11-3-2024 What Could Heaven Be Like? - All Saints Day

All Saints Sunday is a day in the church in which we remember all those we have loved who have died -- all the saints. Today's Gospel reading tells the story of Jesus, when he wept because Lazarus had died, and when he resurrected Lazarus, even though he had been dead four days. The reading from Revelation gives us glimpses into what eternal life might look like. Today, Pastor Marie shares a vision of heaven taken from her own theological imagination. It is not Gospel in and of itself; parts of it though, were inspired by the book of Revelation. 

Transcript

A number of years ago I read a book entitled Peace Like a River by Leif Enger. It has a blue cover. It's a novel--maybe some of you have read it. It is the story of a widow and his three children and their journey. And he encounters many mystical things along the way. He is a man of deep faith, abiding faith. No matter what happens to them on their journey, his faith remains strong. At one point in the book, there is a description: a vision of one of the characters dying and landing in heaven. Authors are not always quick to try to describe heaven. We are not always quick to try to describe heaven-- as if, if we get it wrong, it somehow counts against us, right? But Leif Enger took pieces of scripture that were true, and from that, fashioned his theological interpretation of what heaven might be.

And in that he said that when the man landed, he looked and there were people of every race and every creed from everywhere, still dressed as they were when they died--but they were marching all towards a city on a hill that was glowing bright. And as they marched, music was coming up from the ground into the very soles of their feet, helping them march as one. And the song was, “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,” and when I read that I thought, oh boy! If Leif Enger was gifted with the prophetic vision of what it really is--I know that song! Right? And it will be sweet music to my feet and my ears. That's one idea of what heaven might be .

In today's reading we read about a place where there will be no more tears; we know that much about death. There Is No More Tears. There's no more crying. There is no more pain. In other parts of Revelation, it speaks of those who receive the gift of eternal life, washing their robes white, because why? Because scripture tells us they have come out of the Great Ordeal. They are washing the dirt off. They are washing the blood. They are washing all the things that stick to us in this world--this world that no shower fully ever erases, because it is stuck to us through pain. They are washing their robes. They have come through the Great Ordeal.

We--collectively and individually--we carry with us at this stage of life, sorrow--deep sorrow. We carry with us worry. We carry pain—body, mind, and spirit. We carry loneliness. We carry some fear. We carry some anger. We carry all these things, why? Because we are still in the Great Ordeal.

This life-- it is a blessing. It is a joy; it is a gift; and it is an ordeal. Right?

And so, the Book of Revelation gives us glimpses--just like this novel I read--Peace Like a River gives us glimpses of what might be there. What might await us. What is everlasting life. Sometimes, elements of the Great Ordeal hit us so hard, we think to lose that someday I'm good. I'm good with that.

The longer we live the more appealing that being Unbound and Set Free looks, right? At the end of the story of Lazarus, this is what Jesus says to the people gathered there to mourn. The people who are gathered there wondering why Lazarus wasn't saved. The people that are gathering there in deep grief, tears still fresh. Jesus says, “unbind him and let him go.”

And so, on this All Saints Sunday, when we remember once again people who have shaped us; people who have taught us the faith. Maybe some of the people we're going to mention today never stepped into a church, but boy did they live out the Gospel of Jesus Christ in their life--whether they knew it or not. We remember all those people whose lives have intersected with ours, whose memories we still carry with us every day.

I wrote something in response to someone asking me what I think happens when we die. Certain pieces of this image are in fact based in scripture: no more tears, crystal river, new clothes. I think it’s helpful to imagine death as the final adventure in the road-trip of life. Everything that comes before are mere rest stops and en-route encounters along the way. Perhaps the image will ease the mind of someone you know, including you.

I try not to think about how I might die, but honestly, once it’s done, I’m kind of curious about the process of making it to the next world.

I imagine there being something like a big slide, a whoosh tunnel slide, that dumps you into a big huge pile of softness. Like the softest blankets ever. So insanely soft that everyone starts laughing when they hit the blankets, and then starts yelling to each other, Oh My God, this is So Crazy Soft!!!! Then you have to climb out of the softness kind of like if you’re a child trying to climb out of a big feather bed.

And there’s flowers. Every color, every size, some with leaves as big as ponds; petals the size of clouds. They are animated, alive, engaging.

There is music so beautifully memorable it carries you forward, seamlessly changing along with the scenery. The air is so pure you want to drink it.

Alongside us on the way is a sparkling clean river; the music continues, from just beneath the surface of the water. Crescendos create mini waves like water-nymph-dancers. Musical notes surf on the waves.

I imagine jumping in and effortlessly floating on down to the next place… Where we find a huge safe trampoline. The kind on water that looks like a big donut cushion. We have to climb out of the river and run down a hill filled with long soft grasses that tickle our legs. The grasses clap once we pass them, on our way to the trampoline. One by one we jump on the trampoline and get launched to the very gates of heaven.

At the gates, St. Peter IS in fact the bouncer along with Mary Magdalene and Lydia and many others whose stories informed our faith on earth. St. Peter looks at me and smiles, calls me by name and says, “Hey…you made it…come on in. We’ve been waiting for you.” Mary Magdalene embraces me and says, “Girrrlll, it is so good to see you in the spirit.”

Once inside the gates, everyone you ever loved who has died, plus a billion others, are clapping as you enter. They line the main street, on both sides, the common folk and the famous on earth all together. (Joe Cocker calls me by name and waves.) A street sign points the way to Paradise City. We walk through the middle of the street in a parade with all the other newcomers, who come from all over the world, still dressed as they were, in the middle of whatever they were doing, when they died, but now made whole, strong, complete. They have energy. They do not hurt anymore. Everyone, of every faith and no faith, walks together. There is no distinction separating the people. We move as one body.

Finally, when we get to the end, there’s Jesus, handing out glasses of life-giving water—so fresh; the glass it is in sweats; the ice in the water spins continuously; prisms of light bouncing off the cubes. The glass never runs out; the cubes never melt.

There’s a huge crystal-clear swimming pool nearby, and everyone starts shedding their old garments and no one is self-conscious. We put on these incredible new duds, robes, with pockets, that make you feel like you’re not wearing anything at all.

And Jesus says, “Welcome out of the Great Ordeal and into the place where there are no more tears!” And everyone cheers. He says, our escorts will guide you to your first stop; they already know the way. And suddenly, dogs, cats, horses and other beloved creatures from our earthly lives appear, young and whole and eager to lead us on.

And as I take in these heavenly reunions, I am missing something: the heaviness that accumulated inside me on earth, from a lifetimes of witnessing and absorbing so much tragedy is no more. I am reveling in my newfound lightness of being as Jesus calls my name again, this time to ask me if I’d like to begin the rest of my life by singing in the choir or decorating the suites for newcomers. I reply, “Are you kidding me? I would love to do either!”

Jesus replies, “I know!” And winks.