Reflections on Writing and the Concept of Heaven

For the last two weeks at my church, I’ve been taking a class on the history of the Nicene Creed. The Creed was written as an answer and a rebuttal to those who had proclaimed Jesus was human, created by the Father, and therefore not the eternal God.

What struck me was the teacher’s description of heaven as he spoke about the Creed’s history. A very tall man in his mid-70s, with a shock of white hair, he spoke with great animation and conviction about his vision of what dying would be like and of our entry into heaven. He spoke of unimaginable joy, of seeing people we loved again, of even having a conversation with an angel, maybe even an archangel.

He described heaven in great detail, with beautiful colors and lights, music, and a place where poetry whose meaning had eluded us in life became crystal clear. Those of us in the room sat in stunned silence. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. This Sunday, he promises to take questions. I wonder what they will be.

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The “heavenly” aspects of writing summon me this summer. That means reflecting on loneliness, the camaraderie of good friends, moments of joy, and not-so-joyful moments. It means deciding that tonight I will take in the full strawberry moon, see poetry in the sky, and know I am unable to capture it in words.

Summertime is a season of heat, and with climate change, it often forces us to stay inside cool, air-conditioned rooms. So we make our way to the laptop, or the notebook, or the private writing studio which holds special talismans; for me, a geisha doll bought by my son 22 years ago when he traveled to Japan, where I was supposed to meet him, but a typhoon canceled my trip. A framed black-and-white photograph of me taken when I was twenty-one years old. A pen-and-ink drawing of my son’s dog, Goose.

As a writer, “heaven” this summer is reading a good book. I have just finished three of Alice McDermott’s novels. She is a dense, intricate writer whose subjects are the Irish Catholic family, alcoholism, and the brutish yet dedicated faith of believers. I’ve started reading The Bells of Old Tokyo, a meditation on Japanese history and that city, which I will be visiting in October with my son, yes, finally after 22 years.

Heaven might feel like writing with abandon…banishing the inner voice of criticism or perfectionism, and maybe releasing a distillation of our truths.

In heaven, we might ponder summer fields of daisies and Queen Anne’s lace dressed in sunlight from a vacation long ago in the Pennsylvania Poconos. Or maybe a childhood birthday when Mother served fresh-brewed iced tea with spearmint sprigs in a crystal pitcher. Or a rose-a-sharon blooming in vibrant patches of pink beneath your bedroom window.

Relishing this moment, on an ordinary day, listening to a mourning dove sing her gentle coo of lament and joy is a taste of heaven. It is setting aside worries about blond hair turned silver or another year passing in the rearview mirror. It is looking up at the blue sky with hardly a cloud and not letting the noise of the world interfere with your self-knowledge, self-acceptance, and confidence, or entering that dark cave which holds the treasures you seek.

Perhaps the poet Mary Oliver describes what I am trying to say best in her poem “Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does it End?”

As always, I turn to Oliver for inspiration, and in this poem, she writes, “There are things you can’t reach. But you can reach out to them, and all day long. The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God. And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.“

When the teacher invites us on Sunday to ask questions about our concept of heaven, will one be whether this ordinary life, this moment, is a glimpse of what it might be?

How about you? What would your question be?

Author’s Note: The Nicene Creed is a four-week course being taught by Dr. Chris Hall at the Church of the Good Samaritan in Paoli, Pennsylvania.