First United Methodist Church
Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Romans 8:18-25, 31-39
May 29, 2005
Some years ago, I began my Easter sermon with the line: “Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.” As sermon openers go, it wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t altogether true. There are some people who want to die. I know more than a few of them. And not everybody wants to go to heaven. I know a few of them, too.
I suspect that some of that indifference has to do with the blandness customarily associated with portrayals of heaven. We haven’t done a very good job of promoting our end product. Eternal life, among the churchy set, has too often been painted as a place of heavenly rest and bliss, complete with images of golden streets filled with people wearing billowing caftans of white gauze and listening to never-ending harp music. Said one of my parishioners in a former congregation: “Lord, deliver me from an eternity like the 11:00 service.” And then there was the widow who spoke more truth than she realized when, in response to a question on the whereabouts of her late husband’s soul, she replied: “Oh, I suppose he is off somewhere enjoying eternal bliss. But I wish you wouldn’t talk of such unpleasant subjects.”
To be sure, the weight of scripture would seem to suggest that idle speculation on the nature of the next life is just that….idle speculation. But that warning hasn’t stopped any speculators yet. Sooner or later, most theologians get around to pondering the matter. The theologian I know best is a man named John Stuart. He spent his working years as an educator. “Theologian” is his retirement job. Questions are his specialty, although John would much rather ask than answer them. One day I turned the tables. “John,” I said, “if (when you die) you come to a fork in the road and a directional sign indicates heaven is off to the right and a discussion group about heaven is off to the left, which way will you go?” “I’ll go left,” said John. And he meant it.
Concerning heaven, the Apostle Paul writes: “Behold, I hand you a mystery.” But even Paul is not content to leave it there. In I Corinthians 15, Paul devotes 59 rather ponderous verses to his own speculation on the mystery. In yet another place Paul adds: “The eye has not seen, the ear has not heard, and the mind has not considered the things that God has prepared.” Yet he later softens that word by telling the Corinthians that they have “glimpsed (as in a mirror dimly) what they shall one day see face to face.”
To whatever degree there may be a lessened interest in the stuff of heaven, I am sure it has something to do with our reluctance to leave behind the stuff of earth. Which was precisely the problem of one Fergus McDermot O’Donnell, who was a very good and great king of the Kingdom of Kerry in the west of Ireland (the land from which my grandmother Kennedy came….God rest her blessed Irish Catholic soul). There was such peace and prosperity in the Kingdom of Kerry during the half century he reigned, that his subjects were of one voice in calling him “Fergus the Good.”
But at last a combination of old age and failing health convinced the king that he was going to die. So he summoned his counselors and his warriors, his poets and his priests, and ordered that he be carried to the meadow in front of his palace. There he said a tearful goodbye to his wife of fifty years, his children, his grandchildren, and a little blond-haired great-granddaughter of three years. Then, as life was slipping away, he looked out at the green hills, the golden fields and the silver lakes of the Kingdom of Kerry and, in the moment before he commended his soul to God, he scooped in his right hand a clump of the thick, rich Kerry turf.
The next thing he knew, he stood before the gates of a very big city with ivory walls and a great gold and silver gate….in front of which was seated a gentleman, appropriately robed and crowned, peering at the screen of an IBM PC.
“Now who would you be,” said St. Peter (barely looking up), “and what might you be wanting from us?”
“Well,” said the king (most respectfully, but quite unafraid), “I am King Fergus McDermot O’Donnell, King of Kerry, west of Ireland, and if it’s all the same to you, I wouldn’t mind it a bit if you would let me into your city.”
St. Peter then keyed several entries into his computer, only to see his screen go suddenly blank. This forced him to start over. This also proves that even heavenly infallibility stops where computers begin. Eventually the screen revealed the information that King Fergus McDermot O’Donnell was a most acceptable entrant….most acceptable indeed. And scarcely were those words flashed on the screen when the huge gates (driven automatically by a new feature in the program) began to spring open on their hinges.
It was at that moment that Peter spotted the clump of turf in the king’s right hand, causing him to manually override the computer and temporarily re-close the gates. Said Peter to the king: “While the grace of God has seen to it that you don’t have to come in here with clean hands, you do have to come in with empty hands. Didn’t anybody ever tell you: ‘You can’t take it with you’? And what would it be that you are holding so tightly in the first place?”
“Tis nothing but a wee bit of Kerry turf, the better to remind me of home,” answered the king.
“Well, whatever it is, you can’t have it here. Against the rules, you know. I don’t make them, but neither can I change them. Drop the dirt and follow me,” countered St. Peter.
Thus commenced a small (but most respectful) argument, following which St. Peter and the king agreed to disagree. Thus, also, were the gates left shut, with the king on the outside, still clinging to his precious clump of turf.
But not for long. A few minutes later the gates swung open and God himself strode out, looking big and tall (and a tad impish), very much like a sanctified version of Bill Laimbeer. The Lord God embraced the king, slapping him vigorously on the back as good friends do. Then, in a rich baritone voice, he bid Fergus come in by the fire and talk a bit about the difficulty of being kings these days….adding (in God’s own words), “as long as you are willing to leave your little handful of sod behind.”
But even for the Lord God, Fergus McDermot O’Donnell was not about to drop his turf. And he could be a most stubborn man when he got his back up. But the Lord God can also be most devious when he wants something badly enough. So the gates parted and God emerged a second time, dressed as an Irish countryman in a gray suit and brown sweater, neither of which appeared to have been cleaned or pressed for forty years. He approached Fergus McDermot O’Donnell, engaging him in pleasant conversation. There was the promise of a warm, cozy fire and a few sips of something Irish over ice (which, said the Lord God in a disguised voice, “doesn’t hurt you up here”). Then the Lord God added: “We can get on with this conversation if you’ll just drop that little bit of dirt and come inside.” But the ploy failed to take into account the stubbornness of the king, and his absolute devotion to his last remaining vestige of Kerry.
So one last time did the Lord God appear, this time disguised as a blond three-year-old little girl, looking (for all the world) like the king’s great-granddaughter. Said she to the king: “O King Fergus, they’re having such a wonderful party inside for all the little kids, but I can’t go unless I can find a grown-up who will take me. Would you ever think of being my grown-up?” Deeply moved, the king inquired: “You mean you can’t find another grown-up?” “No, not at all,” she answered. “So if you’ll just put down your silly old sod, we can both go to the party.”
At this point the king lashed out, saying: “You’re no wee little lass. You’re the Lord God in disguise. And I still won’t come in without me turf. Don’t tell me about your rules. I already know them all by heart.” And with tears in her eyes, the little blond girl went back into the heavenly city and the gates clanged behind her.
Night came, and with it the dark. And with the dark, the cold. And with the cold, the rain. And with the rain, the turf began to crumble and turn to mud. Which made King Fergus McDermot O’Donnell, King of Kerry, west of Ireland, feel like a bit of a fool. An old, cold fool. So darned if he didn’t swallow his pride, stroll over to St. Peter (who was nearly asleep at his computer by now) and toss the remainder of the turf on the ground.
Whereupon the gates swung open and the king walked through….with dirty, but empty, hands. And do you know what he found inside? Sure you do. Inside the gates, waiting for Fergus McDermot O’Donnell, were the green hills, the golden fields and the silver lakes of the Kingdom of Kerry.
* * * * *
The more I play with that story, the more I like it. You can see its point coming a mile away, but that doesn’t diminish its power once it finally gets there. ’Tis an old story, changed a wee bit with each retelling. I got it from Andrew Greeley, who may well be my favorite priest. But then, I’m not Catholic, which means I don’t have to answer for all of the controversy that Father Greeley’s novels bring to the church.
The issue, of course, is not who tells the story. Neither is the issue the literal truth of its vision. No one is pretending that heaven is a replication of Kerry, Kilarny, or even Keokuk (Iowa) for that matter. Neither is heaven likely to be a little bit of Birmingham, Bloomfield, or the eastern shore of Grand Traverse Bay (although one can hope). The point of the story seems to be that heaven will preserve and enhance those qualities, those experiences and (yes) those relationships which have been most precious to us here. While we can’t take it with us, the “it” left behind will be a mere handful of desirability lost, when measured against an entire landscape of desirability found.
This is not a popular thing to say. One of my very favorite English theologians, the late Anglican C. S. Lewis, suggests that “we are very shy nowadays of even mentioning heaven”….afraid we will be laughed at for talking about “pie in the sky.” We are also fearful of the accusation that (in looking delightfully toward heaven) we are trying to escape the obligations and responsibilities of earth.
And Lewis is right. I have not spent much time preaching to you about heaven. I have also criticized others who have. Whenever someone seems overly attracted to heaven and its promised joys, radar has sounded in my very rational, pragmatic, this-wordly brain, saying: “Beware of such talk. It is the talk of someone who is unwilling to take this world seriously. It is the talk of someone who is unwilling to look for happiness presently And it is the talk of someone who may be so heavenly-minded, so as to be no earthly-good.”
But Lewisbrings us up short when he counters: “In the last analysis, either there is pie in the sky or there is not. And if there is not, then Christianity is false, for this doctrine is woven into its whole fabric. But if there is, then this truth, like any other, ought to be owned up to and delighted in.”
C. S. Lewis would be the first to warn us against becoming hung up on the literalness of words like “sky” and “pie.” The spatial location of heaven, relative to the sky, is both unknown and likely to remain that way pending our arrival. And as for “pie,” I am sure that it is more a figure of speech than a prediction (although, if it be a prediction, I’ll put in an order for blueberry….or pecan, should blueberries be out of season). Then again, key lime is always nice this time of year.
I am not being facetious. I am trying to get you to see the delight of it all. Says Paul to the Romans: “I consider that the sufferings of the present time are not even worth comparing with the glory that will one day be revealed to us.” And every time Jesus talks about the Kingdom of Heaven, he uses images like “banquet table” and “bridal feast,” which makes my case for blueberry pie, frivolous as it sounds, appear stronger by the minute.
What do I believe? I believe that eternal life shall be much more than heavenly rest. I believe that it will be “life” in everything that we have come to expect from that word. My God is a dynamic God. He is the creator of life, which I have come to know as a dynamic, moving, evolving, growing process. Everything that gives life meaning….everything that gives me meaning (loving, caring, thinking, learning, touching, reaching, growing, imagining)….is dynamic, not static. I believe such qualities will be preserved and enhanced in the life to come. I cannot imagine that all of these things, which characterize my life at its fullest and finest, will suddenly stop the day I get hit by a truck or toppled by a tumor. Why, in heaven’s name, would anyone suppose that God’s plan for all this dynamism would culminate in “heavenly rest”? In fact, I pray to God that….in living my life and doing his work….I never get so tired that “heavenly rest” looks attractive as an antidote.
I can’t tell you how God is going to flesh out the next life. But I believe, in some sense, that he will “flesh” it out. I do not believe you and I will simply linger on as vaporous spirits. I believe, in the language of the Apostle’s Creed, that we will be given some kind of resurrection body. I believe that we will have identity and personality. I believe that we will continue to relate to one another. I believe that old wounds will be healed, old separations bridged, and that the great distances that once divided us from God (and each other) will be shortened to a point of relative insignificance. Meaning that any delight we might take that (while rejoicing in heaven) others are rotting in hell….I think we will be healed of that, too.
I believe that love will survive and even triumph….although in what form I do not know. I believe that our most precious relationships will be restored, because going on eternally disconnected would be intolerable. And to those who wonder about such matters (including most of the men in my Wednesday morning study group), I believe that love will be experienced in all of its fullness…including the making of love. It is amazing how many theologians have actually addressed themselves to the seldom-voiced, but much-pondered, question of sexuality in heaven. I am most intrigued by the response of C. S. Lewis who suggests that “while sexuality (in the afterlife) may no longer be needed for biological purposes, it can be expected to survive, strictly for splendor.” One hopes.
What I do not expect to survive is all of the gold, silver and ivory suggested in the book of Revelation, unless it be for ornamentation rather than wealth. References to “golden streets” I put in the same category as references to “pie”….mere symbols of delight, offered for the purpose of whetting our appetites.
Do not get me wrong. I am in no hurry to go. I love the sights of earth. I love the smells of earth. I love the feel of earth. And, above all, I love the people of earth. But when the time comes, you will not find me clinging to a fistful of earth. For in the words of the beloved hymn we are about to sing: “When we all get to heaven (and by God’s grace, I think we will), what a day of rejoicing it will be.”
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Note: The extended story about Fergus McDermot O’Donnell is taken from Andrew Greeley’s autobiography, Confessions of a Parish Priest. The writings of C. S. Lewis are compiled from a number of his works and are collected in a series of excerpts published under the title Surprised By Joy. I am also indebted to John Killinger’s marvelous book on the Apostle’s Creed, You Are What You Believe, especially the chapter having to do with the “resurrection of the body.”
