Heaven or Hell?

An explosion smashes into me; the world becomes fuzzy and blips to black. Then the lights come back on. But the world has changed. I am no longer on a street corner trying to hail a taxi. I am alone on open, empty land I don’t recognise. A gentle breeze brings distant singing, but I also pick up sounds of distress. Someone’s in pain and needs help. I pick up my bag and head in their direction. The sounds get louder as I draw near a large building like a warehouse stretching to the horizon. I go in.

The floor is covered by a vast sea of damaged people. I see broken limbs, missing limbs, burns, open wounds. People are stretched out, curled up, sitting. I roll up my sleeves and kneel beside the person closest to me. Her face reminds me of someone I saw on the TV news. I stitch the nasty gash in her head and give her a shot of penicillin. Beside her, a man wails. His forearm skin is burned off. I apply ointment and wrap a loose bandage around it. His face is also familiar. Next I splinter up a broken tibia. A few metres away a man is holding his head and moaning.

A deep voice booms. ‘Get that fellow out of here.’

I take no notice and bend over the man holding his head. He is a dead ringer for Ivan Milat.

I am tapped on the shoulder. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, you are not supposed to be here.’ The voice is kind.

‘Are you sure? There’s much to be done here.’

‘Please come, call me Pete.’ He looks like a middle-aged accounts clerk, but his manner is both compelling and reassuring.

I follow him. The singing I heard before is getting louder. We turn a corner and the voices are deafening. We are outside another vast warehouse.

Pete says, ‘Go in. This is where you are meant to be.’ I stare at him. ‘Let me explain. This is heaven. That explosion you experienced was the result of a massive brain haemorrhage. It killed you instantly.’

‘I can’t sing. I am tone deaf.’

‘You’ll learn. And in between the singing, which, I am forced to admit, is mandatory, you can have whatever you wish for. Go in and have a look.’

I see a guy sinking his teeth into a large steak. Another man is opening a bottle of Penfold Grange. Someone else is off to the beach with a surfboard. ‘What do people here do when they are not singing or living out their dreams and fantasies?

‘They don’t have time for anything else. Their imaginations never run out.’

‘Isn’t there anything useful I can do?’

‘You can always imagine something useful.’

‘Can I imagine a hospital full of sick people to tend to?’

Not really, that will spoil the vibe. Heaven is about joy, about laughter. Sickness belongs in the place you went to by mistake.’

‘So what useful things can I imagine then?’

‘Carpentry, winemaking, that sort of thing.’

‘Tell me, do lawyers and billionaires and politicians get to come here?’

‘No billionaires, a tiny number of lawyers, a few more politicians.’

‘How about tele-evangelists?’

‘None to-date.’

‘Are they all weeping and wailing and gnashing teeth in the other place?’

I’m afraid so. Some billionaires tried to bribe their way in here. But here’s a thing. There are very few doctors, nurses, social workers, priests, nuns, ministers, Rabbis, Imams, Holy men, and teachers in this place too.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Like you, even after they have died they still want to make the world a better place. You cannot make heaven better than it already is, so they are not happy here. And being unhappy in heaven is unthinkable.’

‘Where are they?’

‘In the other place.’

‘What are they doing there?’

‘What you started to do, tending to wounds, giving comfort, holding hands, teaching, caring.’

Who was that with the booming voice who wanted me out of the place?

That was, um, Satan. We have struck a deal with him to keep folk like you happy. He tries to keep your numbers down. Compassion for the wicked compromises his mission.’

‘So can you get me back there?’

‘Yes, I’ll ask the boss of your outfit to have a word with him.’

‘Who is he?’

‘You’ll find out in due course.’

I march through the door of hell and open my bag. A nurse joins me. Her name is Florence.’

‘Who runs our operation here?’ I ask her.

She points. ‘It’s the middle eastern, curly-haired man talking to that group over there.’

‘Does he have a name.’

‘Jesus of Nazareth.’

 I don’t care what Pete says, I am in heaven.