Never So Near to Heaven

Bruce Tanner was dead.

He watched somewhat impassively as his body bounced once against the guardrail and crumpled weakly to the asphalt. It was only after a second or two that it occurred to him that he shouldn't be able to see anything. Certainly, he wasn't seeing through his eyes which were staring unseeing at the ground. And he could no longer feel his body--and yet he was very conscious of it. He was more conscious of it than it ever had been before. He could count every cell in it and could have accurately explained the action of each as it slowly began to grind to a halt.

And yet his consciousness was not centered in his body. He was aware of things beyond it. He knew a report of the accident had been phoned into Highway Patrol and there was an ambulance speeding to the spot. He knew that his sister was wondering why he hadn't arrived yet. 

It was a strange feeling. He could see and hear--or at least, be aware--of everything happening in the world that somehow related to him, as if it were all a part of him. And yet beyond all this, there was something else--an indefinable something, like music far away or a bright light shining from behind him or--

“Hello? Are you with us yet?”

He blinked. At least, he thought he blinked though he wasn't sure with what. It was like listening to two conversations at the same time. He never lost sight of his body as the paramedics rushed around it, nor of that other indefinable thing. And yet, he also found himself sitting in a plain but comfortable wooden chair at a rough stone-topped table. He didn't remember sitting down and had the vague feeling he had been sitting there a long time.

The woman sitting across from him shook her head. “Almost here.”

Bruce glanced around, still feeling strangely disoriented. He was sitting in the middle of a garden. A low stone wall covered in ivy formed a little courtyard where the table was set. Everywhere there was the damp smell of earth and greenery and from somewhere nearby the sound of music, though he was in no state of mind to identify the kind.

And the strangest part was that he was sitting there. He found himself in the middle of the act of sipping from a large glass of iced tea with just the slightest hint of lemon, even though he was also still conscious of every drop of blood which had flowed out of his body and could accurately identify the rate of rigor mortis as it set in. “Is-is this Heaven?” he asked blankly, glancing around the table which he now realized was somewhat crowded.

“What were you expecting?” demanded a booming voice. It came from a big man with a bowtie who sat to the right of the woman opposite. “Purgatory?”

The woman sighed. “I thought we agreed no more Catholic jokes, Maltbie.”

“Hah. Sorry. I'll try to restrain myself.”

The woman shook her head and turned back to Bruce. “Look at me. Do you know who I am?”

Bruce stared at her. He had never seen her before. A tall, dark-skinned woman, well-dressed, with a crown of black hair. And yet as he looked at her, he knew who she was just as surely as if he had known her his entire life. Her name was Maria and she had been a slave in Cartegena who had been killed by her master at twelve because of her refusal to abandon her faith. He knew every detail of her life as if they were old acquaintances, even though he had never seen her before.

“So--I'm dead. And you're dead.” He spoke slowly. For some reason, there was a plate of sugar cookies in front of him and he took a bite of one. “So this IS heaven?”

“Hah, well that's not so easy to answer,” explained the big man, who Bruce now realized was Maltbie D. Babcock. “It's going to have been Heaven, anyway. And you're not exactly here, except as in so far as you were already here. Because here isn't really a place, you know.”

“Were you that circuitous when preached?” asked Maria, raising her eyebrows. “Because if so, I'm glad we lived in different time periods. I thought Father Claver was a little crazy, but at least he could find ways to make himself clear.”

“Ah, ha, you have me there. But you have to admit that it's a little hard to explain.”

“First, before you try to understand anything, just take a breath and try to adjust to your surroundings,” Maria counseled.

Bruce wasn't 100% certain he even could breathe. But he did stop and try to take in everything around him. He now saw there were five others at the table with him, though he still was too confused to try to sort out who they were. At a smaller table on the far side of the garden, two young men were playing backgammon. The music which he had noted before he now could tell was coming from an adjoining arbor where Bach and George Beverly Shae were comparing notes. Beyond this, he wasn't directly aware of anything else in the garden aside from a fluttering sound which he supposed might be the sound giant butterflies would make, though he couldn't see any. There was a slight haze over everything of the kind that comes on extremely hot days, but temperature did not seem to exist.

He took a sip of his tea. “So this place is Heaven,” he repeated, in a thoughtful voice, more to himself than the others.

“Not exactly. What Rev. Babcock was trying to say before is that this isn't a place, because location is a function of the body. So your location is where your body is.” This came from the figure on the other side of a Maria, a rather muscular young man with a mane of blonde hair like a halo and a neat beard. He was known there as Kendras and he would have been one of the foremost writers of the twenty-first century if his mother hadn't had an abortion during the second term. “At least,” he added thoughtfully, picking up a piece of apple pie and balancing it on two fingers, “location is your position in that world, whether your body is still around or not.”

Bruce nodded slowly. Without losing sight of the table and its occupants, he also was clearly aware of his body being trundled into the morgue. “But if my body is there--then--”

“This is a construct,” finished Babcock with a laugh. “That's the right word, isn't it?” he added, glancing at Kendras who nodded.

“So this place isn't real?”

“Oh, it's real enough,” Maria answered. “It just isn't what it appears. After you've been here a while, you'll begin to understand it more. Call it a symbol.”

“But why--why would a symbol be necessary?” Bruce took another sip of his tea. “Isn't that supposed to be a part of that world? Why would we still need it here? That whole world was a symbol of this one, wasn't it?”

Kendras put down his pie so he could stroke his beard. “No, I don't think that's right. Rather say that this world and that world are two halves of a whole.”

“They were divided by the Fall, and one day they will be reunited. I wrote a hymn--I have mentioned that?”

Maria turned away to hide her smile and Kendras seemed to be struggling to keep a straight face. “Once or twice,” he commented, and then took a bite of his pie.

If Babcock noted their amusement he ignored it. Instead, he recited in a hardy voice: “'This is my father's world,/The battle is not done,/Jesus who died,/Shall be satisifed,/And earth and heav'n be one.' That's the line--earth and heaven be one. Right now, they are two, which is why in this world we could only conceive this one through symbol and now that we're here, we can only conceive this world as a--what's the word again, Kendras?”

“Construct,” the young man repeated. “An image or illusion constructed by our imagination and intellect--since those faculties function the same way in this world as that world.”

“So we could alter the world just by thinking about it?” asked Bruce.

“Yes, you could, but we'd rather you didn't,” Maria answered. “It would be hopeless confusion if people were constantly changing it. So we let Ulrich Zwingli and Menno Simmons handle it.”

“It turns out the two of them have quite a knack for exterior decorating when they put their heads together,” Babcock added with a laugh.

“This world and that world are two halves of one whole,” Kendras repeated. “That's why we are still conscious of both.”

Bruce started: “So all of you are like that? I thought it was just me because I was so recently dead.”

“But your life there and everything you did and were—that's all part of who you are. If you lost it, you would be losing yourself—and this isn't the place for losing things.” Babcock took a sip of his coffee and then added, “I've been dead for over a century, but every time someone sings one of my hymns, I'm right there.”

“Yes, yes, but of course it has its downside.” The man to Bruce's right spoke for the first time—a rather pinched, fussy little man in a black robe. After a moment, Bruce identified him as St. Simon Stylites. “The only thing I live through there is my folly. Which would be a blessing if people learned the right lesson from it, but they usually don't.”

Kendras frowned thoughtfully. “At least people do remember you, St. Simon. And even for me—there are medical records and every once in a while my mother thinks about me. But nobody even remembers that you existed, Maria.”

“Even a life as short as yours or mine has consequences,” answered Maria soberly. “But for me by this time they have gotten so lost in the stream of events that I can't separate them out—just as the atoms that comprised my body have been so scattered that I can't identify them anymore. At least, not most of them. But there's always a handful of atoms I can find and they seem to form the center of my consciousness of that world.”

“That's the case for all of us,” added Kendras, in explanation to Bruce. “We suspect that those atoms are the ones God will use as the basis for the resurrection body. At least, that's St. Paul's view, isn't it?” he asked, addressing the apostle Silas who was sitting to Bruce's right.

“I think so, but you'd have to ask him yourself,” the man said with a shrug. He lifted his mug of cider and then added, “I know that there's no night here and so, technically, we can't feel tired. But every time Paul and Timothy start talking the finer points of theology, I find myself yawning and wanting to take a nap—just like on earth.”

“Anyway--” Babcock dismissed the point with a motion of his hand-- “regardless of the details, the point's the same. That world is real and this world is real and nothing real can ever be lost. It's just that right now they are conjoined in a beastly awkward way.”

“I know it's been thousands of years—even though there isn't any time here—but I'll never get used to it,” added St. Simon as he carefully cut a fig newton into quarters.

The conversation was interrupted at that point as St. Lawrence walked through with a plate of mushrooms kebobs which he offered to the group. (He had become quite the grilling enthusiast since his martyrdom and was always ready to share the fruit of his labors.)  Once he had moved on, Bruce started the conversation again:

“One thing I still don't understand.  What did you mean by saying that this isn't exactly Heaven? I mean, this is the place of the saved dead, so doesn't that make it Heaven?”

“I suppose for simplicity's sake, we can just call this Heaven and get it over with,” said Kendras, staring at his kebob introspectively, as if trying to decide whether or not to combine it with his pie. “I mean, that is usually what we call it.”

“But Heaven isn't a place,” repeated Babcock.

Kendras shrugged. “Neither is this a place. Because location is a function of the body--”

“Yes, yes, I know all that. But I don't think you really understand, never having actually lived in that world. Even there, location isn't as simple as where your body is. For instance, you could be IN a place and not even know where you were.”

“Oh, yeah, that happened to me sometimes,” agreed Silas.

“From what I hear, that's what happened to you most of the time,” remarked Maria with an innocent expression.

“Well, I did tend to lose track of things when I was caught up in preaching. Or napping.”

“And that's most of what you did in that world, wasn't it?”

The apostle downed the rest of his cider with a laugh. “All that preaching makes a man tired. Let alone trying to keep up with St. Paul.”

“Anyway--” Babcock gave the table a thump as if emphasizing a point, “even in that world, there was more to a place than simply being located there. Otherwise, there wouldn't have been any such phrase as 'feeling out of place.'”

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “I remember hearing some preaching like that back on Earth. They said it was limiting to think of Heaven merely as a place. They said it was a state of mind.”

“But wouldn't a state of mind be as limiting as a place?” asked Maria, stirring her coffee with the stick of her kebob. “I mean, a place is only one place. And a state of mind is only one state. Reality is so much more than either.”

“And that's the point I'm getting at,” insisted Babcock. “That world has the curse which this world doesn't—but that world is just as much my Father's world as this one. I wrote a hymn about that—have I mentioned that? 'He shines in all that's fair/In the rustling grass/I hear Him pass/He speaks to me everywhere.' That's what I saw in that world. But many people didn't see it. In a sense, they never really knew that world which is why they could never have known this one. If they never heard God's voice in that world, they wouldn't have found it here either.”

“'He shines in all that's fair,'” repeated Silas in a thoughtful voice as he took another sip from his mug which at some point had been inexplicably refilled. “It sounds beautiful when you say it like that. But it wasn't always that way in that world. It wasn't always the things that were fair. There were times that world was almost as beautiful as this one is—but I'm not sure that's the when we were closest to Heaven.”

Maria nodded with a sober expression. “I know that was true for me. In all my life, I never really had a chance to enjoy the beauty of the earth. It was in the middle of squaller and stench that I heard the voice of God. I lived and died in dark days, even by the standards of that world. But in the darkness, I found the light.”

“Light in the darkness. Yes, that's a good way of putting it. That's exactly how it happened for me.” Silas set his mug down and glance around. “I suppose you all know the story, right? 'Bout me and Paul preaching in Philippi and how we got thrown into the calaboose?”

“'And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God,'” quoted Babcock in a hardy voice. “Yes, we know the story.”

“Well, there wasn't anything beautiful or inspiring about that moment. I was still pretty sore from that whupping they gave us; and then there was that cold, stinking dungeon; and being in stocks, and the rats, and St. Paul's singing voice—all together, it felt more like Hell than Heaven. But looking back, I realize I was never so near to Heaven as that night. At the time, I would've preferred to be pretty much anywhere else; but now I wouldn't have traded that moment for anything.”

“Exactly!” Babcock explained, leaning forward. “You were able to worship God even at that moment because you knew that God had placed you in that situation. It wasn't a good time, but it was God's time. I talked about that in my hymn too: 'Oh, let me ne'er forget/That, though the wrong seems oft so strong,/God is the Ruler yet.' Even when things seemed at their worst, God was always in control. Isn't that what you found?” he asked, appealing to the two men at the backgammon board who, up to this point, had been ignoring the conversation at the table.

“I'll say,” responded one of the men, a red-haired, red-faced youth who spoke with a slight southern accent. His name was Charlie Smith and he had been a Baptist from Raleigh, North Carolina. “It was in the middle of the Battle of the Bulge. There was nothing around me but the crack of guns and yells and groans. Certainly not my idea of anything close to Heaven. But somehow even in the middle of war, I was still at peace.”

“It vas the same for me,” agreed his companion. His name was Karl Schmidt, a Lutheran from Heidelberg who, for some inexplicable reason, still spoke with a thick German action even in that world. “Even vith all the chaos, I knew that Gott vas still in control. It vas able to pray and touch Gott even vhen it seemed all Hell had been let loose. And then, just after I shot you, that mine exploded and I really did step straight into Heaven.”

“Wait a minute!” interrupted Charlie, almost upsetting the backgammon board. “That's not how it happened. I shot you, and then your body set off the mine which sent the shrapnel flying which killed me.”

“You shot me? Vith your clumsy American gun? You vould haf been lucky to hit the side of a barn.”

Kendras sighed. “Here we go again.” He flipped his piece of pie into the air and neatly caught it again and then glanced at the two men who had fallen into arguing in low voices. “Is anyone ever going to tell them that since we're outside of the time-stream it should be relatively simple to settle the point?”

Maria shrugged. “And spoil all their fun?”

“Do you see what I'm saying now?” asked Babcock, turning back to Bruce.

“Maybe--” he said slowly.  It was still hard to adjust to a new way of thinking. “You're saying that sometimes even while on Earth we could get away from earth and come close to Heaven?”

“No, it's still not quite that simple,” answered Babcock. “you're still thinking about it the wrong way.”

“To be fair, it is a hard concept to understand,” returned Kendras. “Even for someone who only knows one world.”

St. Simon carefully finished chewing one of his quartered fig newtons. “Well, it certainly took me long enough to figure out.”

Maria sipped her coffee. “I'm glad we didn't have to hint any more, St. Simon.”

He had apparently decided he wanted to cut his fig newtons into sixteenth rather than quarters. “Well, it's not exactly pleasant to talk about, but I guess it's relevant. Because that's the way I always looked at it. 'The farther off from Earth, the nearer is to Heaven.' That was my philosophy. That's why I built a giant tower. For years, I lived at the top of my tower, trying to get as far away from the Earth as I could. Nothing to distract me, nothing to bother me. I could spend my time praying and meditating. I had cleansed myself from all the dirt and dust of the world and was breathing the air of heaven. Of course,” he added after a moment of reflection, “the air up there was pretty thin so I wasn't breathing it too deeply, but at the time I thought that was a good thing. Anyway, I suppose you know that part of my story.”

Bruce nodded, though he would have been hard-pressed to say whether he remembered it from his world or had merely learned it from sitting there.

St. Simon took a careful bite from a fragment of newton and chewed it thoroughly. “Even at the time, I suppose I should have remembered the story of Babel—and that if you try to build a tower to Heaven it will end in nothing but confusion. Well, I didn't. But I also was never satisfied. I had gotten far away from Earth but never seemed to get any nearer to Heaven. I even had my tower expanded a few times—trying to get higher. But it never seemed to help.” He took a dainty sip of water from the glass at his side. “Well, I finally got fed up with the whole thing. And it seemed as if I heard God speaking to me—telling me to leave my tower and go back to Earth. And so I did; for the first time in years, I stepped back on the surface of the planet. It felt so strange and almost sickening—though that may have been the change in air pressure; and also having to walk around. Anyway, there I was looking for I didn't know what; wandering around talking to the people I met. Fortunately, I gained quite a reputation as a saint during all the years I was up in the sky, so people were happy to talk to me.”

Maria sighed. “Poor Father Claver. Nobody recognized him as a saint until he was almost dead.”

“Trust me, it's not all it's made out to be. But it does have its advantages. Anyway, as I wandered around, I met a shepherd. A dirty little man, broken by years of hard work. Completely ignorant but quite devout and so willing to talk to me. And he told me of how, years before, his neighbor had died leaving two young sons. They weren't friends, but this man had willingly taken the boys into his house. He had to work hard to support them as well as his own children. For years he had provided for them, raised them, loved them as if they were his own. It wasn't a romantic tale. It was a story of flesh and blood told to me in the middle of a smelly herd of sheep. But as I stood there in the grimiest corner of the earth, I felt I had touched something divine. And I heard God's voice, saying: 'In all your years of isolation and meditation, you were never so near to Heaven as this man in his commonplace act of sacrifice and service.' And that was the moment when I finally understood.” He picked up another fig newton with his fork and stared at it doubtfully. “And now you understand, don't you?”

While St. Simon told his story, two other figures had joined the group at the table. When St. Simon left his question hanging in the air, it was the younger of the two who answered. His name was Tyshawn Martin, and he was a ten-year-old boy from the ghetto of Detroit who had been killed in the crossfire of a gang war. “Yeah, basically, what you're saying is that it doesn't matter where you are; it matters what you do and what you are. That's right, right?” 

He glanced at his companion, Charles Wesley. (The two had become firm friends since their respective deaths.) Wesley nodded. “You know, Maltbie, you're not the only one around here who's written a hymn or two. And I talked about this in one of mine: 'Anticipate your heaven below,/And own that love is heaven.'”

“'And own that love is heaven,'” repeated Kendras in a faraway voice, as he finished the last bite of his pie. “That is what makes all the difference. I know that, even if I never knew love in that world. But true love is never merely human. And now you understand.” He said it as a statement and not a question.

Because now Bruce did understand. Everything the others had said was in his mind and his heart and he knew. He knew where Heaven was. He knew he had touched it in both worlds and that was why he was sitting there now. He knew what that other indescribable thing at the back of his mind had been all this time—the strange light which had shown both on the old world and on this one. He knew what it was.

But it wasn't a What. It was a Who.

“On land or sea, what matters where?

Where Jesus is, 'tis heaven there.”

--C. F. Butler--