The Garden at the Edge of
Beyond
Copyright © 1998
Michael Phillips
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
First edition 1998 by Bethany House Publishers
A division of Baker Publishing Group
Baker Publishing Group
6030 East Fulton Road
Ada, MI 49301
http://bakerpublishinggroup.com/bethanyhouse/
Electronic edition published 2015 by Bondfire Books LLC, Colorado.
Author is represented by Alive Literary Agency, 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
Cover jacket design by Bevan Binder
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Print ISBN: 9780764220425
E-book ISBN: 9781508082217
THE BEYOND
TRILOGY
by Michael Phillips
The Garden at the Edge of
Beyond
Heaven and Beyond
Hell and Beyond
Praise for Hell and Beyond
“Michael Phillips skillfully immerses our imaginations in a detailed participation in what may be involved in ‘life after death.’ He neither defines nor explains. Instead, using fantasy as his genre, he takes us on an end run around the usual polarizing clichés regarding heaven and hell and enlists us in honest, prayerful biblical meditation. I highly recommend Hell and Beyond to anyone expecting to die, whether sooner or later.”
—Eugene Peterson
Professor of Spiritual Theology
Regent College, Vancouver, B.C.
“Michael Phillips has done the impossible: written a thriller on hell. Hell and Beyond breathes the rarified air of George MacDonald’s Unspoken Sermons and Lilith, C. S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces and The Great Divorce, and Paul Young’s The Shack and Cross Roads. If you are ready, this book can bring hope to places long buried in your tears. It is brilliant and scary, fantastic and unnerving, evangelistic and terrifying, every word drenched in undiluted love. You will find yourself longing to be healed to the roots of your soul by Jesus’ Father.”
—C. Baxter Kruger, Ph.D.
Author of Across All Worlds and
The Shack Revisited
1. A Sleeping and a Waking
2. A Meeting
3. Unexpected Question
4. The Garden Where Eyes Are Opened
5. Many Circumstances, Same Opportunity
6. Imagination Become Real
7. The Bed of Tiny Moments
8. The Blossom of Beginnings
9. The Truth of a Thing
10. More Surprises
11. The Shrub of Ten, Four, and One
12. The Universal Human Possession
13. Blossoms Come to Life
14. The Possible Command
15. The Mystery of Free-Chosen Sonship
16. The Perfect Act
17. Blue Hedge of Relinquishment
18. When Does Obedience Matter Most?
19. The Highest Opportunity of Life
20. Fragrance of Fire
21. The Weightless Cloak
22. Meadow of Childhood
23. The Goal of Life
24. The Hated Word
25. The Spirit Not the Act
26. An Unexpected Counselor
27. The Odor of Cancer
28. A New Fragrance
29. Another Waking
30. Looking Back . . . and Forward
Afterword
Notes
To
George MacDonald
and
C. S. Lewis,
who paved the way . . .
worthy mentors with broad shoulders.
The day had not been otherwise memorable, at least not as to indicate what sort of singular night would follow.
I was not a young man at the time, though certainly not so old as to consider death imminent—forty-eight to be precise. It was a good age from which to look back on one’s past with a certain maturity of years, with yet hope of many more to follow.
Thus I might have expressed the state of my existence had I given it consideration on the day in question—which I did not. I simply set head to pillow with the physical and mental satisfaction of putting another day behind and a vague awareness of the duties the morrow would press upon me. Consciousness gradually faded, as it had more than ten thousand times before. I had not the slightest doubt that an equally normal and expected waking would follow seven or eight hours hence.
I had of course from time to time reflected abstractly upon the notion of an existence on the other side of my earthly one. Never, however, had my contemplations been other than the shadowy and impersonal musings of a curious brain. Not in my most far-reaching imaginings did I suspect that on this particular night I myself would experience a taste of this life beyond my own.
Does ever a man or woman select a certain day as suitable to face the hereafter?
I certainly would not have chosen this one. I yet cherished many ambitions and goals for what I called “my life.” But the plans and schedules of eternity do not fall to man to determine.
When slumber overtook me, therefore, I slept as never before. When I woke, I found that all was utterly changed.
How much time (I employ the word in its former sense; in the place of my waking no such word existed, or could exist) had passed, I had not an idea. A few seconds, a few years . . . the matter was irrelevant. It was a place of neither past nor present.
Light bathed me from all sides. The wakefulness that had come to me was so intrinsically different, so thoroughly void of the haziest residue of sleep, I knew in an instant that my senses had been dramatically altered.
There was no bedroom, no house. I stood alone, as if a silent shower of brightness were tumbling over me and had awakened me of itself.
The notion of being in some eternal place did not strike me immediately. Never, in fact, had I felt so remarkably full of life. Neither did I wonder about my status or location—questions that must already occur to my reader.
I merely accepted the moment—full of light, full of health, full of wakeful energy. I can describe it in no other manner than to say I was . . . I existed . . . I felt only a profound and contented sense of be-ing.
Who was I? might be asked.
At the time I thought not to make such inquiry. I was . . . myself. For the moment, that was enough.
It would not be long before I would begin to discover how great was the metamorphosis that had been visited upon me. To call it less than a complete transformation would not convey the overwhelming realization that though I was still mindful of being me, much of what I had always considered my me-ness was suddenly gone. This had the necessary effect of raising what did remain of this “me” to new levels of clarity.
A caterpillar sheds its old skin that something greater than the outer garment, its true winged nature, might emerge. That mature form has all along been developing within, hidden from view. Now at once is it visible with brilliance and definition.
Such analogy did not immediately occur to me. Before long, however, it became clear that my conception of what it meant to be me was utterly distinct from that which I would have called my “self-awareness” upon entering my bedchamber the previous evening. I remained fully cognizant of my former self, and yet all was changed. The outer layer, that previous persona, had fallen away. Suddenly the light shone upon that which had been concealed even from my own view.
With the shedding of the old skin, I saw myself anew. Even as I say the words, I realize that this new me, like the butterfly, had been developing and growing all along, preparing and waiting for its day of awaking.
Who or what comprised the specific components of the being that now prepared to spread its wings—these questions would come soon enough, but did not raise themselves for consideration just yet.
I had heard otherworldly and out-of-body stories involving passageways of white where bright light shone in the distance. I perceived no such tunnel. What I did see—it remains vivid even now in my memory—I can scarcely formulate into the incomplete medium of words.
That there was light is certain, and, though I had no particular sensation of walking or other bodily function, I felt only an urging, a pulling, a compelling forward.
Without emerging from this bath of luminescence, but rather as the light expanded my vision to behold more of my surroundings, I saw elements of familiarity spreading out around me. In the language of my former life, which it was now clear had been left behind, I found myself in the midst of a great meadow on the most lovely spring afternoon imaginable. These paltry expressions are grievously insufficient to convey the vibrant reality, but they will have to suffice.
It was warm and still. A thousand fragrances of blooming grasses, trees, and flowers mingled in the quiet peaceful atmosphere. Insects, birds, bees, and a variety of winged creatures flew pleasantly about, the smallest even without annoyance, contributing each in its own way to the pleasurableness of the setting. A moisture in the ground added a further sense of vitality to this place. The rich green turf—thick, springy, lush—underlay the most wonderful profusion of flowers—mostly species I had never seen, though I recognized roses of diverse colors, white and yellow daisies, giant purple irises, several shades of primrose, Freesias, and hyacinth, and glorious tulips of uncountable number—exploding out of the ground randomly and in all directions as far as the eye could see.
Such flowers they were!—larger and fuller than any on earth, as if they themselves were the reality and those I had formerly loved were but their shadows. Not petal nor leaf showed speck of brown or wilt. Every inch of every plant was radiantly alive, as if they would continue to grow larger and more abundant of life the more one drank in their beauty. Decay did not appear among the characteristics of this place.
This strange land possessed a vague familiarity, as of a homeland infinitely distant in forgotten childhood, now suddenly remembered as the place one was always meant to live.
With wondering eyes as I gazed about the seemingly infinite garden, I perceived I was not alone.
A man approached.
Instinctively I knew him. He was not dressed as any of the common images had represented him. What exactly made up his attire, I cannot remember. Dress, like time, seemed irrelevant.
I did not think to be afraid. A yet deeper contentment filled me as he approached. A smile was on his face. His arms were open to receive me in welcome. I fell into them, and he embraced me like an old friend.
I remained in his comforting arms for some time. When I finally stepped back, he reached forth his hand. His words were not what I expected to hear.
“Do you have something for me?” came the question as I stood on the morning of my waking.
I now noticed that the hand of him who met me in the garden was extended in position of anticipation. His scarred palm was open, as if waiting for me to place something into it.
What could I possibly have? Whatever transition I had experienced since lying down in my bed the night before—wherever I was, whatever had happened—it was clear I had arrived in this place empty-handed.
“I have nothing to give you,” I heard my voice say.
“There is one thing you have,” he replied.
“But I arrived here with nothing. Only myself.”
“You speak truly. Your Self is indeed the thing that made the passage with you.”
“Is that what you want?” I asked.
“Of course.” He nodded. “It was my Father who gave it to you when he breathed life into you.”
“My . . . Self?”
“It was given you spotless, brimming with potential for development. I gave you opportunity to make of it something to fill him with pride and pleasure. I want to see what you have made of it, so that together we may take it to him.”
“But I didn’t know I was making my Self into something that . . . you would want to see.”
“All things are given for that purpose. Why else would it have been given you except to be made something of? Everything returns to the Heart from which all comes. What else do you imagine your life was for?”
I had no reply. I had considered my Self simply . . . who I was. The notion of my Self as a thing intrinsic to me, yet also given me to do something with, was overwhelming and new.
“I must look at it,” he went on. A note of command now entered his voice. “You must show me how you have shaped it, what you have filled it with. I must know what you have made it capable of.”
I could only shake my head and repeat, “I . . . still didn’t realize I was making it into something.”
“That was the only thing that mattered. In a million ways I told you every day to make your Self into something you could hand me on this day, humbly and without timidity. Now come, my young brother, what have you made of what you were given?”
The question was so huge in its implication that I stood as one mute. His words, though firmly insistent, were spoken in the timbre of infinite patience. Somehow I knew he did not expect an immediate reply. I instinctively realized, however, that my sojourn here would not begin in earnest until I had given satisfactory answer. To be made capable of an accurate answer, I now saw, was the first order of business in this place.
“Your Self is my Father’s,” he now continued. “You were given it for a season. The time has now come when you must give it back—whatever its condition. The time has come for us to see what you made of that which my Father gave you.”
He turned and walked slowly across the expansive carpet of green. I followed at his side. We continued some distance in silence.
“What is this place?” I asked at length.
He took no offense at my question. Indeed, once the words were out of my mouth, it came to me that in some mysterious fashion he may himself have prompted them.
“This is the Garden Where Eyes Are Opened,” the Lord replied.
“Am I in heaven?” I said, a little timidly.
He smiled.
“Perhaps,” was all he gave for answer. After a brief pause, he added, “It is always one of the first questions. But it cannot be answered until one’s eyes are opened.”
We walked on.
“But surely, this cannot be . . . hell?” I said. “It is too marvelous for that.”
“It seems beautiful, as indeed it is. But you are yet capable of beholding only the outer appearance of what you see. Much here is the fruit of your own honest-dreaming imagination. You may use other words to describe it once your eyes are opened to the truths the blossoms have to tell you.”
“Is this purgatory then?” I asked, surprised at my own question. In my past life I had not believed in a third alternative between heaven and hell.
“Varied are both the pathways and the destinations for those whom I meet in this garden, here at the edge of Beyond,” he answered enigmatically. “Much will be answered when your nostrils are attentive to the fragrances of the blooms. Then will your inner eyes apprehend the truths they represent.”
“Do both saints and sinners arrive here first, and then leave for heaven and hell later?”
“Everyone’s eyes must be opened, that they may see their Selves for what they are.” His voice was gentle, his countenance like a mother’s caring for her child. “Thus only may they perceive what must be their final destination.”
“Where is mine?” I asked.
“When your eyes begin to open,” he answered, “you will know.”