The Skeptic

We don't know much about Heaven. Although we can draw on Christian revelation to acknowledge some basic facts about the place—for instance, that it is eternal and supremely fulfilling, and that it involves perfect fellowship with God—our religion is rather vague when it comes to details. I'm not just talking about the color of Heaven's wallpaper, of course, but more prickly questions like who gets in and what they have to do before they get there (yes, there's a doctrine of Purgatory, which is sort of like a training room for Heaven, but what can we say about Purgatory other than that it exists?), and—perhaps most interestingly—what happens the moment we die. Where do we go? How does it feel? These are questions whose answers do not lie on earth, and about which we can only speculate while we dwell here. What follows is just such a speculation. Join me if you will as we begin our story, on a train...

A Catholic, an Evangelical, and an atheist were riding together (this is not a joke, I promise!). Upon seeing the atheist, who was wearing a shirt that said "God is not great," the Evangelical leaned over to the Catholic and said, "He will not see Heaven. He is not saved." The Catholic answered, "I do not know."

The next moment, the train crashed, and all three men died.

Suddenly they stood in a long line of people. Jesus stood in front of the line, speaking to each person for a brief moment before sending them to his left or to his right.

When the atheist came to Jesus, he was asked, "Who do you say that I am?" The atheist, visibly struck by his experience and by the Lord's loving gaze, fell prostrate and cried, "My Lord and my God!" The Lord immediately welcomed him to Paradise.

When the Catholic stepped forward, Jesus asked, "What do you want me to do for you?" The Catholic genuflected and said, "O Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner!" Jesus answered, "Your sins are forgiven," and welcomed him into Paradise.

Finally, the Evangelical came forward. Jesus asked him, "Where are you going?" After a momentary pause, the Evangelical's quiet response was, "I don't know." Instantly the Lord embraced him and led him into Paradise.

THE END.

Holy Hill

Today my family and I made our first pilgrimage—excluding our annual trek to the Thanksgiving table, of course. We visited the National Shrine of Mary, Help of Christians, situated atop lofty Holy Hill in Wisconsin. The site is considered by many to be a place of miraculous healings, and a collection of crutches, canes, and leg-braces—abandoned by the recipients of such divine help—attest to the fact. It is certainly a special place, endowed with what seems to us a more direct access to the Almighty.

Today, it was also a bustling place. Crowds flocked to Holy Hill to partake not only of its religious offerings, but also its beautiful autumn colors. For my family, a myriad of adventures contributed to the day’s fullness, and describing any one of them could conceivably take up a sizeable chunk of eternity. However, one aspect of the trip returned to my mind’s eye late in the day, and so—with sincere apologies to the arresting vistas, the dazzling Church positively charged with grace, and the mini-miracle of the vitalizing holy water—I zoom in on one moment of today’s events, which occurred rather early in the itinerary.

We were making the arduous journey up the main hill, climbing uneven wood-framed steps to ascend to the Church’s entrance for 12:30 Mass. I noticed a man on his way down whose build seemed to tell the story of a once-active individual, unfortunately shackled now by an injured leg. With his knee wrapped in some sort of brace, he struggled to limp down the stairs, attended by his wife. At the sight of him a gray cloud of pity and sadness temporarily arose in my thoughts, in spite of the sunny blue skies surrounding us. Had this pilgrim come hoping for a miracle? If so, I sadly reflected, he was now descending the mountain, heading home in the same condition he had arrived. There was no miracle here for him. I turned back to look at him after he had passed by, wished him a silent blessing, and continued on my way.

A little reflection, if performed in the right spirit, can go a long way in dispelling unwelcome gloom. And the maxim stands admirably in this case. Miracles are wonderful occurrences, but they are not guaranteed rewards for belief. Jesus himself acknowledged the hard truth that miracles do not always come when expected: “There were many lepers in Israel during the time of Elisha the prophet; yet not one of them was cleansed, but only Naaman the Syrian” (Luke 4:27). Nor are miracles litmus tests for God’s power—or His love. A faith that could be shattered by the lack of a miracle could be shattered by many other things as well—and strictly speaking, could not be called faith if it relied on the evidence a miracle would provide. But most importantly, miracles come in all shapes and sizes. Even Holy Hill’s website points out that “some healings are gradual while others are dramatic and instant.” I saw that man limping down the steps of Holy Hill at 12:15 today. I did not see him climb into his car. I did not see him eating dinner. I will not see him ten or twenty years from now. But God will, and who can imagine what He might have planned for this man? Remember, we’re talking about the Person Who invented snow. God is the source and summit of creativity.

We humans have a pesky habit of seeing life solely in terms of our extremely limited perspective. That was my failure when I faced that man and thought about his condition. The same failure might attend someone upon hearing about Holy Hill’s unfortunate defacement in 2006. It seems that, moved with the zeal that only the calendar can inspire, a couple of lost souls vandalized Holy Hill’s main Church on June 6, 2006 (aren’t they clever?) with profane graffiti. Of course this is sad news, and rightfully evokes a range of emotions on the part of believers. That said, the one emotion that it should not evoke is fear. Although it might seem natural to shudder at such demonstrations of stark and burning evil, it is actually quite unnatural to fear it. C.S. Lewis has a helpful (and rather hilarious) insight for us here: “A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word 'darkness' on the walls of his cell.” The same could be said for the walls of a church.

What threat do a handful of anti-social youths pose to the Catholic Church? For that matter, what threat would a vast army of Satan’s followers pose? Even if Catholicism represented a tiny minority within a world of demonic enemies, it would be no less safe, no less serene, than it is right now and always has been. As Simon and Garfunkel so eloquently testified in a rather obscure song, “You can burn down my churches, but I shall be free.” We are people of God, and our hope comes not from the physical well-being of ourselves or our most treasured places and objects, but from the unshakeable, irresistible, unavoidable presence of God, Who created us, lovingly sustains us at every moment, and has promised salvation to all who believe in Him and act accordingly. The desecration (or even destruction, God forbid) of a church does not even graze the supernatural surface of the Church. That is God’s property, upon which no man or spirit may malevolently trespass.

As I said, we tend to see life from limited perspectives. Thankfully, our faith has a way of reminding us that life is so much bigger, so much better, than our fallen natures and tragic experiences lead us to believe. Christianity, though it comes to us in physical forms like Sacraments and miracles, speaks of a truth that lies beyond our world. So even if that man’s leg never heals in this life, he will still be able to meet God in prayer, receive Him in the Eucharist, and thank Him for the blessings gratuitously bestowed with each dawning day. And so can we.

May the blessings of God reach you wherever you are today, and may you happily accept them.

Sincerely,
Joezilla