Luke 23:39-43

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” 

But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” 

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come in your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

---

<figure class="
sqs-block-image-figure
intrinsic
">


























</figure>

We don’t talk much about heaven. And when we do, it’s not with much substance — like that old Norman Greenbaum song: the place we go when we die, the place that’s “the best.” as if heaven were some never-ending worship service in the sky. Some ask the question why talk about heaven at all?

The argument goes: “Why waste time on heaven when there’s so much work to do here on earth? Doesn’t talk of heaven distract us from fixing what’s broken now?” And that feels like a fair point. Why talk about heaven today when two children were killed this week while praying in pews at a church in Minnesota? Shouldn’t we be advocating for gun reform and better access to mental health care? Of course we should.

But thinking about heaven doesn’t have to be an escape hatch from the world’s pain. It isn’t wishful thinking or some bribe for good behavior. Rather, how are we to make things on earth as they are in heaven if we don’t have the slightest idea what heaven is like?

C.S. Lewis once wrote: “Aim at heaven and you’ll get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you’ll get neither.”

So it is worth our time, especially today, to ask what really happens in heaven — to have a picture vivid enough to stir us. Because maybe, just maybe, with a stronger and more compelling image of heaven, we can make this earth resemble it more, and less the kind of place where parents are afraid to send their children to school.

But first, let me free us of two things.

First, heaven is not a never-ending worship service. Could you imagine showing up only to find yourself stuck in an endless 1st or 2nd service — refrains on repeat, blaring organ music, the same prayers over and over? That's not what I want to do for eternity! Surely there are better ways to be with God.

Second, much of Christian tradition describes our final fulfillment as the beatific vision—seeing God face to face, fully and directly, instead of through the symbols and metaphors we cling to now. 

But until then, all we really have are symbols, theological concepts, and imagery: the golden streets, the white robes, the river of life, the crowns of glory. They’re not literal blueprints of the place; they’re faithful attempts to describe the indescribable, whether they come from the Bible or the best theologians.

Which means we’re free. Free to use Scripture, tradition, and our own lives to imagine heaven faithfully. We should take our own reverent best guess at what it might be like. And that’s what I want to do with you today, my reverent best guess at what happens in heaven through four images.

<figure class="
sqs-block-image-figure
intrinsic
">


























<figcaption class="image-caption-wrapper">

Josh Noem, a Catholic writer and baseball lover deserves credit for the inspiration of this idea. He made a post that went viral with the caption “I collect images of walk-off home run hitters rounding third because they are an image of heaven.”

</figcaption>


</figure>

On a Sunday in August seven years ago, a rookie named David Bote stepped into the batter’s box for the Chicago Cubs. The Cubs were down by three. Bases loaded. Two outs. Two strikes. And then — on the fifth pitch — Bote crushed a ball to center field. A walk-off grand slam.

That night, the Cubs released a photo of Bote rounding third and heading home. You can see the ecstasy on his teammates’ faces, the sheer joy of his coach, the wild cheering of fans — even Bill Murray was crying in the stands.

I think heaven begins like that. The saints who have gone before us surround you, waiting to embrace you. You will be one of the saints waiting to embrace others! The multitude too great to count, like Revelation describes, erupts in cheers. And at the end of it all, God — like that third-base coach — looks you in the eye and says, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

It’s Jesus who hit the home run. But we get to round the bases and go home. And when we do, there will be celebration.

If the first thing in heaven is celebration, then the second is healing.

<figure class="
sqs-block-image-figure
intrinsic
">


























</figure>

Bandaids are a big deal in my house right now. Every time someone gets a boo-boo, my son Clive thinks we need a bandaid — the dog included. Stubbed toe, scraped knee, headache, doesn’t matter: everything and everyone gets a bandaid.

But there are no bandaids in heaven.  From the prophet Isaiah to the vision in Revelation, one of Scripture’s clearest promises about heaven is that God will wipe away every tear, 

that there will be no more pain, no more suffering. Paul says in 1 Corinthians that our bodies will be raised — the same bodies, but transformed. The hurts, the failures, the agony we carry will be changed into glory.

And if Jesus’ resurrection is any sign, we will still bear our scars in heaven — they’ll still mark our story — but they will no longer hurt us. And the same is true, not only for us, but for all living things, in fact all of creation. Isn’t that what we all hope for? Healing for ourselves, for our loved ones, for all creation.

In heaven, there will be no bandaids. And because there will be no wounds left to cover and healing will be complete, there will be no need for hope either.

<figure class="
sqs-block-image-figure
intrinsic
">


























</figure>

After we celebrate and heal, we feast! yes – there will be eating in heaven… I was concerned. But not just any meal, a feast. One of the most beautiful pictures of this comes from the story Babette’s Feast. Babette, a refugee from Paris, lands in a nowhere Norwegian town where she is taken in by two devout Lutheran sisters. Their father had been the pastor of the village’s only church, but since his death, the congregation had withered, burdened by grudges and old conflicts. 

For what would have been his 100th birthday, Babette offers to prepare a great feast. What begins as a stiff, awkward gathering soon becomes something altogether different. 

As the wine is poured and the rich food is savored, something more than good cooking is at work: hearts begin to soften, laughter replaces suspicion, and forgiveness flows as freely as the wine. What seemed impossible at the beginning of the meal—reconciliation— happened,