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.

Phone Home

Have you ever felt like life just played a prank on you? The times I speak of are the nuisances of life, the times that leave us thinking, "Now why did things have to happen like that? It could just as easily have happened this way..." And we follow such thoughts with daydreams about what could have been—ordinarily the most useless type of daydream there is. Nonetheless, life plays its pranks, and sometimes through no fault of our own we find ourselves stuck in a situation we do not want, and would give much to change.

Today in my job as the church's weekend receptionist, I received a call from a wonderful woman whose calm but thoughtful manner at once caught me off-guard and brought me to my most alert senses. Perhaps you have met such people. Perhaps, bless your heart, you are one. They are the rarest of breeds, but perennially the type of person this world most needs. They speak slowly and deliberately, but their manner lacks not an ounce of confidence. They seldom stutter or stop in the middle of a sentence, for the simple reason that they are sure of what they want to say before they start saying it. And unlike the rest of the huddled masses, they are not afraid of pauses in conversation.

Such a one was this woman, whose first response to my inquiry of "Can I help you?" was "I don't know!" Such an exchange perfectly typifies this kind of person. Rather than play by the common social rules (rules which nonetheless remain useful and beneficial in most cases), this person retains a measure of perspective and sees society for the game that it is, and thus chooses when to play and when to sit out and make up their own rules. Such people are always needed by a society because they remind the rest of us that we belong to a social system, an order of sorts, yes; but that the system is not what we answer to, ultimately—that there is Something higher than the human structures we have implemented throughout history. Such people inspire us to question the system, to examine it, and perhaps to better align it with what we know is right. Yesterday's civil rights crusaders and Abolitionists, to use a popular example of the day, aligned America's practice with its inspired theory, and it all started with people asking questions (and, perhaps, responding to questions) in ways which no one had previously had the moral courage to do—taking their example, of course, from a well-known Nazorean of a prior epoch, who specialized in moral courage.

But back to the tale at hand—a wonderful woman called in who, despite being 79 years old, had the voice, demeanor, and conversational pizazz of a 25 year old. After telling me that she would call the church back later in the week (the priest she wanted to talk to was not available), she asked my my name and then began regaling me with a personal story involving St. Joseph. As is known to happen at this job, another call came ringing in on the other phoneline—just as she was reaching the conclusion of her story (as I recall, it had been a very good story, to boot). I wanted to wait on the second call and finish speaking with her first, but I had waited too long already—a moment more, and the second caller would be diverted to the answering machine, a definite no-no for an on-duty receptionist. Siezing on a momentary pause in the woman's speech, I asked her if she could hold on a moment while I answered another call. This proved a worthy decision, because the other caller was requesting Last Rites for a dying family member. It also proved a disappointing decision, because as I took care of the 2nd caller, I noticed that, after about 3 minutes of waiting, the wonderful storytelling woman had hung up or been disconnected. I hadn't been able to hear the finish of her story, or say a proper good-bye; I also didn't get her name or number, with which I might call her back.

So there I was, unable to contact her, and left with the anxiety of wondering whether she thought I had just ditched her. Why did this bother me so much? I believe it was the pinchy feeling of broken camaraderie, the tragedy of a "beautiful friendship" that never begins, the ironic nuisance of a misunderstanding which causes alienation where unity would otherwise reign easily. I had been brimming with good intentions, but the click of a phone had rendered them homeless. So life had its prank, and I was left scratching my head.

Why do such things happen? It would have been so easy for that second call to have come in just five minutes later. Five minutes! Did God not see that? Does He not see all of these things, our better alternatives to what we call reality? The only answer, of course, is that He does—He sees them more clearly than we possibly could, and clearly enough to know that they are not better. Realizing this and resting in the truth it provided, I set about guessing what I was supposed to learn from this situation.

This woman had had an effect on me, and despite the abrupt and disappointing end to our interaction, the effect remained—and it constituted the first lesson—calm down. Speak deliberately. Mean what you say. Don't be afraid of the other person as you talk to them, but look on them with compassion, the lowly, fraternal kind of compassion that only a fellow creature can know. Conversation is a connection, not a performance. It is ideas being traded, not lines being read. And all the petty templates we follow for how to interact with each other, they are all just suggestions, and it is no sin to break such guidelines. Great things have been started in that way.

Now after remembering those wonderful ideas, I naturally felt better. In fact, as is the way of things when we follow such adages as the aforementioned, I began to feel a creeping sensation that I was not alone—by which I mean, I began to notice the presenc of God, in later conversations as well as in all the beautifully silent spaces of solitude, those blessed places in which Thoreau dwelt devotedly for so many peaceful days and nights.

This feeling of a Presence at once visible and invisible, beautiful and elusive, made me realize yet again the true relationship of a Catholic to the Church. This recognition of divine Presence in a drab and empty office hallway reminded me that all of our ceremony, all of our decoration and tradition, is designed to bring about Christ's Presence in the world. We can so easily get caught up in devotion to the institution of the Church, and in doing so we turn away from that noble body's humble mission—to help keep Christ present and active in the world until He Himself returns in His full glory. Many people today attack the Church and its ideas and mission, but if we fight them back on the grounds of defending the Church, rather than the ideas and mission which give it purpose, we are idolizing a body of disciples, starting our own heresy, so to speak—a heresy of such implosive orthodoxy that it threatens to topple the Church from within. No, the true Catholic loves the Church, and fights alongside it or within it, but not for it. The Church itself doesn't even do that.

We don't know the ultimate purposes behind God's actions in this world, but we do know how we are called to respond—take the best out of each situation, and work with it until we have forged something better. We can take confidence, even amidst apparent disappointments, that God is not our enemy—He knows what He is doing, and there will be a day when we can see how everything in this human drama worked together to bring about the fulfillment and triumph of all that is truly good. Perhaps on that day, I will finally catch up with this blessed woman again, and we will have all the time we need to share stories and listen, relaxing in the abundant Presence and sweet Love of the God Who saved us.

An Amateur's Allegory

Imagine for a moment that you have never seen a day. You’ve seen many nights, and have grown up and lived your life under that starred navy, but you’ve never been blinded by light—there just isn’t that much to go around. You were raised to stay in well-lit areas, and to look to light as a guide. Roads and neighborhood paths are lit by lamps, as are the rooms of a house. The light is what keeps you from falling over everything, including yourself.

What kind of life might be lived in these circumstances? You can probably imagine the consequences of avoiding the light: bruises, broken bones, perhaps even a premature death. It is hard, though, to understand the purpose of following the light. In this strange scenario we have imagined, in which the sun has somehow hidden itself from the eyes of man, one wonders: why follow the light at all? We’re doomed to a life of darkness no matter what, so why not throw caution to the wind, and go where we wish, doing what we want, come what may?

Well, allow us to add one more detail to this scenario which answers all of our questions. Suppose that it is possible, if one follows the light throughout the whole dark passage of life, to reach daylight. Can you imagine what it might feel like, after a lifetime of fumbling through the darkest nights in pursuit of faintest lights, to turn the corner one day and see the billowing shades of purple on the horizon? Can you imagine the glory of that first sunrise, as the real source and model of our light rises to a crowning height in the heavens? Here is a reality that you could never have guessed at, but have reached by placing trust in what was told to you: follow the lights! Here, you would realize as you covered your eyes with an eternal sort of satisfaction, is what every one of those lights in my life pointed to. This is that greater reality which I knew, since gazing upon the lights of my youth, existed somewhere, invisible yet present. Even when the lights of the night burned dim and threatened to fade away, I know now that He was watching, He was there, and even then He was guiding me to Him, to here, to now, to this perfect place, beyond anything I could have fathomed.

Indeed, one can find glimmers of truth in the simplest aspects of creation. Remember to follow those lights in your life.