On Heaven & Grief
personal reflections
Up until a few months ago I would have told you that I’d been honest during my years as a preacher, that I said things I truly believed and spoke from my heart. When my dad died, I realized that I’d been lying.
I was a pastor for what felt like many, many years. It wasn’t that the people were any more wearisome in the church than anywhere else in society, quite the opposite in my pastoral context. It wasn’t that I was particularly unprepared for the immense loss I’d be witness to in the lives of my parishioners —death felt like a near-constant companion in a church of that size.
The truly wearying element of pastoral ministry that I do not, and likely will not, miss is the distinct burden of preaching. The agonizing weight of knowing that people had spent their entire week toiling in jobs they likely hated; that they’d be filling the pews, hoping for a cheering song and a word in due season. The constant awareness that they were hungry, thirsty and in need of something spiritually substantive to satisfy their great need — this was, at times, too much for me to bear.
I know, I know; I was supposed to cast these burdens on the Great Burden Bearer and, simply, resign myself to being a vessel used by God. I was supposed to do my part and let God handle the rest. The problem, I must share, is that “my part” was a ton of work. The emotional work of wrestling with what God and scripture were saying to me about me, the personal work of making sure I wasn’t speaking from vanity or askew motivations, the theological work of being true to the text, the homiletical work of structuring the message in a way that people could understand. It was a lot of work and I felt a great deal of anxiety around it. I just wanted to be truthful to what God was saying through the text, I wanted to be a faithful steward of the moment. I was a nervous wreck, but at least I was honest.
The circumstances of life have proven that consolation to be lacking.
As a Seventh-day Adventist, the true hallmark of our theological lens is the Second Advent — it’s in the name. The second coming of Jesus is more than just a theological pet — it is the end to which everything is pointing for us, and as such it comes up in Adventist preaching. A lot.
I was far from exempt in this trend. It was not uncommon for me to end a sermon on the celebration of Jesus’ soon and exciting second coming. “I can’t wait,” I’d say. “Soon and very soon,” I’d shout. But I meant none of it, it turns out. I did not long for the end of this world and coronation of the next — I still had plans and goals to achieve down here. It wasn’t until I lost my dad that I really learned what it meant to mean the things I’d preached.
Of course I did not know I was being untruthful, but I also never took time to reflect deeply on the matter. I suppose, before my dad passed, nearly everything and everyone I’d ever deeply known and deeply loved was right here; a real privilege one cannot fully appreciate until it is no longer reality. In this regard, there was no deep motivation to long for heaven the way I do now.
These days, I often find myself thinking about the moment when I’ll hear my father’s voice — perhaps behind me or from around the corner — “Garrison,” he’ll say like only he can. “Booooooyyy… I missed you, man! Come here!”
“No, dad, I missed you.”
No more worries, cares, pain, sorrow, crying, need, longing, death. No more COVID-19, no more partisanship, no more inequity, no more separation. I long for this now more than I ever have. “I can’t wait,” I say. “Soon and very soon,” I hope.
Pastor Garrisson, your story unfinished. I was one of your parishoners at CPC and I enjoyed a lot your captivating stories. I would like what you are up to these days.
Ephraim