I wish answers to doubters didn't sound so much like trying to sneak your way out actually answering a question.
I just finished The Problem of Pain by CS Lewis and rather loved it. I honestly only got it because it was on the shelf I was looking at as I was book shopping on tour. I mean, I read CS Lewis because he says things that make my heart smile and I figured a little smiling would be good exercise for it. I would recommend the book for people who haven't really thought about the problem caused by the idea that if God is love and all powerful, why does anyone suffer? Honestly, so many answers to that question, all of them involving that wonderful term of free will, have been put forth that I don't think anybody needs to think about it anymore. I recommend it the book in general, though. He has wonderful things to say about impossibility and he even talked about animals for a bit, which cleared up a couple of questions. Just as a PS, I'm beyond the point in time where I believe everything I read just because someone older and smarter than me said it. It's wonderful to be able to sit back and say, 'I'm not sure that I like that idea,' and not feel guilty that I'm questioning someone else's explanation.
I finished all but the last chapter yesterday- summer evenings in Chapel Hill are gorgeous, tell me you- and I saw that the last chapter was entitled Heaven and thought it had to be fluff reading and I'd leave it as something to finish quickly before I dove back into Last of the Mohicans (for those who are concerned that I have way too much free time on my hands, I applied to two places today for a part time job. Get off my case). I meander back outside and enjoy the sensation of my feet thawing and I settle down and I read.
Have you ever felt guilty because you were too happy? Kinda like Jane in Pride and Prejudice, when I put down my book to think for a second about whatever had just made me smile most recently, I looked around beaming at the people running, biking, walking by down Pittsboro Street and was a little saddened that they did not look as happy as I. Now, you can talk about heaven in any way that you want. If you believe that the Kingdom of God comes when we learn to love our neighbor more than ourselves and when we care for the least of these just as we would care for Christ or if you believe that there is about a hundred million little tiny angels about ye by ye and they all take shorthand or even if you don't believe in heaven at all, I'm cool with that. Jesus talks a sight more about heaven than he does about hell and I believe we should listen to what he says there, but there's only so much you can know about it. What I think is great is that heaven doesn't have to be a reward. I mean, you don't have to sit down and say I'm doing these great things because I'm going to heaven one day. You don't have to sit down and say that this life is a test either, to see who's faithful enough to get in. The metaphor used is a key and a lock. Your soul is like a key, one made and formed through your life to fit one specific door in our Father's house. You are made for heaven. Every human was. There is an aspect of God that you see best and that you were intended to best to worship. He is, after all, an elephant to blind men and He is infinite. And even though I fail at this surrender of will thing that seems to be in the process of being pounded into my head (daily, I might add), I have a lifetime to learn, to be shaped for that one task that will take up my eternity. It's not a trial. It's not a test. It's a process and I don't want to leave before I'm ready. And, beyond me, there is this sharing of the Gospel to the nations that the Lord seems to mention once or twice and He is wonderfully capable of working through anyone, no matter how ready they are for the rest of their life.
Anyway, none of this is what made me smile best, though I'm sure you'd all be much happier if I had just talked about this fifteen to twenty sentences ago. What made me smile is the way our calling is described. Joy and rapture, I'm not talking about our individual call to ministry or anything as doctrinal as that. Maybe it's because I grew up reading stories about dragons and elves and adventure that the more fantastic of imagery resonates with me, but I adore this idea. Think about your favorite books, your favorite things to do, your favorite movies. To you, there is something distinct about them that makes them your favorite. Something that really meant something to you- if you're not one to be taken away by the glories of nature, think about, oh I dunno, your favorite spot in your house or school, or a conversation with a best friend. I'm being indefinite for a reason- that thing that makes a summer evening in Chapel Hill listening to the bell tower chime and watching the wind play games in the trees perfect for me is the same thing that makes your favorite place perfect for you. Except different. It's heaven calling us. Through kids laughing (have you ever run a race with a kid, just to remember how it feels?), though summer breezes, through music, through life, God drops in little hints and reminders so that when we look back through our memory, we see heaven highlighted with a little happy light and we know what we're called to, what we're made for. And I think that's gorgeous.
No, indeed, there is such a thing as too much heaven on your mind and these little happy memories seem so middle class American. I know there is pain in the world and I know that there are people who may not have a little happy glowing memory trail to look back on when they reach the end of their days. Or maybe they do, it's just not as long as it should be, as any human deserves for it to be. And whose fault is that?
I'll cherish my evening, not because it lulls me into peaceable happiness with a redeemable creation (though I think I might love that better, if it were true) but because it reminds me of how much I have- blessings and work.
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