Heaven: The Painless Society?

The notion pain in heaven was brought up in my Genesis class today. I can’t say that I have ever really thought about there even being pain of any kind in heaven. I guess I always kind of assumed heaven was devoid of pain. But after looking at the “paradise” of Eden and reflecting on God and his nature I’m not so sure that this idea of a painless heaven is an idea that we should purport as much as we do.

It seems to me that in Eden there probably was some sort of physical pain; but the pure existence of pain does not necessitate the negativity of it. I think that we view all pain in a negative light, however, we also live after the fall of creation, and so we have no category or context to comprehend an idea of “painless” pain. For example, in Gen. 3 when the woman’s curse oracle is given, God says, “I will greatly multiply your pain in childbirth…” From this we can infer that most likely was some notion of physical pain present in the garden; however it did not carry the negative overtones then that it does now. Whether this was a part of the “innocence” of man or whether “harmful” pain was introduced into the world we cannot say – that aside we can suffice to say that there does seem to exist the possibility of “perfect pain”.

In light of this, it seems to me that heaven is more an idea in which we will be given (and perhaps overwhelmed with) a diving perspective with which to acknowledge, understand, and deal pain, instead of the common concept of a complete absence of physical pain.

To some extent I think we are given a part of this divine perspective, albeit an imperfect one, at the moment of salvation when we receive the mind of Christ (I Cor. 2). A function of this new “mind” is certainly to help us to view and understand things in a new, different, and divine way.

Then, realizing that we will receive new bodies in heaven, I think it is also safe to say that we will receive a new and perfected mind as well – one with this “divine” perspective. It follows logically that if we receive a new physical existence upon “entrance to heaven” than we should also receive a new ethereal/intellectual existence as well – and one that will be in tune with God’s mind at that.

At any rate this is all mostly speculation and probably isn’t worth very much as I don’t have the experience to justify my conjectures, having never actually been to heaven. I do think it is worth issuing a warning about our imaginings of heaven; we must beware of creating a paradise designed to escape earth or our experiences here, as I think we do far too often. I think that heaven will complete and fulfill the natural creaturely joy that we lost on earth (as a result of our rebellion), not necessarily deliver us from all forms of creaturely existence and whatever that might entail for us.

I realize you probably have your own little picture of heaven in your head, but this is a part of mine, and I hope it helps you to think about yours.

Mama told me...

There’s a song called “Simple Man” by Shinedown (a cover of the Lynard Skynard song) that I really like, because it reminds me of my mom. When I listen to it I can imagine her sitting next to me on my bed and softly singing something like this as I drop off to sleep. I think these are the things most mom’s wish for their sons.

I love you mom. This is for you.

Mama told me when I was young
Come sit beside me, my only son
And listen closely to what I say.
And if you do this
It will help you some sunny day.
Take your time... Don't live too fast,
Troubles will come and they will pass.
Go find a woman and you'll find love,
And don't forget son,
There is someone up above.

And be a simple kind of man.
Be something you love and understand.
Be a simple kind of man.
Won't you do this for me son,
If you can?

Forget your lust for the rich man's gold
All that you need is in your soul,
And you can do this if you try.
All that I want for you my son,
Is to be satisfied.

Boy, don't you worry... you'll find yourself.
Follow you heart and nothing else.
And you can do this if you try.
All I want for you my son,
Is to be satisfied.

The Mask

Cancer-death strikes.
Another fool lost.
A family un-completed.

Cries stifled.
Griefs hidden.
Faces measured.

Masks molded.
Faces fitted - sorry ceramic smiles now applied.

Single Father instructs
Only Son to love his mask.
Grave-bound Mother remains forgotten.

We don't deal with anything these days. We suffice to hide, cover, bury, run, and disguise; meanwhile the real issues course through us slowly subjugating our whole selves until we succumb to them. At this point we become the very cover of our issues. We adopt out "masks" as our new identities in an attempt to cope. And sometimes, that is who we are for the rest of out lives.

Restless.

My roommate and I have been throwing around the crazy idea of organizing a coast to coast D.C. to L.A. march for Invisible Children. It would be a three to four month undertaking, but the experience would be incredible. Nothing set in stone yet, just a couple of college students dreaming big.

Restless. My heart is restless. My soul is restless. My mind is itchy. From time to time I think everyone has these internal bugs, but I seem to have them regularly. Perhaps part of the problem is that the summer is looming before me and I am doomed to a summer of mindless [work]. I’ve realized that I really don’t like to work. In fact, if I had the choice I wouldn’t work at all. Now, I don’t really mean not work at all, it’s just that I want to do things that I enjoy for work.

The truth is, I really don’t know what I would even want to do given the opportunity. Someone asked me the other day what I would do if I could do anything. I said, “Well, at this particular moment I’m thinking that I want to live out in the country in a place that has a field, some woods, and a pond. And I want to live out there and think, and read about what other people think, and write about what I think. Kind of like Walden.” - at least I have my retirement figured out. But really. I like to read, travel, write, think, play soccer, and spontaneous adventurous things with my friends – how in the world can I throw those things into a job description? Whatever I end up doing, I’m quite certain it will be unconventional, and more than likely I’ll be living in the poor house my whole life, simply because I refuse to give in to stifling world of materialism. I realize this is all so from the perspective of a single college student with little mind or care for future responsibilities, but that is my stage in life and instead of rushing through it, I have decided to instead openly embrace it and if possible, exhaust it.

The first thing I want to do when I graduate is take a backpacking tour across Europe, staying in youth hostiles, working temp. jobs, and then backpacking to the next city. Practical? Most definitely not. It won’t begin to pay off my school loans. But it will be worth it. You only get a chance to do these things once in your life, and that is before the reality of responsibility sets in. To some degree, I hope I am able to escape the domineering control of social expectation and retain some of my more youthful tendencies.

Anyway, I apologize for this unorganized rambling, but not enough to fix it. I think that it’s somewhat haphazard construction only reinforces the ideas in it.

Petrine Easter

This is how I imagine Peter and the disciples at Christ's death. And probably how I imagine myself there as well.

Whips flew, flaying the flesh from your back. Thorns pierced, scraping skin from your skull. Rusty iron bored bloody holes in your wrists, rough wood splintered mercilessly into your bare oozing back. You were hoisted above the jeering masses with contempt. And as you hung laboring with agony over each breath, I stared. Frozen by the horror of the reality that was taking place before me. Stunned by the crucifixion of my teacher and closest friend. Shocked, any thought of encouragement failed me. I could not speak even a word of consolation, nor offer up even a simple prayer of salvation.

Then, even as You screamed your last, a new fear gripped me. I could not stay another second under the shadow of your condemning cross, and so I ran.

Then, stumbling in the darkness outside the city walls I realized what I had just done, and I wept in shame. My heart rended as my eyes were opened to my self-centered state of mind. Forsaken! I had left my friend to die. Forsaken! I had left my Lord to hang beaten, bloodied, naked, and alone, only worried about my own self-preservation, missing His divine example of self-sacrifice. How could I have been so foolish? How could I have been so blind?

O God, I am sorry for this heinous crime of self-love. I repent of placing my life above your love. O my God, hear the desperate cry of this wretched man and have mercy, O Lord, have mercy on me. Bathe me in Your undying love, and let me not soon forget the price that You paid for my soul.

Deconstructionism... Determined Discovery?

The other day I discovered something very unnerving about myself. I find that I am always discovering new things about myself, turning over new stones in my mind and looking behind new doors in my soul; and more often than not I am surprised by what I find – surprised, but rarely unsettled. But, Sunday night sitting in the rain beneath a single lighted lamppost I realized that I was a practical deconstructionist (not to be confused with a theoretical deconstructionist.)

I cannot say that I was awakened from a “dogmatic slumber” for I have always had a subconscious appreciation for the less ordered, but never can I remember a time that I would have willfully ascribed to the deconstructionism such as demonstrated by John Cage in his piece 4’ 33”.

I set out Saturday night to do some artistic journaling; generally speaking I don’t journal simply by writing about what I’m thinking or what I am going through. When I journal I express my thoughts and sentiments through poetic verse. And so Saturday night I set out with my red pen and 4x6 blue notebook to do some journaling. The atmosphere was perfect; I was alone on a bench under a single lamppost in the pouring rain surrounded by a city kept indoors by the dismal weather. (I don’t know what people find so repulsive about the rain – I find it refreshing and altogether inspiring.)

As I wrote, the ink smeared on the pages, sometimes so badly that some of the words were lost. But I had anticipated that, and it was part of the reason I had endeavored to write in the rain on this particular night. It added a certain… artistry. And yet as I reflected on my work I realized the implications of what I was doing. I was encouraging chaos. I was encouraging the destruction of my own work under the guise of deconstructionism.

I would never think about such an idea in the realms of philosophy or theology – to do so would be all but intellectual suicide. However, somehow I had allowed this arbitrary obliterator to enter into my ideas, even ideals of art. I am not sure exactly when this occurred, but I suspect I am in part an unfortunate victim of the venomous fate imposed upon us by the uncompromising war machine of popular culture.

But, despite the discovery and self admission that I am in fact an artistic deconstructionist at least in part, and despite the knowledge of the intellectual implications this holds for me, I cannot reverse the trend inside of myself. Because even as I write I sit here on my bed one sock off, a broken key around my neck, a bass guitar string around my wrist, drinking a Clausthaler and listening to the screaming tones of dissonance and discord on a new album by the Chariot in which the song titles read, “ Back to Back/They Faced Each Other/Th3y Drew Their Swords/And Shot Each Other/The Deaf Policeman/Heard This Noise/Then Came To Kill/The Two Dead Boys/Forgive Me Nashville/The Trumpet” in ascending order from track one.

And so for now I accept my artistic deconstructionist tendencies and will tolerate them as long as they stay within their given compartment and do not seek to corrupt my still constructive boxes of philosophy and theology… and realizing how disgustingly western and systematic this last sentence was, I think my next post will give stage to the battle of opposing ideas raging inside my head. I’ll call it “Systematic verses Synthesis” and advertise the bout saying, “Come see the West’s great Systematic defend his title against the up and coming Synthesis…”