Fearing the good place
As a child I held this view of heaven locked in my mind. I spent nights thinking on it; and dreaming about it, and felt certain that whatever was coming wouldn't be good. My picture of God cemented, and I thought I knew what was in store for us at the end. Spoiler, I didn't think it would be good.
It might have been some well-meaning children's books, or sermons I listened to—or just an overactive imagination on my part. I'm not sure, but the profound effect it had on me was real.
I saw myself in a single-file line, snaking forward with millions in front and behind. Around me everyone stood, anticipated, shuffled, waited their turn. I was among them; squeezed in, not sure what lay ahead, but full of uncertain anticipation. On some nights I'd peak around, stand on my toes and crane my neck, try to catch a glimpse of what lay at the end of the line. I'd never quite be able to see it ahead of time though, and the worry would build.
Then, eventually, I'd get closer. I'd see the line ending at a bright light. But it wasn't a universally happy line, not at the end. That's where emotions reached their peak. This was, of course, my imagined view of the judgement seat where God sat, a figure the size of Abraham Lincoln in our capital, weighing our lives in the balance and deciding what our future might be—separating the sheep from the goats. He had a book, too. One he'd pull up each time, scanning the lines, checking whether the sins outweighed the righteous deeds.
In my dreams and imaginings I never expected that I'd go to the good place. I was always in fear of the bad place, thinking about all the things I'd done, and how they stacked up against each other—or, if I was feeling particularly enlightened, trying to count whether I'd individually confessed every wrongdoing ever to everyone.
My time would come, God would turn His ever-stern eye on me, and I'd cower in the presence of that glory. Then, darkness, agony, gnashing of teeth.
This isn't a beautiful picture, it's terrifying. And I'm sorry if you ever believed or were made to believe that this is what you can expect. This view is not biblical. This is what the Deceiver wants us to believe, but is not anywhere close to what Jesus laid out for us in his earthly ministry.
For much of my life I anticipated how things would end, and weighed all my actions against the chance of reaching our celestial home. I sought the pious life, looked for ways to perfect myself inwardly and outwardly, and tried to force myself into holiness through sheer force of will. That, of course, failed. I couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself whole merely by wishing it so. And besides all that, it turned me into an unkind human—seeking to make myself holy against the eternal lives of others. Never a good spot to be in.
And, in the moments where I was being truly honest, heaven just didn't sound that fun. Go to some place for eternity and sit around and pet lions? Live lifetimes of lifetimes doing the equivalent of deep theological Bible study with the most uninteresting lecturer droning on? Sit around quietly and eat with others in stern repose, with the occasional outburst of amens, and wait through a billion Saturday-morning-in-the-hot-summer sermons? Yeah, not the most compelling offer I could imagine.
In my more candid moments I knew I didn't want all that. I wanted to want it, thought it was what I should be desiring. But how could that compare against everything I experienced in life? The laugh of friends. The kindness of my family. Playing a board game with friends, hiking up a mountain and seeing a sunset, holding hands with the love of my life, trying to solve technical challenges on the computer, the joy of building things for others; learning itself—these and a million things beside. All this composed my life, this is who I was, and in the few moments where I got scared about the long eternal line of darkness—well I'd try to pull away from the act of living and figure out how to chastise myself into being better; more holy.
This view, this way of living, of believing, isn't sustainable. You have to either ratchet up the tension—get more scared, believe deeper, get more outwardly righteous, flee the evils (imagined and real) of the world, turn to a monastic lifestyle void of all joy—or stop trying entirely and believe the whole endeavor is a joke.
Those were, I thought, the only choices in front of me.
Then, I caught a tiny glimpse of something; just a sliver of a new perspective. And it was the most enticing feeling I'd ever sensed. I caught a glimpse of Jesus. It was in a moment where someone shared what His love meant, his sacrifice, that the gift he offered had nothing to do with our works—and was in fact antithetical to our ability to make ourselves perfect.
That ray of light lasted for just a moment, but it held, locked into my heart, and made me realize there might be a third way through all this.
Instead of fear of the unknown, attempting to perfect myself without end; what if I surrendered? Stopped trying, and started listening?
Now, twenty years later, I feel as if I'm barely a step further into that journey, still trying to understand what God's love means, what his glory offers, and what a daily renewed heart looks like from the inside. But, that step is with a smile on my face, in anticipation of another one of those golden rays of God's goodness, of understanding his character, of becoming closer to Jesus as a friend.
And that terrifying view of an eternity of darkness, or an existence of boredom in the light? That's not where my worries lie. Instead I'm seeking the heart of God, listening to a father who wants to talk to me, be with me.
I don't have it figured out, not even close. I don't understand half the Bible as well as I'd want, and the half I think I understand seems to all conflict with what I thought I knew. It's a mess in my mind. But one thing I know, I'm far less interested in an eternity resting on clouds, harps playing their notes in the background, and far more interested in digging into understanding what it means to have a God who we can be with for a lifetime of lifetimes.
Recently I found myself enjoying a hike in the woods with friends on a Sabbath afternoon. Cell phone reception was spotty, the cares of this world drifted away, and we had time to just be together; to talk, to see the nature around us, to share our worries and our joys. That, right there, is what I see as heaven. And I cannot wait to do that, in person, with my savior. In that sense heaven can't come soon enough. Not because I'm looking for a ticket to the good place, but because that tiny glimpse of Jesus I saw as a teenager is like a candle at night in comparison to the brightness of the sun.
I can't wait.