Heaven

There was nothing particularly noble or noticeable in the old philosopher's death. One minute he existed on Earth, and the next minute he ceased to be. When he awakened, he found himself sitting in an easy chair, surrounded by gently drifting clouds. The room--if it was a room at all--seemed endless. He could not see where it began or where it ended. It just went on and on as far as he could see. In his field of vision, he saw other chairs just like his, evenly spaced from one another and facing random directions. Some were empty, but most were occupied. Clouds drifted in between the chairs, morphing into shapes and then changing back again. The philosopher watched a cloud dance between himself and a nearby chair. The old woman in the chair watched the cloud go by and smiled.

“What is this place?” the philosopher asked her. The old woman did not respond. He repeated the question, but louder. There was still no answer.
The philosopher pondered his confusion. Disoriented, he tried to get his bearings. Where was he? The Blue Hall, perhaps; maybe the City Market Social House. But those were too formal, he reasoned. No one here was wearing a suit and tie. And there was nothing of architectural marvel in this place. There were no pillars, no tiled dance floor. There was no chandelier. The room--if it could properly be called that--was vast emptiness of blue horizon.

He glanced back a chair that he was certain had been empty. Now there was a man occupying the chair. The man was young, but his hair was thinning. Wire glasses with thick lenses sat crookedly on his flat nose. The man simply stared straight ahead.

Approaching his chair to make certain he could be seen and heard, Felix put the same question to the man. The man just blinked.

“He won't answer you,” said a voice from behind. “At least not for a while.”

The philosopher looked around. The speaker was draped in white muslin draped loosely around an almost undetectable body. It was neither male nor female, having features of both. The voice was both of the masculine and the feminine, halfway between alto and soprano, melodic and clear. Each spoken syllable was crisp and clear.

“Who are you?” asked the philosopher. “Where am I? Where did this man come from?”

The figure simply spread its arms. The philosopher pursed his lip and twisted his nose. “Where is my wife? Where are my children?”

“So many questions,” said the figure after a long pause. “But no matter. There is an eternity to answer them.”

The philosopher saw another empty chair filled. This time it was a child. The young girl had no hair. Dark circles under her eyes told the sad story. Suddenly, it dawned on the philosopher.

“Welcome to the afterlife,” said the figure.

“This is eternity?” the philosopher scoffed. “It looks like a waiting room.”

“That is exactly what it is. Everyone who comes here waits.”

“Not at all what I expected. What are they waiting for?” asked the philosopher.

“Adjustment,” said the figure in white. “Dying is often a shock to the system. Sitting helps.”

“Just sitting,” muttered the philosopher. “How long do they--”

“Well,” interrupted the figure. “It's a repentant sitting. For some the wait is rather short; for some it considerably longer.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“Each person sits as long as they need to. They sit until they are purged of their wrongdoings.”

“And how long did I sit?” the philosopher inquired.

“Almost a year.”

The philosopher was stunned. That could not be true. How could that be? “You are lying,” he said.

“There are no lies in heaven.”

“But it seemed like only moments.”

“Of course,” said the figure. “Time passes differently in heaven. Years and moments, it's all the same. Time is of no consequence here.”

“It's of consequence to me,” the philosopher said. “I have a family. I have already been dead a year?”

“Nearly. And your family is fine. They miss you, of course, but they are getting along without you.”

As the philosopher thought about his family, he realized that he did not miss them at all. He tried to. He wanted to. His pictured his wife, the gentle streaks of gray in her hair and her toothy smile. He remembered her clearly, but he did not feel anything toward her. He thought of his children--his son and his daughter and his new grandson. He wanted to miss them too, but he felt nothing. “A year,” he muttered to himself.

“Very nearly,” corrected the figure. “I must say, you adjusted faster than most. Some of them sit there a very long time.”

“I never believed in the afterlife,” the philosopher confessed.

“It doesn't matter. Everybody comes here whether they want to or not.”

“Everyone?”

“Of course. Young, old, good, bad--it makes no difference. All of that is just Earthly silliness. It is all irrelevant here. The only difference between people is how long they sit.”

The philosopher shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid I don't understand.”

“Endless questions. An eternity to answer.” For the first time, the figure moved from where it had been standing. It glided more than walked until it perched behind the chair where the philosopher had spent the last year. The figure turned and looked straight into the eyes of the philosopher and sighed. “All of the things that you fret over--what is right and what is wrong, what is true and what is not--all of the things that you do or fail to do are of no consequence here. Here there is no sorrow and no pain. There is no suffering. There is no want. There is nothing to get in the way. There is only bliss and joy, and it lasts an eternity.”

The philosopher felt serenity wrapping around his shoulders like a shawl. Happiness and joy warmed his heart. He now realized that was why he felt no sadness for his family. No remorse was allowed. No ruefulness was possible. Such concepts did not exist in heaven. Yet, something felt empty. The philosopher knew that his family had grieved for him. No doubt they missed him terribly. What was their relief? Would not a just god provide relief for the living more than for the dead? “So, is it voluntary or mandatory?” the philosopher queried.

“Heaven?” asked the figure, confused.

“Bliss. Is it mandatory that we feel bliss, or is it a choice?”

“It comes with the territory,” said the figure, who floated between the chairs. The philosopher followed. The figure continued, “After all, why would anyone want to feel any of the other emotions? They are just baggage.”

The philosopher pondered for a moment. “I want to miss my family,” said the dead philosopher, “and I want to feel guilt that I can't.”

The figure stopped and turned to face the philosopher. For the first time, his expression changed. It now looked twisted and quizzical. “I can't imagine why you would want to feel those things,” it said.

“Love and grief go hand in hand. My family misses me because they love me. They grieve because it validates the love. There is no passion without pain. Sorrow is the salt in the soup--take it away and there is no flavor in the moment.”

The figure shook its head. Knowing only bliss, it could not understand. “I'm afraid that I miss the point.”

“Exactly! The fact that you miss the point is in fact the point. Perhaps I can put it to you this way,” the philosopher said. “You say that in heaven we feel only joy and bliss. What are they? Define them.”

The figure cocked its head. “Bliss is a state of perfect happiness,” it said curtly.

“Is all happiness the same?”

“Why would it not be?”

“Well,” said the philosopher, wringing his hands. “Some people find happiness in their families. Some find it in fixing antique cars. Some find happiness in torturing people. If I were one of those people--someone who found happiness in hurting others--would I be happy here?”

“I suppose not,” the figure admitted. “You can't hurt anyone here.”

“If I find happiness in my sorrow and guilt and anger and frustration, can I be happy here?”

“It's silly,” said the figure, who suddenly looked blurry to the philosopher. It was as if the figure were slowly fading.

“Perhaps to you,” said the philosopher, who wanted to feel angry at the mysterious figure. “To me, it is the most important thing. I need to feel sorrow and pain to also feel happy.”

“What a queer attitude.” spoke the figure, more blurry still. “I have never heard anything like it.”

“Please,” the philosopher begged. “Let me feel some grief. Let me have my anger.”

“That is simply out of the question.”

“I want to miss my family. I want to grieve.” The serenity that blanketed the dead philosopher tightened against his shoulders, then pushed against his neck. He imagined that it turned into a noose. Gradually, it began to tighten.

“Perhaps,” said the figure, “you just need some more time in the chair.” As the figure smeared across the philosopher's field of vision and then faded out of existence, the philosopher found himself in the purgatory he had awakened into. He tried to stand, but found that he was unable to move in the over-sized chair. He wanted to cry, but he could not. He wanted to scream in rage, but he could not make a sound. All that he could muster was contentment and delight. Alone with his bliss and everlasting joy, he started going slowly and eternally insane.