When We See
Imperfect views of heaven.
There are moments when time stops, and we are allowed an imperfect earthly glimpse of the perfect companionship, joy, or peace of heaven, where there will be no sin, no brokenness of any kind, and everything is restored. These moments are rare. Cultivating them intentionally often results in awkwardness: if you’ve ever been forced to start a “deep” or intimate conversation by way of a drawn card in an ice-breaker game, you will know what I mean. These moments must be received as gifts, I think, and thanks given to God when they come unbidden. They may be large, or they may be very small, but they are precious, either way.
One pleasant, windless May evening two years ago, John and I lit a Chinese lantern. Who knew there was so much delight in watching a paper lantern rise into the air, even for two grown adults who know the science behind hot air rising? A small magic.
Sometimes these time-stopping moments are bittersweet. A desperately ill family matriarch breathes her last breath only after the final son makes it to her bedside, and with hearts full of forgiveness, they hold hands like when he was a boy. A beloved elderly dog finds a quiet, safe place in the back of a closet and peacefully passes in the night, with no apparent pain and no dreaded, terrible call to the vet for humane euthanasia needed after all.
Less bittersweet and more fleeting, they can happen in music performance, too:
They can happen when the power goes out, or you’re snowed in by a great storm, and somehow it’s the best weekend you’ve had all year. Or in the dark on the long rutted driveway of a farm property, when a minivan gets stuck, and three generations of family must tromp up the hill on foot:
None of these moments confess Christ directly. But I see them as quiet pointers to the so much more that is promised to us by Christ’s forgiveness and death on the cross on our behalf, in the way that all the good gifts of the world do, from babies to great art to the miracle of seizure-detecting dogs to precious moments at the bedside of a loved one.
At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. —C.S. Lewis, “The Weight of Glory”
Or, as Paul wrote,
For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. […] For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.
—Romans 8, beginning at verse 18.
Sometimes, we are allowed to see, in order to strengthen our hope. The veil between earth and heaven thins, and we mingle with the splendours for a moment.
I loved this one Jenny. It brings back memories. Thank you for the picture of Whitsun too.
A timely homily when people need each other more than ever; not only in the USA, but everywhere our country's pullbacks have left millions in deadly peril.