I heard a sermon about heaven recently and wondered as I listened if heaven is like the part of a story that no one wants to hear. I understand how jarring that is to read, which is why the shameful reflection stayed hidden in my thoughts for some time. That I am writing about it now should re-assure the reader that my musings have come to some resolution. So read on.
The preacher was describing our eternal state – one where tears are wiped from every eye, where work is blessed and always fruitful, the last enemy has been destroyed and perfect communion with Christ is ceaseless and sweet. The gates of the city stand open wide, unworried by any threat of attack, the lion and the lamb graze lazily together while clean water, fresh fruit and healing leaves are the constant fare of its’ inhabitants. Even nighttime, that daily fixture, is a faraway memory under the steady light of the glory of Jesus.
Thy kingdom come, indeed! What a thing to long for! What a thing to strive for! But what sort of a thing is it to have?
It was Don Miller who first introduced me to the concept of Story as a parable for God’s eternal story in his book titled, Blue Like Jazz. In it, he pointed out that the four basic elements of story – setting, conflict, climax and resolution – are nearly universal across every culture and the whole history of written word. I think he’s right. Our heart beats with the rhythm and our emotions re-trace the pattern again and again, rising and falling across all of our favorite stories, repeating the circuit like migratory birds. We venture into the setting, shudder at the conflict, cry and grieve and hope at the climax and sigh into the resolution.
Don suggests that this pattern is hardwired into the human spirit because it follows the story being woven by our Creator. The blueprint of every story is a cosmic one. Adam & Eve venture into the setting at the garden of Eden, the world shudders with the conflict as curse and death leach out across creation. We grieve and hope at the climax – Christ crucified, and one day we will sigh as we enter our rest. Our Sabbath. The resolution of our story.
But if this is the case – if we resonate with the elements of story because we are hardwired for God’s great tale – why do those same human spirits care to linger so little on the resolution of a story? It seems that it’s the part of a story no one wants to hear. An author will devote the greatest portion of his book sketching the setting, developing the conflict and unfolding the climax. But we do not rest long on happily ever after.
It would seem that striving for something is more compelling than the thing itself. We watch passionately as professional athletes strive for the championship, clash against their opponents, pushing on into game seven of the finals. But if the media covers any part of the story after this – the parade, the team photo – it is not with the same passion or intensity. And it is short lived. We watch superheroes pit themselves against their arch-nemesis and his nefarious plot, striving for world peace. But we would not sit long through a sequel entirely devoted to this hard fought peace – his quiet life in the country enjoying a well earned break. We are wired for conflict. We crave the battle and the pressing on through climax to resolution. But when danger is gone and the stakes are lessened, when tension gives way to peace and the heroes enter their rest, the camera pans away and we move along swiftly to the next challenge or the next problem.
This is true to my life. My work is fulfilling because without it, my family would starve. My training as a doctor matters because people get sick. My striving for the kingdom of God is compelling because my neighbours are dead in their sin and destined for hell and because the world needs to be redeemed from the kingdom of darkness and into the Kingdom of the Son of God’s love. And my ministry within the church matters because the church is full of broken, limping people helping each other across the finish line arm in arm. But then what?
In this sense, evil is needed in order to fully realize the greatest good. The possibility of failure adds meaning to success. The need compels action. And when one challenge is overcome, we move on to the next. So what happens when the last enemy has been destroyed? When there are no more mourners to comfort, wounds to heal, or conflicts to resolve? What happens when there are no more lost souls to lead to the Saviour? What happens when we don’t till the fields in order to stave off hunger? Is heaven itself somehow less compelling than the striving for heaven?
I described my conflicted feelings to the preacher after his sermon and he did not immediately have an answer for me. I continued to wrestle and have progressed through several stages of resolution.
Perhaps the need to do battle has been placed in our hearts to pull us through a fallen world. Perhaps when we are finally delivered from the presence of sin and cross the finish line into heaven, our hearts and minds will be transformed and we will be glad to simply rest.
Or perhaps there is no loss of meaning when striving ends, since the strivings we experience are actually an illusion. They are not really ours and the enemy we war against is already defeated. There is no failure to be battled against, no tension to resolve, no nefarious scheme to be thwarted because Christ is already victorious and has assured our final rest – and this from the foundation of the world. Our sovereign Lord is in control of every detail – hunger, death, failure and success – and so even in our present strivings we are already able to rest. He has already strived and overcome.
And finally, I have been confronted with the possibility, the very slimmest of possibilities, that it is me and not heaven that is broken. That I am mistaken to think that striving against failure or evil is what gives true, compelling meaning to life. And that I am wrong to believe that heaven will be lessened by a lack of these. The occupation of heaven – intimacy with Jesus and glory-giving to God – ought to be enough for me now even as it will be more than enough for me then. You see, the conflict of our story is not the battle against evil, Christ has taken all the tension out of that war. Rather the conflict in our story, the tension we experience, comes from an overwhelming desire to draw nearer and to know Him more. Our opponent is the weakness of our flesh and the presence of sin. But as this conflict climaxes in my death and resolves in the arms of Jesus, I will not experience loss of meaning from the absence of evil but rather the consummation of all of my strivings in a perfecting knowledge of Jesus.
My medical work, my faithfulness as a husband and father, my ministries as a Christian are not meaningful for what they will accomplish – for being a means to an end – because Jesus has already taken care of the end. Rather they are the means by which I can glorify God and enjoy Him forever. Someone somewhere said that this was the chief end of man[1]. I think I need to start there.
[1] Yes, yes. The Westminster Catechism.
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