heaven. And when we do, it’s not with much substance — like that old Norman Greenbaum song: the place we go when we die, the place that’s “the best.” as if heaven were some never-ending worship service in the sky. Some ask the question why talk about heaven at all?

The argument goes: “Why waste time on heaven when there’s so much work to do here on earth? Doesn’t talk of heaven distract us from fixing what’s broken now?” And that feels like a fair point. Why talk about heaven today when two children were killed this week while praying in pews at a church in Minnesota? Shouldn’t we be advocating for gun reform and better access to mental health care? Of course we should.

But thinking about heaven doesn’t have to be an escape hatch from the world’s pain. It isn’t wishful thinking or some bribe for good behavior. Rather, how are we to make things on earth as they are in heaven if we don’t have the slightest idea what heaven is like?

C.S. Lewis once wrote: “Aim at heaven and you’ll get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you’ll get neither.”

So it is worth our time, especially today, to ask what really happens in heaven — to have a picture vivid enough to stir us. Because maybe, just maybe, with a stronger and more compelling image of heaven, we can make this earth resemble it more, and less the kind of place where parents are afraid to send their children to school.

But first, let me free us of two things.

First, heaven is not a never-ending worship service. Could you imagine showing up only to find yourself stuck in an endless 1st or 2nd service — refrains on repeat, blaring organ music, the same prayers over and over? That's not what I want to do for eternity! Surely there are better ways to be with God.

Second, much of Christian tradition describes our final fulfillment as the beatific vision—seeing God face to face, fully and directly, instead of through the symbols and metaphors we cling to now. 

But until then, all we really have are symbols, theological concepts, and imagery: the golden streets, the white robes, the river of life, the crowns of glory. They’re not literal blueprints of the place; they’re faithful attempts to describe the indescribable, whether they come from the Bible or the best theologians.

Which means we’re free. Free to use Scripture, tradition, and our own lives to imagine heaven faithfully. We should take our own reverent best guess at what it might be like. And that’s what I want to do with you today, my reverent best guess at what happens in heaven through four images.

Josh Noem, a Catholic writer and baseball lover deserves credit for the inspiration of this idea. He made a post that went viral with the caption “I collect images of walk-off home run hitters rounding third because they are an image of heaven.”

On a Sunday in August seven years ago, a rookie named David Bote stepped into the batter’s box for the Chicago Cubs. The Cubs were down by three. Bases loaded. Two outs. Two strikes. And then — on the fifth pitch — Bote crushed a ball to center field. A walk-off grand slam.

That night, the Cubs released a photo of Bote rounding third and heading home. You can see the ecstasy on his teammates’ faces, the sheer joy of his coach, the wild cheering of fans — even Bill Murray was crying in the stands.

I think heaven begins like that. The saints who have gone before us surround you, waiting to embrace you. You will be one of the saints waiting to embrace others! The multitude too great to count, like Revelation describes, erupts in cheers. And at the end of it all, God — like that third-base coach — looks you in the eye and says, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

It’s Jesus who hit the home run. But we get to round the bases and go home. And when we do, there will be celebration.

If the first thing in heaven is celebration, then the second is healing.

Bandaids are a big deal in my house right now. Every time someone gets a boo-boo, my son Clive thinks we need a bandaid — the dog included. Stubbed toe, scraped knee, headache, doesn’t matter: everything and everyone gets a bandaid.

But there are no bandaids in heaven.  From the prophet Isaiah to the vision in Revelation, one of Scripture’s clearest promises about heaven is that God will wipe away every tear, 

that there will be no more pain, no more suffering. Paul says in 1 Corinthians that our bodies will be raised — the same bodies, but transformed. The hurts, the failures, the agony we carry will be changed into glory.

And if Jesus’ resurrection is any sign, we will still bear our scars in heaven — they’ll still mark our story — but they will no longer hurt us. And the same is true, not only for us, but for all living things, in fact all of creation. Isn’t that what we all hope for? Healing for ourselves, for our loved ones, for all creation.

In heaven, there will be no bandaids. And because there will be no wounds left to cover and healing will be complete, there will be no need for hope either.

After we celebrate and heal, we feast! yes – there will be eating in heaven… I was concerned. But not just any meal, a feast. One of the most beautiful pictures of this comes from the story Babette’s Feast. Babette, a refugee from Paris, lands in a nowhere Norwegian town where she is taken in by two devout Lutheran sisters. Their father had been the pastor of the village’s only church, but since his death, the congregation had withered, burdened by grudges and old conflicts. 

For what would have been his 100th birthday, Babette offers to prepare a great feast. What begins as a stiff, awkward gathering soon becomes something altogether different. 

As the wine is poured and the rich food is savored, something more than good cooking is at work: hearts begin to soften, laughter replaces suspicion, and forgiveness flows as freely as the wine. What seemed impossible at the beginning of the meal—reconciliation— happened, 

all by the time dessert was served.

There will be feasting in heaven and I think it will be like this feast. As Isaiah envisions, we will sit at the table with those with whom we’ve been estranged, even those we never imagined we could forgive—or be forgiven by. It will not happen in an instant. But as the feast unfolds, course by course, grace will work on us. Understanding will deepen. Forgiveness will be given and received. 

And by the time the great banquet reaches its end, all will be reconciled—fully, finally, and joyfully.

I know I haven’t answered all the questions: When do we go to heaven? Is it right away, or do we sleep first? What about our relationships — will they change? Will I still have to… you know poop!… since there will be all this feasting? There are more questions than I can count.

But here’s the promise I hold onto when the questions overwhelm me: fishing in paradise.

Of all the images, metaphors, and concepts we have, the clearest promise comes from Jesus’ words to the thief on the cross: “Today you will be with me in paradise.” That promise isn’t just for one person, or one moment. It’s for you, for me, for every sinner who has been crucified by their sin and raised to new life in Christ.

I believe, then, what happens in heaven is this: it’s you, and you, and you, and me, and Jesus will be there too. We’ll learn, we’ll grow, and grace will continue to work on us, until, like that John Prine song says, we forgive each other — over and over, until we both turn blue. And then, maybe, we’ll whistle and go fishing in heaven. We will live together in harmony, all of us, all creation, with Jesus in paradise.

You see, when it comes to paradise (heaven) it’s not the questions that really matter, but the promises. And the perfect promise is “today you will be with me in paradise”. 

And that promise is better than any reverent best guess we can come up with.

If only we celebrated each other now, if we worked toward healing now — for our neighbors, for our world, for ourselves — 

if we sought reconciliation today rather than waiting, then perhaps what we hope happens in heaven could happen right here on earth. 

Maybe then we wouldn’t be so afraid to send our children to school because earth would be like those images, those promises we have of heaven.

As you leave today, these images are laid out in the welcome area. Take the one you need for the week ahead — the one that encourages you, challenges you, or comforts you. 

Let it be the image that inspires you to make earth a little more like heaven.

Amen.

Human-Shaped Hope

Mark:13:24-37

“But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened and the moon will not give its light. The stars will be falling from heaven and the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in the clouds’ with great power and glory. Then he will send the angels to gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.

“From the fig tree learn its lesson. When you see its branches become tender and begin to put forth leaves, you know that summer is near. In the same way, when you see these things begin to take place you know that he is near, at the very gates. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all of these things take place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

“But about that day and hour, no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware; keep alert, for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man, going on a journey, who puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know when the master of the house will return, in the evening, at midnight, at cock-crow, or at dawn, or else he might find you sleeping when he comes, suddenly. Therefore, what I say to you, I say to all, ‘Keep awake.’”


I don’t think Jesus is coming back any time soon. I’m not sure if it’s more or less faithful to say that, but it’s how I feel and how I live much more often than not.

I had a seminary professor who claimed to love a cloudy day because he liked to look up and watch for Jesus to show up from behind the next cloud, at any given moment, like this Gospel reading suggests. He was – and I imagine, still is – one of the smartest Bible scholars I’ve known. He was – and I imagine, still is a level-headed, rational, wise, and faithful believer, too. And I imagine he’s still waiting on a cloudy day and watching for Jesus. More power to him, but I’m not that guy. And more on that in moment…

I don’t know how much is too much news to consume about the hostages in Israel and Gaza, but I suspect I’ve seen more than my fair share. I can’t fathom the fear of being held captive, in the dark, in those underground tunnels. I can’t grasp the anxiety of the loved ones who wait and worry and wring their hands for the next list to be announced and for their loved ones to come home.

And, even more, I can’t stop thinking about the kids. The infant boy who was still nursing when he was taken. The four-year-old girl who finally made it home – but only to her aunts, uncles and siblings, because her parents were both killed; and not really “home” because the house she lived in was destroyed and no longer exists.

But the one who gets me most is the 9-year-old little girl, named Emily, whose father was told had died very early on in the attacks, news for which he claimed to be grateful and relieved – because he believed her fate and suffering would have been worse as a hostage all of this time. It turns out she wasn’t killed, after all, and she made it out alive. But when she was returned to her dad, she would or could only whisper. For fear … or because of the demands of her captors over the course of her captivity … or probably both … this little girl couldn’t or wouldn’t speak in her normal voice. Her dad had to put his lips to her ears to hear anything she wanted to say. And the sadness and fear in his own voice as he described that was heartbreaking and terrifying in its own way.

So, I wondered what this Gospel reading might sound like to one of those hostages and to their family members.

“In those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened and the moon will not give its light. The stars will be falling from heaven and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.”

I wondered that because, this has always sounded like bad news to me … the sun extinguished … the moon dead … the stars falling like shrapnel … the heavens trembling.

But what struck me this time around in a new way, is the hope I wonder if Jesus intended by promising all of it, “In those days, after that suffering…” I wonder if those hostages – or anyone in a similarly desperate, terrifying, sufferable set of circumstances – would see a kind of hope in this, instead of the fear with which these apocalyptic passages are so often received. “In those days, after that suffering…”

See, I realize … and I need to remind myself … that I’ve lived a pretty selfish, self-centered, seemingly self-sufficient life for the most part. Most of the suffering I’ve experienced has been by proxy … alongside others … prayerfully and with, but not IN the depths of the suffering and despair I know others have known, and know as we sit here today.

Of course the hostages in Gaza and the prisoners in Israel – and the war and desolation, the destruction and despair connected with all of that – is one thing.

And there are so many other peoples and places consumed by suffering I feel like I can only watch from a distance, imagine, and pray about.

And I think about the devastating losses in our own community in just the last couple of weeks, too. The tragic, senseless, unnecessary, accidental death of young, beautiful lives full of so much potential and promise – like Lindsay Locker and Evan Neumeister – and what their families and friends suffer, still.

And I think about others we know and have loved who’ve suffered long illnesses – surgeries, medical treatments, mental decline, physical difficulty, chronic pain and all the rest. And the husbands and wives and families who have loved and suffered – and continue to love and suffer – with them through it all.

And, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a contest. Our suffering is relative and we don’t need to minimize our own hardship and struggle because it’s not as bad as, or because it doesn’t measure up to, what others endure. The hope Jesus offers here is for all of us because the truth is we will all suffer in some way, at some point, and that Truth just becomes clearer the more time you spend on the planet and the more you pay attention.

Whatever the case, Jesus’ words today are meant to be a promise, not a threat, and I hope you hear them that way for a change, if you never have before – especially if you’re in the throes of some kind of suffering or grief or struggle at the moment.

Because listen carefully and remember... Jesus says, “in those days… after that suffering…” I think it means something better is on the way. It means that there’s an “after” to whatever suffering plagues you and surrounds us all.

And I think that’s also why Jesus says, “Beware … Keep alert … Stay awake … Go about your business … Live your life…” because you never know when God’s hope will show up in your midst – and you don’t want to miss it. Yeah, it may be this apocalyptic, second-coming sort of stuff, where the clouds part, the thunder rolls, and Jesus shows up like a Marvel super-hero with his band of angels to save the day.

But, in the meantime, it might also be as close and as simple and as quiet and as slow-moving as a fig tree, too, becoming tender, putting forth leaves, bearing fruit, and signaling that something better is on the way.

Beware… Keep alert… Stay awake… it may be as close and as simple and as quiet as a meal from a church member. Or a text from a friend. Or a prayer from your Pastor. A drink with a buddy, that look in your kid’s eyes, a hand from your partner.

And that’s why I’m not staring up at the sky, looking behind the next cloud, for a super-hero to save the day. I’m trying to find this hope, this presence, the nearness of God, in the eyes and hands and hearts of the people around me. And I’m trying to find it in the mirror more often, too … because these Advent days remind us that God comes in the shape of a person, after all… full of grace and truth ... never promising there will be no pain, no suffering, no struggle, no hardship in our lives … but showing up precisely because there has been, is, and will be all of those things too much of the time.

But there is beauty, too. And there is mercy, in this mess. And there is love. And hope. And plenty of reason to look for and to be those things, for ourselves, for each other, and for the sake of the world.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.