A Beautiful Vision of Heaven

What is heaven?  The great escape?  This sermon explores different theological understandings of heaven and ends with a hopeful beautiful vision.

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Transcript

Sermons from 

Mission Hills UCC

San Diego, California

Rev. Dr. David Bahr

david.bahr@missionhillsucc.org

May 18, 2025

“A Beautiful Vision of Heaven”

Revelation 21: 1-6 – Common English Bible

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the former heaven and the former earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. 2 I saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, made ready as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. 3 I heard a loud voice from the throne say, “Look! God’s dwelling is here with humankind. He will dwell with them, and they will be his peoples. God himself will be with them as their God. 4 He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more. There will be no mourning, crying, or pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” 5 Then the one seated on the throne said, “Look! I’m making all things new.” He also said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” 6 Then he said to me, “All is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will freely give water from the life-giving spring.

I was raised with a vision of Revelation 21 as the final stop on the Jesus train – a reward for a life lived pure and holy.  Eternity in a place described with shimmering pearly gates and streets paved with gold and, of course, Peter and his clipboard at the gate checking the list for who had been naughty or nice – the goal of life was to be on the right list.  But this expectation went sideways when I realized that I was born on the wrong list.  I could, however, get on the right list, but that meant I could never fall in love, never establish a loving home.  They tried to convince me heaven would be worth it.  I was very confused. 

I hoped seminary would give me some clarity on such contradictions.  That’s when I first encountered feminist scholars and the work of such theologians as Rosemary Radford Reuther who said, “rather than be narcissistically concerned about one’s individual survival of death, our primary human responsibility is to preserve and promote a human life for future generations.”  Theologians love fancy words.  So, in plain English, "Instead of only thinking about our own future and how we can live forever, we should focus on helping people and taking care of the world so that future generations can live and grow."  And thus, my first introduction to a Christian faith not lived in order to achieve a heavenly escape from earth.

This exposure led next to Liberation Theology and Gustavo Gutiérrez, an especially relevant topic related to 1980s Central America – justice on earth as it is in heaven.  And I learned about newly emerging queer theologians like Carter Heyward.  Experiencing love without shame made earth feel much more like heaven.

Something called Process Theology captivated me.  I will spare you the seminary language of heaven as “relational becoming” and the “ongoing creative advance of the universe” and instead, in plain English:  In Process Theology, heaven isn't just a place you go or a prize you get.  It's more like this: every good thing you do, every kind moment, every bit of love—none of it is ever lost.  God remembers it all, forever.  God takes all the special parts of everyone's life and keeps them safe, like putting together a big, beautiful story that never ends.

In my coursework, I was particularly taken by the Eco-theology and Sallie McFague for whom the earth is the Body of God.  You could say simply:  when we care for the earth and live kindly upon it, we are already touching heaven.

James Cone, the father of Black Liberation Theology said, “Any talk of heaven that ignores Black suffering is not Christian hope—it’s denial.”  He believed in a future hope beyond death, but he refused to separate it from the demand for justice today. 

All of these voices created a wonderful awareness of our intersecting lives.  And since my graduation in 1990, theologies have continued to expand:  For example, Postcolonial theology, Indigenous and Asian feminist and Latina “Mujerista” theologies.  

And Disability Theology.  Disability Theology challenges what are known as ableist assumptions in Christian theology – the belief that people with disabilities need to be "fixed" in order to be whole and worthy.  It refutes the idea that disability is a deficit or will be fixed in heaven.  This is deeply harmful, because it implies that disabled people are broken now.  Instead, many disability theologians say that heaven will be not about erasing difference but about full inclusion – as it should be on earth:  justice, love, and belonging.

All of these theologies are intellectually stimulating to me.  Wonderful, hopeful ideas to ponder.  But they leave me wondering, like one of my members once told me, “I don’t believe in heaven.  But I want my husband to be in heaven.”  Maybe not with pearly gates, streets paved in gold, and so forth… but somewhere I can hold onto his memory – where I know he’s OK.

And that’s where these fascinating theologies leave me a little cold, with just about as many unanswered questions.  I don’t want to ignore or escape suffering on earth.  I’m clear that in our lives we are called to seek justice and pursue peace, but I don’t want to ditch a beautiful vision of heaven - not for myself.  For my loved ones and for you.  So, inspired by Womanist Theology – centered on the lives of Black women – I want to offer you this beautiful vision of heaven.

 Mama had been tired a long time.
 Not just tired in her bones, but you know, that deep-down soul tired.
The kind that comes from holding everybody together while the world tries to tear you apart.

She marched and prayed.
 Cooked and buried.

She whispered hope to children who didn’t always believe in tomorrow.
 And through it all—she loved. 

Hugs that drew you in so close, you couldn’t breathe.

She loved fierce.  Full.  Without apology.

When her time came,
 she was met at the door by a light that fell on her
 like the hush that falls when someone holy walks into the room.

Mama asked, “What is this place?

No clouds, harps, or choir robes.

No angels with trumpets.

What she saw was a city like a garden in full bloom.
 Not floating in the sky, but coming down—
 like heaven was tired of waiting up high,
 and finally decided to meet earth face to face.

Twelve gates stood open before her—
 shimmering like pearl, 

wide open with welcome.

There were walls, but not made to keep folks out. 
 The walls were there to make everyone feel safe inside and at home.

And then she saw them—
 
 

“Look at you all! I knew I’d see you again!”

Auntie Lorraine in her flamboyant Sunday hat.
 Miss Odessa waving her tambourine.
 Her little brother, grinning wide, still without his two front teeth.

The streets were indeed golden—but not garish,

They were gentle and alive, like the inside of a honeycomb.
 The air was pulsing with music and memory,
 with the aromas of jasmine and greens.

“Is this… the New Jerusalem?

There was no big shrine standing in the middle of the city—
 No gaudy throne high above the people with a gold-plated seat.

Instead, a river,
 flowing clear as truth, alive like justice.
 And on both banks, Trees of Life stretched wide,
 leaves singing, fruit of every kind filled with sweet healing.

And at the center there was a fire.
 Not the kind that burns—
 but the kind that gathers folks around it—
 laughing, listening, telling stories.

 And right there among them,

was God.

Not robed in majesty, but wrapped in light and love,
 rocking gently like a grandmother in her chair,
 eyes shining with every story being told.

Not above.  Not beyond.
 But with.

She said, “You’re here…And you look like me!?

God said,
 “My child, I’ve been here all along.
 And I was there in every whispered kitchen prayer,
 Every sleepless night beside a hospital bed.
 I was shouting with the crowds and marching beside you
 across the Edmund Pettus Bridge.
 I was in your laughter and the warmth of every embrace,
 In every Sunday pot simmering with love on the stove.
 And I’m here now, too.”

She teared up.

No more prisons.
 No more senseless funerals.
 And no fear every time I watch my sons leave the house.

No more proving myself.
 Only joy.  Tears of joy.
 Only life.
 Only love—totally uninterrupted love.  

How’s that for a beautiful vision of heaven?  Only totally uninterrupted love.

And the voice of God said, 

“See—I’m making all things new.”

“Yes, Lord.
 I see it now.

I can rest. 

Here, I can breathe.  Always.”