On The Subject of Heaven

I have a keen interest in the afterlife as anyone who’s read my novel ‘And So Forth’ can attest. And those who haven’t read it really should.

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I’m pretty sure there isn’t an afterlife even though it peaks my imagination greatly, and, as a lapsed Catholic, I learned to always hedge my bets; penance at the end of the week and all that. I plan on a full confession on my deathbed just in case I missed something. And I’m more-or-less behaving myself as the clock runs down. My dear friend A.I. says that whether heaven exists cannot be proven by science, but A.I. has never eaten a chocolate lava cake with Madagascar vanilla ice cream which is not science but is certainly proof of one thing: there’s eternal joy right here on earth, and you can even make it yourself if you have time, butter, chocolate and some 6-ounce ramekins. Heaven - as a place - was invented by bureaucrats disguised in odd oversized hats and long robes. Heaven is a bribe of sorts, a negotiating tactic, and it’s been a somewhat effective one. It hasn’t stopped people from behaving badly, no, but it might have stopped them from behaving even worse. Although, these days, I find that hard to imagine.

Lucifer - Franz Stuck

What other people perceive heaven to be is of interest to me. You can tell a lot about a person by what they think God - if there is one – might have in store for them. One should always be careful what they project in the way of their imagination, but I’ll take a stab at it. Mine is based on a place called Heaven, a nightclub in London where I used to go when I was supposed to be exploring my inward and emotional self for acting school; in other words eating chips in a bed-sit. When I say ‘based on’ I mean Heaven (the club) became my idea of hell - an overcrowded pit filled with the smell of poppers and sweaty desperation that sounded a lot like ‘Let’s All Chant’ by the Michael Zager Band. Heaven, on the other hand - the place that exists after death - would be the opposite of a loud disco on a rainy night near the Embankment. If there was a heaven, it might be a field of poppies on a hilltop in Sicily. I’ve been to that hilltop, to that field, but just for the morning with Ken and Arwen. It’s the eternity part that gets me. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be around for that long. I’ve spent enough time waiting for my luggage at carousel 8 at Pearson to know what it feels like. Nothing is great for eternity. Not even a peppermint-scented foot massage.

Even my friend A.I. has some ideas

Other people, of course, have other even stranger ideas. Ken’s mother, when she was infirm and needed a day nurse to help her get around, once discussed her view of heaven with the nurse, a religious woman with strong views. She told Ken’s mother she would be spending eternity with her husband. When Ken’s mother pointed out that she had survived two husbands, the nurse assured her that Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays would be for the first husband, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays for the second, with Sunday off. Sunday off sounds good to me, but the rest of the week doesn’t conjure any images that go with Gustav Mahler’s 4^th Symphony, or anything at all by Mozart.

Once, in a grocery line up, while perusing the magazines, I came upon a headline from one of the tabloids that read ‘Heaven Is Full, Priests Furious’, as they very well might be. How do you convince people not to sin when there is no reason not to? My mother used to say that you don’t do good things for reward but because they’re good, which was principled and sensible, but pretty much wiped out her case - or anyone’s - for any pearly gates.

Anti-gravity is not a whole lot of fun

Still, people must believe in something, I suppose. Some other thing that isn’t this thing. Our little lives rounded with a spoon can’t be all there is. Or can it? Life is difficult, for some people unimaginably so. What about a reckoning, an evening of the score? (Robespierre might have something to say about that from wherever he ended up) Even if there isn’t anything else but ashes and dust, it’s nice to imagine; to wonder. To think at least, with eternal gratitude, about the people who won’t make it. To hope, regardless how hopeless that, yes, there is a celestial city. If only to do things there I never did in this one because I wouldn’t get to that one, in other words, all the bad things eternity has to offer. If there’s still room up there.

Maybe it’s just as well. To sit at the right hand of God is fine, but I can only sit for so long.