Heaven & Good Things
May 9, 2024
In C.S. Lewis’ novel The Great Divorce, he depicts a Hell that is much the same as the world we live in now. It is a large city where the sky is always cloudy and gloomy — we have to remember that the man was British, so this was normal — where people are free to carry on with all the frivolous behaviours with which they wasted their earthly lives away. Intellectuals and political writers can publish their pamphlets and papers; gossips can gather in the laundromat and share scandals. Those who wish for solitude can construct a house a billion miles away from everyone, and pace around in silence.
All these activities bring with them the same sense of profound dissatisfaction that they do on Earth. So, every once in a while, a bus comes down, which anyone can ride, that takes people directly up to Heaven. Once in Heaven, each visitor is greeted by a family member, friend, or acquaintance who tries to convince them to remain in Heaven, where everything is nice. However, most of these conversations fall upon deaf ears, and the riders pile back on the bus headed straight back to Hell. This failure is primarily the result of the church-y smugness of all the residents of this Heaven.
This smugness is, of course, a reflection of the author, who has an apparent disdain for the vast majority of humanity. He carries the belief that all engagement in non-pious activities inevitably leads to dissatisfaction and resentment, which is why everyone in his version of Hell is unhappy, despite the fact that they’re doing the things they like doing.
There are a few things, however, that I like about this story: 1) The idea that Heaven is accessible to anyone, at any time, even after their death; and 2) that Heaven is, by all accounts, a remarkably dull place where nothing happens.
This latter characterization of Heaven is the only one that makes any sense to me. If Heaven were a paradise in which our worldly desires are fulfilled, it would make all the hand-wringing about the futility of worldly desire totally meaningless. It would mean that the dissatisfaction and unhappiness that accompanies material satisfaction in this world is not caused by the baseness of these desires in themselves, but simply by the fact that we were supposed to wait until we get them later. It’s a cheap trick from which nothing is learned. For if Heaven is an eternal realm, then the short time that we spend down here becomes utterly meaningless in comparison, as any finite number does when compared to infinity.
It’s like those experiments where they give a child one marshmallow, and promise to give them a second if they can refrain from eating it for a set amount of time. The virtue being tested here is patience, but the underlying assumption is that two marshmallows are inherently better than one.
In the same way, the idea that a life spent on Earth not eating marshmallows leads to more marshmallows in the future entirely contradicts the central idea of abstaining from material desire, which is that material desires are bad (much like marshmallows). Promising a fulfillment of them later only increases their value and esteem, as the whole point of a moral life now revolves around these worldly rewards. The value of a moral life becomes tied to an extrinsic reward — an eternal paradise coming later — rather than any intrinsic satisfaction — the knowledge of having lived a good life that made other lives better.
But maybe we should approach this from another angle. If morality really does come from restraining one’s base desires because they inevitably lead to sin — i.e. hurting people — then it is a concept that only makes any sense on Earth. Heaven, we can imagine, is a place where sin is not possible. Thus, any action undertaken in Heaven is amoral, for morality can only exist when there is the choice between either sinning or being virtuous.
The question again arises if we consider this pedagogically: why is it important for humans to learn about morality, if it is entirely irrelevant to our eternal future? Why would God create life as a test of our moral fortitude, if moral fortitude was not relevant to the realm in which He resides?
The answer, of course, is quite simple: access to Heaven is not tied to moral fortitude or virtue, but to faith. Heaven is a realm for those who truly believe in God and follow His precepts. The reason to act morally is because God has commanded that we do so; morality itself has no inherent value aside from its value as a Commandment From God.
To return to Lewis’ novel, this is why the characters from Heaven don’t seem particularly virtuous or much inclined to help their friends and family, but are instead smug and annoying. They are in Heaven not because they love other people and want to help them, but because they love God above all else. God brought them close to Him because they are His Best Friends. They don’t care about material desires, but they also don’t particularly care about “doing good.” From a worldly perspective, we might say they’re morally neutral, if a little obnoxious. (I personally find it a little difficult, as the writer of this essay, to consider obnoxiousness a sin.)
So, obviously this idea of Heaven as a place where God keeps His Best Friends reinforces the “faith” side of the long-running faith vs works controversy within the Christian religion. I see this as the only possible way in which Heaven can work without being logically incoherent, but of course logical coherence is not always an appropriate method for approaching religious mysteries. Personally, I am more inclined toward the “works” side, although I recognize that this makes me a wretched worldly man.
But I see now that I’ve contradicted myself. For in attempting to argue why Heaven should be a boring place and not a worldly paradise, I’ve instead proven how it is totally possible for Heaven as a worldly paradise to be a satisfactory and appropriate conception; namely, by subsuming morality under faith and loyalty to God. By doing so, the immorality or sinfulness or material desire is only applicable on Earth, and only because God said so, and therefore totally fair game in any other realm where God says it’s okay to go a little wild.
So, let’s go back to the start. And let’s return to Lewis’ novel again. For in his ill-defined conception of Heaven, there is no action at all, no doing, but simply a passive basking in love, peace, and harmony. This is incredibly difficult to imagine, which is why the sales pitch of the Heavenly characters falls so flat. What does eternal peace and calm mean? What does it feel like? What’s good about it? Our entire frame of reference revolves around doing, to the point where even “to be” itself is a verb which we claim to do. The idea of a state where we are immersed in love and peace has no appeal because it is incomprehensible. It simply does not make sense. We are not capable even of imagining it. It defies the limits of our mind, which predicates existence as a form of being (verb) and time and space as the dimensions within which things are done.
Thankfully, in 1979 the Talking Heads released a song called “Heaven” which will help us out here immensely.
In the song, David Byrne describes Heaven via a few metaphors: first, as a bar where the band plays his favourite song over and over; second, as a party which everyone attends, and from which everyone will leave at exactly the same time; and third, as an endlessly recurring kiss. A few times during the song, he repeats two refrains: 1) Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens, and 2) It’s hard to imagine that nothing at all could be so exciting, or this much fun.
The three metaphors signify three vital pleasures of life: art, companionship, and romantic love. These form the trinity of good things. These good things are inherently positive, and in fact essential to positivity itself. Thus, in order for Heaven to be a good place, it has to contain these three good things.
Two of the metaphors also point toward eternal recurrence. The song plays “all night long;” the kiss will “start again… exactly the same.” The party, on the other hand, does have a definite end point, although an eerie and improbable one that emphasizes the togetherness and unity of all its attendees. This is perhaps as close anyone has got to capturing the serenity, eternity, and felicity of a “dull” heaven. These imaginary scenes show that “nothing at all” can be exciting and fun, even if these terms are being used in a slightly ironic sense.
Obviously there’s a contradiction between Heaven being a place where all these things happen, and being a place where “nothing ever happens.” The scenes and events described in the song are meant to capture the “feeling” of Heaven, not its actual nature, which we can assume David Byrne has no knowledge of.1
Keeping this in mind, let’s forget for a moment that the word “Heaven” connotes an afterlife. Let’s instead think of Heaven more as an ideal of goodness. By doing so, we can recognize that the states described in each metaphor are all distinctly possible here on Earth. Losing one’s self in art, feeling a sense of togetherness with those around you, and reliving one’s fondest memories are near-universal experiences, although perhaps rare in each individual life. We’ve all been to these Heavens, and while in them, we’ve recognized that such a state is not necessarily one where anything happens. It has nothing to do with happening or doing. These states transcend our grammar — a vitally important good thing that is, at the same time, “nothing at all.”
These moments are rarely bombastic or strenuous, although they may often follow bombastic or strenuous moments, as in the walk home after a great party, or a well-deserved rest after physical exertion. Much of the time, however, Heaven emerges for no apparent reason at all; you’ll just be sitting there on the couch, listening to the birds outside the window, and there you are. Or you may suddenly recall a funny moment with a friend, and think how good it is that such a thing happened, and that you can remember it whenever you feel like.
Paradoxically one of the most difficult things to do is simply rest and contemplate, whether that difficulty comes from finding the time, settling one’s thoughts, or in accessing the right environment. Sometimes, the presumption that there exist more exciting and fun things to do will pull us away, toward strain and stress, toward hustle and bustle, in the assumption that all these verbs and doings are the true good things. It’s hard to imagine — by which I mean conceptualize — nothing at all, and thereby even harder to imagine it being a lot of fun, let alone more fun than doing things.
This difficulty of imagining is why we have religious mysteries in the first place, and why the most satisfying answer to complex questions are usually the simplest and least supportable. When David Byrne talks about "the good thing" or his idea of “Heaven,” the words and concepts are so simple as to seem naive. There’s no rigour or specificity to simply stating that you’ve discovered what the “good thing” is, and that you’re going to live your life accordingly. And yet the more words I write, the more I find myself thinking that maybe if I just say “the good thing,” you might all know what I mean, and we can end this whole rigamarole. While the specifics may vary from person to person, it seems to me that in some wordless way, we can all actually agree on what exactly “the good thing” is. And whether we call it “the good thing,” or we call it “Heaven,” or “peace of mind,” or “zen,” or “fulfillment” or any other term, it all ends up meaning much the same thing. The same good thing.
In the final canto of the Paradiso, Dante futilely attempts to elucidate the mystery of the Holy Trinity by describing a vision of three circles, all of different colours but with the same dimensions:
one circle seemed reflected by the second,
as rainbow is by rainbow, and the third
seemed fire breathed equally by those two circles.
This image provides no particular insight into the nature of the Trinity, and almost feels like a Talking Heads lyrics itself. Dante basically admits as such, prefacing the final stanzas with the admission that the following words will be “more weak than those of one whose infant tongue still bathes at the breast.” And yet, in itself, this image of circles makes a lot more intuitive sense than any extensive theological argument about the matter.
When we talk about Heaven, we are talking about two things, both of which are quite simple. Firstly, we are talking about rewards for good behaviour. Secondly, we are talking about the promise of life after death. The subject becomes complex due to the combination of these two simple aspects. In the Talking Heads song, the conception of Heaven presented adequately accounts for both aspects: it is both pleasant and eternal. Like Dante’s circles, it is simple. The three metaphors refer to common situations that we can all understand. There’s a sort of folksy charm in conceptualizing Heaven this way, as opposed to the more strict and unforgiving depiction in Lewis’ novel.
But this is all because Byrne artfully eludes the most pressing and controversial question surrounding Heaven: namely, who gets to go there, and how are they chosen? This is the sticky question that confounds all of our supposed agreement about the “good thing.” Any attempt to answer lands you in the position of C.S. Lewis, casting judgments upon one’s fellow man, hopelessly assured of one’s own viewpoint. It’s a question that can’t be hand-waved away with circles and parties. It’s also, thankfully, outside of the purview of this essay.
1. Lewis prefaces The Great Divorce with the warning that the book is, in fact, a metaphor, since he’s never actually been to Heaven, a warning which Byrne acutely recognizes as unnecessary.