What does the word ‘heaven’ say to ordinary blokes? There’s ‘chocolate heaven’ which sounds a bit girly and after all, is just a pudding which women especially drool over. Then a lot of stuff about heaven seems to get mixed up with all the romantic hoo-hah around Valentine’s Day, with cute little fat, baby cherubs in adverts floating about with tiny non-threatening, dangling willies (or willies safely covered by some random bit of scarfy looking stuff). But the only reason why blokes get onto the Valentine bandwagon is because the retail industry has got them on a guilt trip unless they buy a Valentine’s Day present for their partner.

When does a bloke say to his mate, ‘fancy going for a beer?’ and his mate says, ‘oh, that would be heaven!’– like never, unless they’re both heavily into amateur dramatics. On the telly or in films, the only people who say something is heavenly are upper class women or some bloke in the caricature role of the harmless, effeminate, bumbling twit of a country vicar. Heaven is where parents tell their little kids, Grandma’s gone when she’s just died, even when the old bird never mentioned the place or never appeared to give a tinker’s cuss about the place when she was alive.  Heaven is soft, fluffy, nice, boring, pale and filled with middle aged, middle class women in white dresses who spend their time getting a buzz from Philadelphia Cream Cheese.

Heaven is for wimps and posh women. And who gives a passing cloud for whether it really exists or not?

‘Hell’. Now there’s a word worth thinking about. ‘Give ‘em hell’ is a battle cry to strengthen your brothers in arms. Hell’s Angels are respected nowadays and ‘hell raisers’ are sort of rogues you admire. Hell Boy is a cool super hero. The primary American carrier-based fighter plane in the second half of World War II, the Grumman F6F, was called the Hellcat. The Scottish infantry regiments in the British Army still wore kilts into battle during the First World War. This and their fighting ferocity caused the German Army to honour them with the nickname, ‘The Ladies from Hell’.

‘We rode like bats out of hell’, is a proud achievement. ‘We’re in this till hell freezes over,’ is a determined vow of endurance and ‘we’re with you come hell or high water,’ is one of loyalty. Hell only starts to get nasty in those horror films with a touch of the occult in them, but—hey, they’re only films and you can come back to Earth with a beer and a curry afterwards. Hell only really gets a bit nastier with ‘restaurants from hell’—like the clip where the bloke complains and the CCTV shows the waiter in the kitchen peeing into his coffee. Or slightly worse, ‘neighbours from hell,’ but—hey, any bloke worth his salt would soon sort them out (if he wasn’t one himself—chortle, chortle).

‘Hell’ may not be nice but it’s not soft, fluffy, pale or boring either. Once you’ve chucked the worn-out joke version where little devils with tails run around pricking sinners with their forks, like unhappy barbecue sausages, what we’re left with  is challenging, exciting, dark red and crunchy. It’s definitely not for wimps or posh women.

My thoughts on all this weren’t helped a while ago when I sat through a sermon on heaven, meant for non-believers. As I write this I see that the phrase ‘sat through’ gives the game away. The preacher got very enthusiastic about heaven. He made out that heaven would be heavy on singing and a thing called praising, which was closely connected with singing. Everyone there would be full of joy because Jesus would be there. You wouldn’t be allowed in unless your sins were forgiven and got rid of. Perhaps the force of that might have been lost a bit by him saying that if you weren’t a Christian you wouldn’t enjoy it anyway. The logic that followed was—well, you’d better become a Christian so you could enjoy heaven.

The longstanding church goer in me who has been on the receiving end of ‘sound’ Bible teaching for years and years acknowledged that everything he was saying was true. The ordinary bloke in me, who steadfastly refuses to keep his thoughts to himself, thought the preacher had succeeded in making heaven out to be like an endless church service, which is another view of heaven which turns ordinary blokes off. It even turns some believing blokes off who have a boring or embarrassing experience Sunday by Sunday sitting passively in rows, listening to long monologues or singing songs they cringe to. But of course, it’s less likely to seem boring to the one bloke who gets a huge buzz standing up in front of them being 100% engaged in giving everybody else his message. That’s ironic—init.

It seemed to be one of the best examples I’ve heard, of preaching the Gospel mostly from inside your own mindset and not trying to put yourself much into the non-believer’s mindset. A likely result of this is a doctrinally accurate message, with no communication with the people you are trying to reach. Or worse, communication of a message you didn’t want to communicate. After all, if you won’t like heaven because you’re not a Christian, the obvious alternative to becoming one so you can enjoy it, is to say—well, because I can’t connect with this ‘heaven’ you’re talking about, I’ll do without both the heaven and the ‘becoming a Christian’ bit, thanks.  But perhaps I’m missing the point. Perhaps, on the subject of heaven, preachers in the UK today are only meant to be communicating with wimps and posh women. That can’t be right though, can it?

Heaven Is For Wimps And Posh Women is a 3-part blog. Part 2 will be published on Wednesday 17th November.

Though I’ve only been around 26 years, I have experienced some breathtaking events. I was at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff to watch the 93rd minute match-winning try against the Scots in last year’s Six Nations. I’ve seen a doberman dog nudge her newly born pups to my grandfather in an epic notion of trust. I also came face to face with a North Sea seal after surfing to close to his nose and falling off my board. But what happened earlier this week raised the bar on brilliant moments.

My flatmate Mark, AKA the bread thief, sat with me and one of his solicitor friends who he has known since law school. The three of us watched X Factor and I found myself actually getting into spirit of it. (Feel free to beat me with a cricket bat for that.)

In a split second during an advert break, Mark’s friend, a legal expert, asked him what sort of Christian he was. It was one of those moments where even as a spectator, I felt like my Christian faith was about to be put under the spotlight. I was eating a meat feast pizza at the time which always helps Mark’s eyes lit up at the question, which freaked me out a little bit to be honest. Like me, Mark would be described as a “rough diamond” of a Christian. Basically, this means he likes a cheeky Guinness, will shout at a referee through a television screen, and refuses to use religious language to define the things of God. I like Mark. We laugh a lot.

In answering his friend Mark spoke for about 25 seconds on how his faith is certain because of what Jesus has done in his life, 35 seconds on why Grace covers everyone who turns back to God and 20 seconds on the difference between living a life to the full in the world’s eyes, and receiving life to the full from Jesus. After Mark delivered his concise, clear and honest account of what it means to be a Christian, I decided not to devour anymore of my pizza for fear that I would interrupt what was becoming a memorable moment.

I don’t know what it is about seeing people share their faith that lights up my soul. Maybe its watching someone take Jesus’ command to make disciples of all nations seriously. Or maybe its seeing a person who has never encountered the real Jesus come into contact with a real Christian and watching the cogs of their life come slowly to a halt.

Whatever it is, I love it more than sport, dogs and North Sea seals. Mark’s friend’s response was simply: “Will you take me to heaven when we die?” At this point I wondered if Mark would stick to what the Bible says about heaven or if he would echo what this culture hints at; that all roads lead to the same place in the end. Mark manned up and remained loyal to the teachings of Jesus. He said that it was between his friend and God. He said that his friend would have to have that discussion with the Lord. Mark recommended Timothy Keller’s Reason for God book before we all turned back to watch the X Factor smiling.

It’s real guys. This following Jesus thing is so real that my flatmate who has a brilliant career in the legal world was prepared to sound like a complete nutter in the hope that his faith would inspire one of his closest friends. Its real because I felt the electric current racing through my body as Mark talked honestly about the things of Jesus. It’s real because more than 2000 years have passed since the disciples were told to share their faith, and we are still doing it now.

Isaiah 55 could have easily been the soundtrack to that evening. Check this out:

Seek the LORD while he may be found; call on him while he is near. Let the wicked forsake his way and the evil man his thoughts. Let him turn to the LORD, and he will have mercy on him, and to our God, for he will freely pardon. “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth:

It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace.

Peace.

The man in the red vest was a good pace maker. I tried to keep my eyes fixed on the back of his head whilst focussing on the motivational playlist, which was blasting out of my headphones. There was no doubt that the first 8km of the Pennine 10K were leaving their mark on the muscle tissue around my legs, arms, back, neck and backside. I was a disaster dressed up in running gear.

The fact I had passed the 8km marker brought a wry smile to my red face. Who was this pace maker in front of me? Was this his first long distance race like mine? Did his lower back feel like it was about to fall through his legs? Why was he cocking his head to one side and blowing profusely through his left nostril? What is this sticky, watery-like fluid now running down my face?! Oh yes friends, he just blew his nose and the wind directed his release to my head. What a wonderful way to celebrate the final stint of a charity run.

The crowds of people cheered us on as we hit the final straight in Blackburn. My adopted hometown in East Lancashire proved a fitting place for me to complete my debut distance attempt. The finish line stood like a human magnet drawing this painful saga to an end. I shifted gears and performed a sprint finish. I must have looked like a disabled gorilla after seven pints of Stella. Lying face down on the grass in Witton Park, surrounded by fellow fund raisers, I was stunned by the sense of unity. We had done it. All in different ways and in different times. Each of us wearing different colours inspired by different stories. We started the race as strangers but sweat like friends throughout. Our team of journalists who ran together shared quirky events which had faced them on the journey. Some spoke of the temptations to stop, puke and/or faint. Others ushered in their hard-earned rest which was to come. We all laughed at the Welsh boy (yours truly) who was at one time covered in the snot of a stranger.

Carl Beech once drew a parallel between his Marathon efforts and the Christian experience, and how right he was.

My conclusion was this. At the end of our race, it’s not that we will forget the messy, nonsensical invasions of our lives, nor will we pretend the pain was a mere sub plot. We will however, be so engrossed in the welcome which awaits us who keep our hope in the words of the one they call Jesus, that we will consider everything else as second best.

Some of us have barely left the starting point in our Christian faith, whilst others are performing their sprint finish. Some however, are wiping down their faces after a seriously unpleasant encounter. In our different shirts and various abilities, we run this life awaiting a full revelation of what we have seen in glimpses. The finish line of the faithful.

Read the words of John as he peers into heaven in the book of Revelations:

I turned around to see the voice that was speaking to me. And when I turned I saw seven golden lampstands, and among the lampstands was someone like a son of man, dressed in a robe reaching down to his feet and with a golden sash around his chest. His head and hair were white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire. His feet were like bronze glowing in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of rushing waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and out of his mouth came a sharp double-edged sword. His face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance. When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead. Then he placed his right hand on me and said: “Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and behold I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.”

This is the finish line we are stumbling towards.

Peace.