A taste of the at-homeness of heaven

I settled stiffly into my seat at church last week, counting my miseries. We were half an hour late and I had the sniffles. I had forgotten to put on lipstick and had even pulled a muscle in my neck during our drive. We had shuffled in like the guilty do, tiptoeing from the overflow room to the sanctuary after the last prayer.

As the pastor ascended the stairs, I felt a twinge of remorse. When we had stopped to check the oil in the car (also on the way to church), we had wiped the dipstick onto the envelope from the pastor’s Christmas card—certainly a breach of etiquette at some level. Other worries coursed through the harried channels of my brain: When would we go to the mechanic? Why couldn’t I turn my head? Was my dress too short?

Clearly, it was time for the text—both in the order of service and in the climate of my soul. The pastor began to expound that Christmassy verse about angels, the one you can read on wrapping paper a hundred times each December: “Peace on Earth.”

The sermon, as expected, extended beyond the typical fare of white calligraphy and cartoon doves. It became an exploration of the Hebrew word for peace: shalom. Its definition exceeds cessation of conflict and embraces something larger: flourishing, abundance, life as it ought to be.

I read in a book once that everyone has a profound sense of shalom encoded somewhere in his or her past—some moment or moments, perhaps from childhood, in which one felt completely secure, profoundly at home, worriless, warm, and alive. The moment, however small, is a touchstone for all future bliss, and one of your first tastes of the at-homeness of heaven. Whenever I start quoting that book, which was written by a psychologist, my husband looks at me like I’ve gone a little wacky.

But when I peer back into my personal past, I can see my moments of shalom. Sometimes my present life triggers them. For instance: On Wednesday I walked down the driveway and passed a series of round hay bales. I stuck my face right into one of them, and all these fragments of childhood transmitted through the fragrance of the hay. I saw the childhood farm of my best friend Kayla, her little face flanked with brown braids, and the red barns—all unimaginably sweet, all tastes of life as it ought to be. Life where I am loved, nourished, healthy, full of delight, and at home.

At times we all cherish mediocre definitions of peace—especially peace with God. The saints of God are no longer at war with Him. But it’s more than that. Their lives are filled up with the sweetness of His presence and the profusion of His good gifts. He has borne their grief and anxiety—their pulled muscles and dirty oil and breaches of etiquette. He has let them taste a sip of paradise and then promised them the whole cup. This good God is our shalom. Doesn’t that make you eager to go home?