Things that have been written in heaven,
the Platonists tell us,
become blueprints for the things
that happen upon earth.
Except that the earthly copies are fuzzy,
diminished and incomplete reflections;
the polished brass mirror
that the great apostle mentions in his
letter.
Our names, says Jesus,
have also been written,
giving cause for rejoicing.
We picture them;
penned flowingly in indelible ink
upon the parchment pages
of some large, quarter-bound, cosmic journal.
Some say that it is a ledger,
a record that will be called into play
in the final summing-up
when we all will receive the just rewards
for the ways in which we have been stewards
of the wondrous gift called life.
Perhaps.
But what if the writings
do not constitute a book of accounts.
Maybe it is merely a simple list,
a sort of honour roll
that reverses the Platonic order.
A list, not ruled-off,
that blurrily registers in heaven
realities that are enacted upon earth.
A list to which names are continually
added,
identifying humble and imperfect people,
like you and me;
uncertain disciples
making their hesitant and stumbling steps
towards a deeper truth,
and thereby entering into life.
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