Great White Throne (30 page)

“If you want it, then you know how.”

“Will you come with me?”

“As far as the gate,” Gabriel says. “I return to my post.”

I nod. This time I take Gabriel’s hand. I want to be in front of the gate again. I 
want
 it, and so it is. I 
shift
 with Gabriel and we are there.

I SAY GOODBYE to Gabriel and walk through the gate. I’m on a long, straight road. I look down and pause. I cannot help but kneel and stare. Tiles the size of fingernails fit together in perfect patterns. A bright gold octagon is fitted against eight amber triangles. Lines of fiery orange circles spray out from there, melded between the softest yellow mortar. I could stare at these tiles for hours, but I remember I want to see the city. I rise to my feet and keep walking.

Now I look ahead. In the distance, the buildings grow taller and taller. They almost seem to form a tunnel, and at the end of the road is a light like the sun. It is warm on my face. It pulls me forward. My steps feel light and free.

I’m passing homes made of perfect white stone blocks. Their doors and windows are standing wide open. The smell of baking bread drifts from them. I hear the sound of a symphony.

A man is bent over a lawn of grass in front of one of the homes. He holds scissors in his hands. He is trimming the grass with the care of a stylist. Not a blade of grass looks taller than any other. I would call the color vivid, but words are not enough. This green would make emeralds jealous.

“What are you doing?” I ask the man.

He looks up at me, smiling.
 

“Bart?” I stammer. His face is so young, but his eyes are unmistakable.
 

“One and the same,” he says. “I have waited with great expectation to see you, Elijah. How was your journey?”

“Good. Miraculous.” I look again at the scissors in his hands. “What are you doing?”

“Some of this day’s work.”

“Cutting grass?”

He nods.

“Don’t you get bored?”

“Not at all. I do this because I love it. Have you ever seen a more magnificent lawn?”

I shake my head. “It’s impressive.”

Bart stands and breathes in deeply, with a pride of workmanship. “I love the soft feeling of the grass between my fingers. I love the smell after each cut.”

“I’m allergic to grass.”

He laughs. “Not here. Well, I doubt it anyway.”

“What else do you do here?”

“Many things. I’m first cello in a local choir. I also govern this district.”

“Govern it?”

He nods. “I’m like the mayor.”

“Interesting,” I say, unsure what it means to be a grass-cutting mayor here. In fact, I’m surprised by how little I know of this place. It doesn’t bother me. My mind is free and clear. There’s no static, no confusion, but there’s so much to learn. It’s thrilling, like the first page of a book. “I have a lot of questions.”

“We have a lot of time.” He puts his hand at my back. “Won’t you come in to eat? You can ask me whatever you like.”

I hesitate. I’m not hungry, and I was supposed to explore the city.

“You’ve just arrived,” he says, “I know how that feels. We are all new here, but I at least had a little time in the old heaven. Some things are similar.”

“The old heaven?”

“Yes, follow me, we will talk more.”
 

I nod and walk with him into the home. The moment I step inside, I’m flooded with a feeling of warmth and brightness. Maybe it’s the smell of freshly baked bread, or the lush stringed music I hear. To my right is an office. It almost reminds me of Bart’s cramped space under the Cathedral in Washington, though that place seems far away. This office has many papers and books in neat stacks. There is no skull on the desk.

“I still read a lot,” Bart says. “Come, let’s eat.”
 

He leads me down the hall. The next room on the left has a broad wooden table with six chairs. Two sets of plates and cups and silverware are there.
 

Bart motions for me to sit. Then he calls out, “Evelyn?”

Moments later a woman enters the room. She is wiping her hands on her apron. “A guest!” she says as she spots me. She is short, with round shoulders and a bun of dark hair. The spark in her eyes makes me think she’s a ball of energy as much as she’s a person. “Welcome, what’s your name?”

“This is my friend Elijah,” Bart answers. “I told you he would come.” He puts his hand gently on the woman’s shoulder. It is a familiar touch, the way a man touches a woman he’s lived with for decades. “Please, sit,” he says to her. “Let me get another setting. The bread smells ready.”

She nods. “Thank you.”
 

As Bart bustles out, she sits in the chair beside mine, curling up her legs to sit on them. I sense that she always has some bounce to her movements. She smiles at me. “You have questions.”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“It is always important to know where to begin,” she says. “You see, the beginning is the same as the end—God. He’s at our center now, and he always will be.” She takes a sip of water and sighs.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Oh dear!” She puts her hand over her mouth. “Pardon my manners. My name is Evelyn Holland. Sometimes I forget we don’t all know each other yet. That will take care of itself in time.”

“I thought time didn’t exist here.”

She laughs. “Bart always said you could see to the truth of matters. You’re quite right, in one sense. Before, on the old earth, time had an unrelenting pace and a limit for each of us. I would know—I reached my limit, I died. Now there are no limits. The pace cannot be judged. Existence moves, as does time. But time’s movements are of little significance in the face of eternity. You can divide anything by infinity and come to zero.”

I take a sip from my glass. The water tastes pure and cool.
One billion divided by infinity equals zero
. The math works. But it doesn’t explain much. “What did you mean by ‘the old earth’?”
 

“The earth where we once lived,” she answers. “It was—” she pauses as Bart returns. “Dear, would you care to explain?” She looks from him to me again. “You probably already know Bart’s the bookish type. He thinks often about such things.”

“Evelyn knows more than she cares to admit.” Bart sets down a tray and begins laying out a spread of steaming loaves, butter, and jam. It smells better than a Parisian baker’s shop at dawn. “But then, so do you Elijah. You were there to see the old earth’s end. I’d love to hear you describe it. We saw it only from a distance.”

I try to find words, but none do it justice. “It was very hot.”

Bart laughs. “Still making me drag out answers, I see. Well, I imagine it was hot, and probably loud, too. Peter said,
the heavens will pass away with a roar, and the heavenly bodies will be burned up and dissolved, and the earth and the works that are done on it will be exposed
.” He pauses. “So was it the sun?”

I nod. “I think it exploded, maybe started a chain reaction. There was so much heat, like all the stars melted into a lake of fire.”

“That must have been something to see,” Evelyn says, holding out a loaf. “Here, have some bread.”

I take the loaf and set in on my plate. My body feels no ache of hunger, despite the amazing smell. I’m staring down at the bread. My mouth is watering. My stomach is full.

“Not feeling hungry?” Evelyn asks. “Welcome to the new earth. There is no hunger here.”

“How does that work?”

“You have a stomach,” Bart explains, “but like the rest of your body, it’s perfected. Hunger was a symptom of brokenness, of emptiness. Everything is full here. We eat for the joy of it, and for fellowship. There was a reason our Lord taught us to break bread together. May I bless the food?”

“Okay.”

Bart closes his eyes and holds out his hands. Evelyn takes one of his hands in hers, so I do the same. My eyes close. Bart prays, in a patient and measured voice, “Our present God, be with us now, dine with us, fill us with your holy light.” He speaks for a while, thanking God. The words deepen my relaxed happiness.

When I open my eyes, a familiar man is sitting with us at the table.

I’M STARING AT the man. I’ve seen him before. I saw him just before I came to this place. “Jesus?”

“Welcome, Elijah.” He holds out an open-lidded jar. “Here, try this with the bread. Evelyn’s jam is wonderful.”

“Thank you!” Evelyn says.

I nod, speechless. I take the jar and spread some of the dark purple jam on my bread. Jesus takes a bite, and so do I. The taste is more than a taste. It is a sensation of immense joy. I’m eating bread with God. I can’t get my mind around this.

Jesus picks up a pitcher of wine. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He fills my glass, then Bart’s, then Evelyn’s, then his.

“A toast!” Bart says, raising his glass.

“A toast,” Jesus replies. “To our Father’s glory.”

We clink glasses and drink. The rich red liquid satisfies more desire than I knew I had. It’s like I’ll never need to drink again.

“This is part of my Father’s creation,” Jesus says. “Every good and perfect thing is from Him.” He studies me, smiling. His eyes are halos of light. His face is a royal welcome. “You have many questions. What do you want to know?”

Everyone imagines this moment. I get to ask him a question, anything I want, but only one word comes to me. It’s too simple. It’s too big. I ask it: “Why?”

“A wise question,” he says. “Human thoughts, human words—they can never answer this question. But I am the Word, the Way, the Truth, and the Life. I can show you the answer.”

“Will you?”

He looks to Bart and Evelyn. They are beaming up at him.

“You’ll come again soon?” Evelyn asks.

“Whenever you want, call on my name.” He rises from the chair. His movements are fluid and easy, as if nothing could ever resist his motion. He holds out his hand to me. “Come, follow me.”

I stand and take his hand.

And we shift.

We’re somewhere new. There’s an immense tree above us, bigger than any oak. The ground under my bare feet is soft, green moss. A stream gurgles to my right. The sound of children laughing comes from a stone cottage to my left.

“You are showing me why?” I ask, and he knows what I mean. I want to know why God did it. Why make the earth, why create the humans, and why pick me?