The Memory of Heaven
There are two writers whose words have made a profound impact upon me this year. The first is St. Augustine, and the second is Henry David Thoreau.
It was my dad who introduced me to Augustine. I remember the day— we were in the car, and without much context he said “Incipit exire qui incipit amare.” I looked over at him, confused as to this sudden assertion of a Latin phrase. “You know some Latin,” he said. “Can you translate that?”
I had to think for a minute before coming up with “He begins to leave who begins to love.”
“It’s St. Augustine,” said my dad. “It means a lot to me.” I didn’t know then how much it would mean to me, too. After lingering in my mind for months, the words made sense when I read Walden.
I was not enthusiastic when my English teacher introduced Thoreau. At first, Walden seemed to be an unnecessarily dense dissertation on the faults of society and the merits of living alone in the woods. Yet despite my original reluctance, I came to love the book. Thoreau distanced himself from the materialism of his community because he found transcendence in nature. Like Augustine, he was ultimately seeking to leave this world behind for a higher spiritual life. One page in particular stands out to me. Amidst a digression about the joys of being an early riser, Thoreau wrote “To be awake is to be alive.” It was this simple sentence that brought everything together. Both Augustine and Thoreau were speaking to me about heaven. The memory of heaven lingers within us, calling us to return. Only through a gradual spiritual exodus can we wake to eternal life.
When I speak of heaven, I am referring to the condition of perfect happiness. Rather than a physical place, it is a state of the soul. Augustine says that the happy life is “joy in the truth.” In other words, it is eternal rejoicing over, to, and because of our God. In the beginning—in primordial Eden untouched by evil—man had some foretaste of this happiness. He was alive, in the highest sense of the word. He was both fully conscious of himself and fully conscious of his creator. He knew God face to face. But this did not last. Human nature, wounded by sin, plunged back into slumber. Man’s spiritual consciousness is now clouded. Our selfishness and ignorance prevent us from experiencing heaven.
Yet even despite this moral confusion, all men still share an instinctive desire for happiness. We are constantly pulled towards truth, goodness, and beauty. This innate attraction can only bespeak an awareness of our original state. In fact, Augustine suggests that somehow, true happiness is retained in our memory. How can this be? I was not physically present in Eden; I cannot describe it to you. Nevertheless, there are occasional moments when I cannot help but feel touched by divine joy. It can happen when I hear beautiful music or see the grandeur of nature, as I kneel in Mass or simply sit in thought. I am suddenly exalted in the recognition that my God is powerful, and he loves me. These fleeting moments are glimpses into the happiness of our spiritual past. We are capable of this because memory itself is essentially spiritual. Memory is immaterial, rational, and transcendent— all qualities of our spiritual nature. It is in this innermost psyche that we maintain a connection with true reality, that is, heaven.
To return to that distantly remembered happiness, we must make a spiritual exodus. Augustine calls it “leaving,” Thoreau calls it “waking”— they mean the same thing. Our departure is a movement of the heart. We will awake to eternal life as we leave behind the attachments of this world. Like the Israelites in Babylon, we on this earth are in exile. We are enslaved to our selfishness. Our thoughts are so directed towards our own benefit that without even realizing, we use people. But the kingdom of God awaits us. In order to leave, we must begin to love. We must leave behind our disoriented self-love for the love of God.
As with happiness, our culture often misunderstands love. Love is not “nice.” It is not a gesture. It is not a slogan. It is the willingness to sacrifice, to commit, and sometimes to forgo easy compliance for a higher good. The more you know someone, the easier it is to show them this kind of love. In the same way, our love for God will deepen as we get to know him. The first way to do this is through prayer. There are many kinds of prayer, and each has its own value. I like to memorize prayers— repeating the lyrical words fortifies me in times of inspiration or desperation. However you pray, it is important because you are consciously speaking to God. The second way to draw close to the Lord is through the Sacraments, especially the Eucharist. As Catholics, we believe that Christ is present Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity—what better way to experience God’s love for us? Going to Mass more than once a week will remarkably enhance your spiritual life. Finally, we show our love for God when we keep his law. We must strive to build virtue. Our actions reflect our ideals. Only when we deliberately pursue a moral life can we move toward heaven.
Thoreau reminds us, “Only that day dawns to which we are awake.” Right now we see the world through the dark lens of our selfishness. Heaven shines radiantly around us; it would blind us if only we could see it. But dawn breaks for us as we grow more sensitive to the light. As we begin to love God, we alter the very atmosphere through which we look. It cannot happen immediately. Therefore, let the day always be a beginning—one continuous beginning. Let us live in infinite expectation. And slowly, gently, as we move between the moments, driven on by that subtle restlessness of the soul, we will make our exodus. It is then, when we are fully awake, and aware, and alive, that at last we will see God.
