Once when I was three or four my father drew a little sketch to illustrate his conception of the new earth. It was a miniature landscape showing a country road skirting a woodland and vanishing at last through a rustic gate in a rail fence—nothing exotic or pretentious, yet utterly charming in its simplicity. To my childish imagination, it was an enchanted scene, a paradise where one could wander forever in perfect contentment. I yearned to know what lay just around the bend of that little road.
My father often talked about the new creation as he imagined it would be. His description of a perfect world free of all the miseries of this life instilled in me a vision that has never dimmed. It has been a perpetual consolation as well as a burning lamp to guide the way through the long night of discouragement and skepticism into the light of the hope that is in Christ Jesus.
Other childhood incidents reinforced the vision; but why these trivial and unimportant moments have singled themselves out in my memory, leaving such an impression, is hard to say. Incidents such as the time I woke up in the back seat of the car after a long journey to gaze out in astonishment over an emerald-green countryside resplendent under a cloudless sky. It was the end of one of our annual vacation trips to the hills of eastern Kentucky where my grandparents lived. Many a time have I summoned up that scene—a small creek by the roadside beyond which stood a mere dozen old-fashioned houses and, farther yet, a line of blue-green hills. I dimly remember visiting a dear old aunt who laid out her table with her best linen and tableware. I was too young to remember any of the conversation, but I have retained a vivid impression of a mood that was peaceful, loving, kind, and hospitable. I can remember particular school events, Christmas parties, and bicycle trips to visit a favorite cousin.
Seen together, these incidents display a common mood that is tranquil, harmonious, and peaceful, with not so much as a shadow of violence, agitation, or disruption. They have all been characterized by an emotion which cannot be described but must be experienced to be understood. C.S. Lewis knew the passion; he wrote of it in his autobiography, Surprised by Joy, and intimates that the moments in his childhood when he experienced that transcendent joy, though it were ever so briefly, were in some way instrumental in his Christian conversion from atheism.
Plato theorized that the joy which children alone seem to possess is a result of their just recently having left heaven to live on earth. At first they retain some memory of their former heavenly bliss, though it rapidly fades with age until it becomes all but extinguished. This notion became the subject of one of William Wordsworth's most famous poems, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood." The first and fourth stanzas perfectly express the thought:
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Appareled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting.
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy;
Shades of the prison house begin to close
Upon the growing boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy. . . .
Though Wordsworth's and Plato's philosophy does not jibe with the Holy Scriptures, somehow I suspect it contains an element of truth. Nor do I think that the noble sentiments of joy and bliss are solely the property of the great writers. Nearly all people, at least those who, like myself, were fortunate in having a normal home and loving parents, have similar joyful memories of childhood. In trying to analyze this phenomenon, I have come to the not so original conclusion that it is the result of the fresh and unspoiled innocency of childhood together with the absence of care, worry, and responsibility. The vision of children is not clouded by the rough knocks and the harsh realities of an imperfect world, sheltered as they are by their home and their innocence.
In their innocence, children are ignorant of the many hateful passions that mar the adult world, passions that move men to inflict cruel and hurtful things on each other. In their innocence, children trust all people. Not yet responsible for their own livelihood, they are unacquainted with the lie; they do not yet perceive the endless deceits with which a corrupt society can rob them of a peaceful existence. Not suspecting others of ulterior and selfish motives, children are quick to forgive if wronged. The adult concept of tact forms no part of their character: having no worldly ambitions of their own and no reputation to uphold, they can afford the luxury of frankness, readily expressing their sometimes sharp but always honest opinions with no thought of being offensive. And they think others are like themselves.
Nor have children yet discovered, in any significant way, the curse of a ruined world. A weed is just as beautiful and wonderful as a valuable garden plant. Decay goes unnoticed—an old tumbledown barn or house is as fascinating as the most luxurious mansion. Fine apparel means nothing—they would as soon dispense with clothes altogether. Dirt is not dirty; children revel in groveling in the good earth.
In their innocence children are blissful. The joy and peace with which they clothe the world springs from within themselves. Of course, the grim realities of sickness, pain, and death will soon teach them otherwise, but even in the presence of these evils, they are remarkably calm and unconcerned. It is only when the child begins to violate his own conscience that the world begins to lose its radiance. As he learns to lie, to steal, to injure, and to destroy, he begins to see these same baneful elements in others. And as he becomes self-sufficient, he quickly learns of the many ways in which nature resists his every effort to wrest a living from the earth.
I suppose it is the Garden of Eden tragedy reenacted in each life. First, there is the innocence and the lovely garden of delights where all one's needs are met and where no worries or responsibilities intrude. Eventually, one rebels against parental authority and begins to disobey. To cover one's misdeeds, he begins to lie and to dissimulate. Because of inner conflicts and guilt, the illusion of a good world that clothed his spirit in bright array gradually fades as his eyes become opened to the truth of his nakedness.
There are some scholars who believe that this is all that is meant by the Genesis story: it is only an allegory that depicts the awakening of each individual to the true nature of things. The universal longing of man for a lost paradise, as evidenced by his many myths and folk tales, is just a yearning to return to the state of childish innocence and careless dependence upon his parents.
No doubt there is truth in this interpretation. However, though I too strongly suspect that the story of the Garden of Eden is in a large measure allegorical, I cannot deny that it is essentially also historical. Jesus, whom I consider a better authority than the liberal scholar, referred to Adam and Eve as real people; nor, contrary to some critics, was he merely doing this to conform to the ignorance of his time. For he did not hesitate on other occasions to correct his disciples' misunderstanding of the Torah.
There is indeed a universal longing for a long-lost paradise. Practically every tribe and religion has its version of that garden where its worthy dead live in eternal comforts and bliss. Although the details vary, all have in common the absence of pain and suffering and the supplying of every need.
Whence springs this universal longing to return to a paradise? Could it not be that the Bible account is true and the story of Eden has been handed down, though in many garbled forms, through the millennia? Plato and Wordsworth, as I said, are partially right: but it is not heaven that we dimly remember; it is that wondrous Garden that our first parents called home which with many a sigh and regret we instinctively recall.
This longing to return to our original home—by whatever name one chooses to call it—has been the subject of many literary works. Besides Wordsworth's famous poem, outstanding English classics which have had a great, perhaps even an undue, influence on Christian thinking include Milton's Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Among lesser works, a favorite of mine is a short story by H.G. Wells, "The Door in the Wall," which contains a description of Paradise that is the closest thing to my own conception of God's final and perfected kingdom on a new earth that I have ever read.
It is my conviction that not enough consideration has been given to those Biblical texts that speak of the kingdom to come. Pastors and teachers, at least of my acquaintance, place entirely too much emphasis on doctrinal and creedal issues and "reproofs of instruction." But I suspect that the average Christian has, like myself, grown acutely weary with this kind of sermonizing which at times sounds suspiciously like brainwashing. They long for a glimpse of the heavenly goal to which we are all striving. They long for, and urgently need, comfort, solace, and encouragement as they struggle to fight this great spiritual warfare in which the sorest battles are waged against discouragement and hopelessness.
Such comfort and such consolation as one needs can best be obtained from those Scriptures that tell us of the riches of God's glory that is our inheritance. As Paul said of the resurrection, "Wherefore comfort one another with these words."