You Will Be Glorified

Death cannot touch the soul, because the soul has no frontiers, no border it cannot cross. The mind cannot comprehend the wilderness of life after death, a place we have never been. But it is not too much for the soul. Our souls easily pass over borders.

Our soul knows that death is not the end but the beginning, not a departure but a homecoming. O’Donohue writes,

For your soul, death is a homecoming. Naturally the soul will feel the sadness of withdrawal from the visible world. Ultimately, however, physical death must also be an adventure for the soul. There must be excitement for the soul at the edge of such transformation, and joy in bringing the bright essence of a life’s harvest into eternity.

He is saying that, instead of something to be feared, physical death is “an adventure for the soul,” filled with excitement and joy. What a sharp contrast to how we often think about death. True, we will feel sadness as we withdraw from this world and all of its wonder, but something greater awaits us. And our souls know it.

All of us live with what C. S. Lewis called “an inconsolable secret,” a hidden longing for glory: “Glory means good report with God, acceptance by God, response, acknowledgment and welcome into the heart of things.” This longing will be met, he says, when the “door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last.” Every time we enter a room longing to be welcomed, or hear about a party to which we hope to be invited, we are touching this inconsolable secret. I love surprise birthday parties for this reason. When the birthday boy or girl suddenly realizes a whole party has been planned for them, and that people have done so because of how much they love them, there is a look of joy on their faces I have found unmatched.

This is what it means to be glorified. When Paul tells the Colossians that when Christ is revealed they will also be revealed in glory, he has in mind this sort of welcome—a birthday party on steroids, a grand celebration of who we truly are in the eyes of God. I like to think about this, not so much for me, but for those I love. Lewis points out that it is good for us to think about the future glorification of others:

It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbor. The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbor’s glory should be laid daily on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken.

The weight of glory that awaits our brothers and sisters in Christ is something we do well to ponder. When I think about the future glory of my wife and children and family members, of the women and men who have been so important to me, I am moved to doxology. And to a deep sense of humility, as Lewis notes, which is required if I am to see them rightly.

Take some time to ponder the potential glory of your brothers and sisters in Christ.

Every time we see suffering there is dissonance in our souls. Every news feed that tells a story about violence and abuse and death makes our souls recoil. Our souls know that this is not the way it is supposed to be. The pain of the pandemic caused by Covid-19 will last for a generation. It is something we cannot unsee or unfeel. The dissonance is unbearable, but the hope of a time and a place when sorrow is ended causes a consonance in our embodied souls that cannot be denied.

Throughout this book I have been writing about the grace of God in every chapter. Grace is God’s action in our lives—a gift we do not merit or deserve or earn, but that is freely given to us by God. Grace imparts to us what we could never achieve on our own. So far I have been writing about the three classic theological works of grace: prevenient grace, justifying grace, and sanctifying grace. We come into this world with a “spark” of grace on our souls—a transcendent longing for God, and a soul that longs to be desired and loved. That is prevenient grace—it comes previous to our birth, a gift we are born with. But we are born under the power and penalty of sin, so we need more grace! Justifying grace (sometimes called justification) breaks the penalty of sin by Jesus’ work on the cross—Jesus frees us from the penalty of sin. But that is not all there is to saving grace. Jesus’ resurrection imparts new life, or regeneration, in believers. This is sanctifying grace, whereby the power of sin has been broken.

There is a fourth work of grace—namely, glorification, which is the focus of this chapter. Glorification refers to the final state of believers upon Jesus’ return. Our bodies will be physically resurrected, and we will receive a resurrection body—a body just like Jesus’ resurrection body. Jesus’ body after resurrection was both physical and spiritual. Mysteriously, Jesus could eat fish on the beach with his disciples and also walk through a wall. Our bodies will be bodies—we will not be ghosts. And we will be recognizable to those who knew us on this earth, though not perhaps immediately, as in what happened to the disciples on the road to Emmaus. They only recognized Jesus in the breaking of bread.

While justification frees us from the penalty of sin, and sanctification frees us from the power of sin, glorification frees us from the presence of sin. In the new creation—the new heaven and new earth—there is no more sin. That is why there will be no more suffering and sorrow, which are byproducts of sin. So what will we be doing—will we have any fun if there is no “sin”? In the new creation we will be engaged in all kinds of work, we will be endlessly creative. We will not be wearing angel’s wings and playing harps while sitting on clouds, as depicted in medieval artwork. We will not be standing forever in a worship service that never has a benediction.

Justification frees us from the penalty of sin, sanctification frees us from the power of sin, and glorification frees us from the presence of sin.

Rather, we will merge with everything that is beautiful and good, and we will discover then what we only glimpse occasionally now: that all of life can be an act of worship, and that the absence of sin brings true joy and completely transforms the very nature of life and work. We need to have a robust view of heaven in order to live with the anticipation it deserves. God designed you and me with incredible capacities to dream, imagine, and create. Without the pull of sin, imagine what we can do! God would love nothing more than to assign each of us something magnificent to do—perhaps you will be assigned to run a galaxy.

What will heaven be like? This is a question for which we long to find an answer. According to cartoons, there will be clouds and harps and streets of gold. According to jokes, there will be Saint Peter at the check-in, with some cheeky wisecrack about who gets in and who doesn’t. For many it is a place of unending pleasure—a nonstop, all-access pass to an amusement park. For others it is a nonstop church service, where God is praised endlessly by a chorus of humans and angels. The problem is this: we simply do not have much information when it comes to specifics about what heaven will be like.

The Bible’s references to heaven are few, and mostly metaphorical. Take for example “streets of gold” (Revelation 21:21). Should we take this literally? I am not sure if streets made of gold are even a good idea—I think there would be traction issues. The biblical images are attempts to show the precious nature of the next world. Gold is precious in this life, so why not imagine streets covered in it? The problem with all metaphors and similes is that they break down.

I wrote a book called Room of Marvels, a fictional work about a man who suffers a lot of loss and is given a dream in which he goes to heaven. It is a work of fiction, and I make no claim that I have some secret insight into what heaven will be like. I wrote the book as a part of my own healing. The idea that the things that happen in this life matter, that they prepare us for an eternal weight of glory; the notion that those I love are well; the idea that one day there will be no more sorrow, is very healing—it was for me.

I was on a few radio talk shows after the book came out, and in a few of them the host allowed callers to ask me questions. I was surprised by a few things from this experience. One, the deep hunger for heaven is very real. We all need to know that there is a happy ending. And two, I was stunned at how many people asked me if their pets would be in heaven. But then I thought, Of course they want to know!—the things we love in this life are precious, and we don’t want to lose them. I don’t have an answer, but I defer again to my friend and Bible scholar Scot McKnight, whose answer to the question is yes—there will be pets in heaven.

What do you think heaven will be like? Do you believe it will be good because God is good?

Again, the problem is that we do not know. We can surmise that all that is good and beautiful and true will be in heaven. And we can know that God, in Christ, has done all God can to make sure people have access to heaven. Beyond that we can only speculate. People have asked me a stunning variety of questions about heaven: “If a child dies on earth, what age will they be in heaven?” “Will we be married in heaven?” “Will we remember our life on earth?” The list goes on and on. The best answer I can give to the question, “What will heaven be like?” is one I once heard Dallas Willard give when he was asked: “Well, I don’t know for sure, but I do know what God is like and that God is good, so whatever it is like I am certain we will all say, ‘This is a great idea!’”

On May 8, 2013, my mentor and friend Dallas Willard graduated to glory. I had a trip planned to see him, but he died before I could get there. There was a private funeral planned, and later, a memorial service. I wanted to be at the funeral—Dallas was like a father to me, a spiritual father. His death wrecked me. Jane (his wife) and Becky (his daughter) asked if I would be a pallbearer, and I said yes. It would be an honor to help carry to his resting place the man who had carried my soul for years. I sat next to my friend John Ortberg at the funeral, who was also a pallbearer. Of all the funerals I have ever attended, this one was the most peaceful, because if there was anyone you were certain had crossed over into the heavens upon death, it was Dallas.

At the graveside service, the small group of us were given a rose and asked to place it on the coffin. One by one we did. As I approached the coffin I took two petals from the rose to keep and placed them in my pocket. I wanted something to remember him by. After the funeral had ended, Jane invited me to their home. When we were there she said, “Have you seen the list of people Dallas titled, ‘Our Boys Who Are Out There’?” I said no. She took me to his office, and above his desk was a handwritten piece of paper with a list of names on it, and she pointed out my name. “Dallas was very proud of you, and he prayed for you and the others on this list, that you would continue the good work of advancing the kingdom of God.” I started to cry. Jane made a copy of the list and let me keep it.

After I left their home, I did not know what to do. So I drove down to Malibu, and went and sat on a pier, holding my petals, the list, and the bulletin for the funeral. I noticed a quote from Dietrich Bonhoeffer on the back of the bulletin. It read:

There is nothing that can replace the absence of someone dear to us, and one should not even attempt to do so. One must simply hold out and endure it. At first that sounds very hard, but at the same time it is also a great comfort. For to the extent the emptiness truly remains unfilled one remains connected to the other person through it. It is wrong to say that God fills the emptiness. God in no way fills it but much more leaves it precisely unfilled and thus helps us preserve—even in pain—the authentic relationship. Furthermore, the more beautiful and full the remembrances, the more difficult the separation. But gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. One bears what was lovely in the past not as a thorn but as a precious gift deep within, a hidden treasure of which one can always be certain.

I read this quote over and over. Bonhoeffer was right: we want to be rid of the pain of the absence and emptiness we feel when someone we love passes, but we must not ask for that. It is our connection with them. It preserves the “authentic relationship.” And he was also right that the more beautiful the remembrances, the more difficult the separation. John Pavlovitz has said that grief is the tax on loving people. If this is true, that explains why the more we love, the more profound the grief. Pavlovitz concludes, “Grief is a small penalty for the immeasurable treasure of loving and being loved.”

I sat in the California sunshine, misty eyed, as I recalled all of my most precious memories of time spent with Dallas. His deep baritone voice singing hymns, the way he choked up when he preached because he was so moved by God’s love, the dry humor, the deep wisdom, and the way he gently listened with compassion. I remembered how Dallas comforted me in the death of my daughter Madeline, as he shared how he and Jane had lost twin boys, who were stillborn. I remembered times we sat in airports waiting for our plane, and how he used the time to pray and read the Bible.

As I remembered with gratitude all of these moments, the last part of Bonhoeffer’s quote became even more true: “Gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy.” Joy because of God. Dallas was now ruling and reigning in the heavens with the God he knew so well, not because of anything Dallas had done or accomplished, but because the God who created him, loved him, forgave him, and raised him to new life in this life had raised him again to new life in the next.

Write this down in your journal and take some time to reflect on it: hope is certainty in a good future.

We grieve, as Paul said, as those who have hope. And Dallas taught me the definition of hope: certainty in a good future. Not wishful thinking. Certainty. Dallas, I could imagine, was now with Madeline, and with Rich Mullins, and one day, I would join them as well.

When I look at the totality of my life, and the longings of my soul, and the stunningly beautiful way God satisfies those longings, I am moved to doxology. And when I think of you—the good and beautiful you, who is reading this book—I am humbled and honored that you have taken this journey with me. You are no mere mortal. You are a divinely designed, deeply loved, fully forgiven, fully alive, sacred person, with a sacred story of grace, a sacred body, and a holy longing for God. You were perfectly designed before the foundation of this world, to do great works that give glory to God. And you are an unceasing spiritual being with an eternal destiny in God’s great universe. You are one in whom Christ dwells and delights. And you will live forever in the strong and unshakable kingdom of God. May you sing and dance with the joy of a child in the knowledge of God’s unending love.