I sometimes imagine that the first thing that happens when we die is that you are offered the opportunity to attend a 2-day seminar in which everything is explained. A sign up board advertises that you now can have all of your questions answered and learn the inner thoughts of God. Of course everyone wants to come. There is even a bit of jostling, until a weary looking angel explains that seating is unlimited. On the next day everyone is provided with a seminar folder and name tag. There is the usual series of handouts together with a legal pad and a pencil for taking notes. Everyone thinks, “they know how to do things up here.”
St. Peter takes the podium and clears his throat. He says that while everyone is getting settled there is going to be a bit of entertainment. He has the lights dimmed, asks for quiet and some music starts. People begin to relax, able to finally let go of the last throes of dying.
The slide show could be called perfectly ordinary, though for everyone it is a little different. There are images of a baby’s hand, of rain water sliding down the crevice of a leaf, a cloud, a spotted colt. And everyone feels like they see these things in a way they didn’t before.
A conviction begins to grow, which none of them could explain, that they really aren’t that interested in the answers they had come to hear. It all seems like God’s private business and since He is really good at doing things there is no point in going into details.
They could not tell you how it happens, but one by one the huge auditorium begins to empty. By the time the slide show begins to be accompanied by sounds, like red winged blackbirds and summer rain, half the seats are empty. When they bring in smells, like cinnamon and chili powder there are only a few knots of people here and there; and the ones that are staying are there mainly for the show: the smells, and the sounds and the tastes that appear in their mouths. The ones that leave find themselves obeying a powerful hunger to go out and look at the world. Somehow this seeing without distraction answers questions, but they cannot explain how it does. They no longer need to know how many persons there are in the Trinity or about Jesus’ miracles. They find what they were asking for (though it explains nothing) in spiral nebula, the smell of lilacs, and the cry of nighthawks.
I imagine what Aunt Jean would have seen in her version of the presentation is images of herself repairing, polishing, building, praying. She would then know down to the bottom of her heart that life never was about being smart, or reading important authors, being good enough, or doing the right things. She would realize all the ways she loved deeply, but had been too shy to notice. And like everyone else she would want to go out and see the world.
But being my Aunt Jean, she would know intuitively that St. Peter, in all of the thousands of years, had never gotten to give his talk. And she would wonder if maybe it wouldn’t be a kindness to give him the pleasure of saying it once. I picture their eyes meeting, the old saint and the new one. And they would go out together to look around a bit.