Especially after reading what Mark Twain wrote about Captain Stormfield’s visit to Heaven, I used to think (even when I was conventionally religious) that the Christian version of Heaven sounded pretty boring, certainly not someplace that a spirit with a conscious mind would want to spend eternity. Strumming harps and singing hymns nonstop for eternity? Remember that spirits do not need to sleep and, according to Revelation, there is no sunrise or sunset in Heaven. How could anyone think up such a version of eternity, much less desire it?
But experience can teach us differently. At least it did in my case. May Day is a serious national holiday in France; even the trams do not run in Strasbourg. Everybody stays home and eats with their families and friends. You cannot have barbecues on apartment balconies, but there are thousands of garden plots (jardins familiaux), rented long-term by families, that allow barbecues, and they were all smoking away on May Day this year. My extended French family was no exception. Instead of a rented garden area, one of the elder uncles has a house and yard in a little town near Strasbourg, where he and his wife used to spend the summers. They now live in the city but their house is available for family gatherings. The whole family pitches in to keep the the fruit trees trimmed. They maintain electricity and water there, though the house is usually empty.
And didn’t we have a fine lunch there on May Day. Whenever my son-in-law’s father is there, we have wonderful barbecue. He was elsewhere on this day, so we just had soup. But it was the finest split-pea soup I’ve ever had, made by my son-in-law’s aunt. Even without the fine beer and wine, I would have been drowsy afterwards. Drowsy, but unlike the uncle, I did not sleep through the early afternoon. I was just awake enough to watch the kids playing. I felt an amniotic fluid of goodwill washing over me which I could not have put into words even if I had tried to do so. The breeze was just slight enough, and just the right temperature, to make me feel as good as I have ever felt in my life. It occurred to me that this state of mindless pleasure might be what Heaven is like, if there is one.
And then the women, and a few men (not us elderly ones) washed dishes. The kitchen and its sink were cold and dark, so they moved the operation out into the yard under the shade. Washing, rinsing, drying all occurred on folding tables. They were having a good time. Of course this seemed heavenly to me, sitting as I was in perfect comfort and being served by them. But I realized even at the time that, maybe the next time, I would enjoy helping out with the dishes. It was not the experience of being served that was pleasurable to me, but the experience of being in a family where everyone enjoyed serving everyone else.
In theological Heaven, no one has to eat. If there are endless banquets, the serving ware either magically vanishes or cleans itself, I suppose. No one has ever written a theological treatise on heavenly dishwashing. But the indolence of letting other people, or letting magic, take care of all our needs is not what I was enjoying. Maybe instead of Heaven being a place of perfect rest, as the hymns say (“There is a place of quiet rest near to the heart of God…”) (“…while the peaceful, happy moments roll…”), it is a place of endless cyclical mutual service.
And there must be some exercise in Heaven, as well. I like to imagine long hikes in wooded vales and over mountaintops, all without muscle pain. Dream on, you say? Thank you, I believe I will.
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