November ~ Thoughts About Heaven

Greccio Cave Altar

November is the month of praying for the dead: thoughts of heaven. And years ago I saw a condolence card with the message, "Heaven is remembering." That line could open a major debate among the folks who arm themselves with scripture quotes in an attempt to win theological arguments. You can argue anything with scripture quotes. 

Here are two sayings of Jesus which I've held onto tightly. They don't prove anything about heaven, but simply suggest, or better yet, invite pondering. 

"I have come that they may have life and have it to the full." John 10:10

"I have told you this so that my own joy may be in you and your joy be complete." John 15:11

Jesus came that we might have full life and complete joy. So can we say heaven begins here—wherever there is joy and life? And maybe heaven is remembering these earth moments, however fleeting, and the moments we've forgotten. And I expect heaven will take us even beyond all of this and reveal to us the meaning of these experiences and encounters.

Here are some of the remembering moments that come to my mind. Their capacity to reveal heaven for me doesn't come from the fact that some of them are specifically religious. But what they all have in common is that in those moments I felt safe, struggling to stay alive inwardly, and deeply connected. Someone might say, "Oh well, he must have grown up in a happy, pious, Catholic home." Uh...no. 

Recollecting my own complete life/full joy moments only serves to point you in the direction of remembering your own. Like Jesus spotting Zaccahaeus up in the tree—God has found us long before.

~ ~ ~

Remembering the moment of my First Communion in 1958. The priest wore a silver-white chasuble that was lustered like a pearl. An embroidered image of Mary sorrowing was on the back.

Remembering at age eight, being called by the farmer on the class trip to come up to the front, where he placed the lamb into my arms.

Remembering the old priest in cassock and amice, standing in the doorway from the sacristy to the sanctuary of our parish church, and thinking, "I want to wear that." 

Remembering the Mass I offered in the Cave of Greccio where St. Francis created the live Nativity with animals and townsfolk; where at midnight Mass he sang the Nativity Gospel.

Remembering the surprise discovery of the Crib of Bethlehem, down the white marble stairs of Saint Mary Major in Rome, to a tiny chapel dimly lit, the wood slats held in a great crystal egg.

Remembering the Russia trip, the ship sailing through the night, and in the morning looking out the porthole and seeing the wooden Kizhi cathedrals in the distance, their wooden shingles shining like silver.

Remembering the visit to the Kostroma Convent and venerating the Fyodoroskaya icon of the Mother of God—the chapel filled with phlox-scent that had ridden in on the breeze, from the nun's garden through the open window.

Remembering Joan Sutherland (La Stupenda!) singing Norma at the Metropolitan Opera and sneaking back stage to meet her. The Long Island Railroad threatening a midnight strike, and going into Manhattan anyway, not knowing where I'd stay if the strike weren't called off.

Remembering the discovery of a Jack-in-the-Pulpit blooming in the woods behind my house, the smell of decaying oak leaves and acorns.

Remembering as a young priest standing by the edge of the woods behind the rectory and the day the chickadees grabbed sunflower seeds off my open hand.

Remembering the Easter Night singing the Exsultet by heart, standing in a dark church next to the great candle, the air filled with incense and lily scent.

Remembering the Christmas in a parishioner's house, sharing gifts and dinner with six special needs ladies who were residents there.

Remembering the meal at the end of my three month Assisi sabbatical, and the young Capuchin friars with whom I'd lived, moving the great refectory table to the side, and throwing me up into the air three times, and the room turning into slow motion.

Remembering kneeling on the exact spot where Bernadette knelt in the grotto at Lourdes and being bent over in hard tears for the wonder of it. "At Lourdes the veil between heaven and hearth is most thin." 

Remembering the first sight of the Tilma at Guadalupe and being struck by the vibrancy of its colors, and finding a small square of paving stone where I could kneel down out of the crowd's way.

Remembering the deep silence of the pilgrims filling the chapel of the San Damiano Crucifix at Santa Chiara. The painted Christ smiling, flying and hovering over us. Returning every day; just to be there.

Remembering the elegant nun who handed me a holy card of Our Lady of Perpetual Help - my first icon.

Remembering the late autumn night my brother and I, young boys, wrapped ourselves in our father's army blankets and lay on the backyard patio to look up into the stars.