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The Undiscovered
Country
decades, Vernon had been known to one and all as a cranky killjoy—a
miserable person who made everybody around him miserable too.
And so almost no one came to visit him, despite the dwindling of
his days on earth. Only the most intrepid family members straggled in
from time to time, and they didn’t stay long. Even the nurses braced
themselves for barrages of criticism when they entered his room.
Vernon had just one regular visitor: Dee Ring Martz. A social
worker with a cheerful disposition—in other words, Vernon’s exact
counterbalance—Dee stopped in daily to check on him. Undeterred by
his toxic attitude, she would linger by his bedside and chat, assessing
his moods and seeking ways to bring solace. Asked how he was doing,
Vernon would scowl and complain about the asinine shows on TV, or
the ruckus made by the kids who visited across the hall, or the nurses
being incapable of doing anything right.
It came as a shock, then, when Dee arrived one Tuesday afternoon
and found the withered, pajama-clad man sitting up in bed and smiling—
you could almost say beaming. The room, usually stuffy and dark, was
bright; the curtains were uncharacteristically pulled open.
“Hello, Dee!” Vernon called out. “Don’t you look lovely today! And
I want to tell you how much I’ve appreciated our daily visits.”
Dee’s first thought, naturally, was that the doctors had upped his
medication. But they hadn’t.
“Vernon, you’re in high spirits today,” she replied. “In fact, you
seem happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
“And with good reason,” he said. “Joey came to see me. My son,
Joey!”
Dee had talked with the occasional visiting relative, and there had
never been a son—she was sure of it. She asked him to tell her more.
Joey, it turned out, was Vernon’s long-dead child who’d drowned
at age five. Vernon had always blamed himself for his beloved boy’s
tragic death and had vowed never to get close to anyone again. His
grouchy disposition was an all-too-effective defense mechanism to keep
others at arm’s length.
“I’m telling you, Dee, Joey came into my room, just as clearly and
visibly as you just walked in,” the man went on, words tumbling from
his mouth. “He told me my time on earth is short and that I should be
nice to people.”
Dee smiled at how seriously he took his son’s admonition.
“Joey said something else,” Vernon continued. “He’s coming to
get me at noon on Friday. That’s when I’ll die, and Joey will be here
to escort me to heaven. He said he was chosen to be my guide. Isn’t it
wonderful?”
As much as Dee had been around dying people, she was no stranger
to spiritual encounters: children who saw angels, semiconscious people
who reported heavenly visions, those who in their final moments
called out, “It’s so beautiful!” Still, she wondered about the specific
timetable.
The next time she ran into the doctors overseeing Vernon’s
medical care, she told them of his experience and asked about his life
expectancy.
“He’s terminal, all right,” one said. “But I’d give him three or four
months. He’s not so bad off that he’d die on Friday.”
The other concurred: “You better be ready to tell him something on
Friday when he expects to be in heaven but discovers he’s still here.”
Friday came, and Dee showed up at 11:30. She and Vernon chatted
as usual, Vernon offering more compliments and encouragement. As
the minutes ticked by, Dee didn’t dare check her watch, knowing what
he would think. She began rehearsing words of consolation.
Soon enough, the grandfather clock out in the hallway began tolling
the noon hour. Gong, gong, gong. . . .
As if on cue, when the twelfth gong sounded, Vernon sat up, spread
his arms wide, and shouted, “Joey!”
In that exact instant, the room filled with a palpable energy, as
with the ionized air after a lightning strike. Dee felt the hairs on her
arms stand up.
A split second later, Vernon slumped back on his pillows, his head
lolled to one side, and the last gush of air escaped his lips. “Vernon?
Vernon!” Dee shouted. No response. She pressed the emergency call
button, and nurses scurried in. Checking his pulse, one announced,
“He’s gone.”
Dee thought to herself, Yes, he’s gone—gone on to a better place with the
son he longed to see again.1
These are some of the questions and ideas we’ll explore in Heaven
and the Afterlife. With one eye on the Scriptures, the other on credible
accounts and research clues, let’s pull back the veil and consider what
we see.
The truth is, for a very long time people have been searching for
the answers. With remarkably few exceptions, from the moment civiliza-
tion began humans have upheld some kind of hereafter. For millennia,
beliefs about the “geography” of the afterlife—and the road map we
must follow to get there—have varied widely, but few cultures have
doubted there is such a place or that human consciousness survives to
see it. Funerals always have been rites of passage from this life to the
next, ranging in form from a simple burial or cremation to immensely
complex procedures lasting days or weeks.
Ancient Egyptians, for instance, took weeks to mummify their dead,
carefully keeping the body and all its organs intact so that the soul
would continue to have a place to live. After embalming was complete,
they wrapped the body in strips of linen that bound charms, amulets,
and talismans to the deceased.2 Clearly, like the vast majority of those
who have ever lived, they didn’t subscribe to a lights-out philosophy
of death.
For all our skeptical denial and rational thinking, beneath the mod-
ernistic veneers we’ve been no less preoccupied with the afterlife.
Even allowing for a broad margin of error, numbers like these are
hard to ignore. Though we don’t talk much about the matter, it seems
real-life ghost stories are happening all the time. In your lifetime, the
odds of encountering an apparition (one in four) apparently are better
than rolling a six on your first try.
What’s going on here? Have we forgotten the legacy of pioneering
philosophers like René Descartes and Sir Francis Bacon, who helped
us escape the “ignorance” and “superstition” of the Dark Ages? After
enjoying the tangible fruits of the scientific revolution for centuries, do
we still doubt that material reality is the only reality?
Seemingly, yes. And the reason may be that it’s easy to demand
verifiable “proof” of the afterlife—until you’ve had your turn to see an
apparition or witness the appearance of a dead loved one or have your
own near-death experience. In other words, brainy lab-coat logic might
get revisited when it appears to contradict compelling, firsthand experi-
ence. People might not know how or why something “weird” happened
to them, but those who’ve been there largely are adamant that something
really did happen nonetheless.
Consider as a representative example the story of Brenda, who
has degrees in both mathematics and physics and runs her own land
surveying business. Well-trained in the scientific method of inquiry,
Brenda makes her living by putting faith in hard, cold, precisely mea-
surable facts.
Several years ago my kids and I moved into an old house in a small
Colorado mountain town—a storybook Victorian-style home with
lots of character. One night, not long thereafter, my teenage son
came running into my bedroom, obviously terrified. From his room
downstairs he had watched the bathroom door across the hall open
all the way and then shut nearly to the point of latching—not once,
but fifteen times in a row. Then he felt a “presence” enter his room
and heard an audible sound like someone exhaling deeply.
I didn’t know what to think. His fear was real, so I couldn’t
imagine he had made it up. Still, I thought there must be a logical
explanation. At about the same time we began having electrical
problems in the part of the house near his room. The lights were
unreliable. They would go off and on at odd times, and the switches
didn’t always work right.
Then, not long after my son’s encounter, I was standing near
the kitchen where my kids were hanging out with a couple of
friends. From the corner of my eye I clearly saw a tall male figure
walk across the living room floor and disappear into the hallway
toward my son’s room. It wasn’t just a vague impression. I had
no doubt a real person had walked by.
My first thought was that my son’s friend had slipped past
me unnoticed. But when I looked, all the kids were there in the
kitchen. No one else was in the house. It spooked me enough that
we left and stayed at a friend’s house that night.
Ignorance Promotes
Fe a r Nor ma n
Norman Cousins said, “Death is
Cousins sa id,
“Death is not
not the enemy, living in constant fear
t h e e n e m y,
of it is.”6 As children we learn that the
living in
best way to deal with fear of the dark
con st a nt fea r of
is to turn on a light—in this case, the
i t i s .”
light of knowledge—and see what’s really
there.
Moody concluded that such visions are comforting because they provide
us with another reason to trust that our loved ones are not “gone” but
still survive—and thrive—in an afterlife. The more we know about these
stories, the less likely we are to be wracked by prolonged, excessive
grief when we lose someone we love.
I g n o r a n c e L e av e s U s U n p r e pa r e d f o r O u r
O w n D e at h
In On Death and Dying, Elizabeth Kübler-Ross introduced a significant
idea: Leaving this world with dignity is not so easy to do, and there are
difficult stages in the process that all of us go through.
It might be helpful if more people would talk about death and
That is to say, the more we know about all aspects of the afterlife, the
easier it will be to make the trip when our turn arrives.
Belief in the afterlife is a cornerstone of Christian faith. Jesus told
us, “God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that
whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”9 We
accept that Christ has conquered death—not just for himself but for
anyone who repents and believes. It’s normal to want to know more;
however, when it comes to probing the mysteries of death and dying—and
beyond—Christians are often just as afraid as anyone else. Why should we
be? Fear is a well-known enemy to faith and freedom. Are there reasons
to be prudent? Yes. Paranoid? I think not.
Freedom from fear generally is the fruit of knowledge, though this
isn’t always easy to come by. At times, the material in this book may
make you uncomfortable. It may make you incredulous. It may even
make you mad. All I ask is that you keep an open mind as you listen to
the following stories and ideas. Let’s go forward in the spirit of discovery,
protected by God’s perfect love that “drives out fear.”10