Deacon Jude Tam Tran

NOT RIGHT NOW

“In my Father’s house are many mansions… I go to prepare a place for you” — (John 14:2)
“Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come” — (Matthew 25:13)

The church was doing what churches have done faithfully for centuries: sitting quietly, standing awkwardly, kneeling carefully, and wondering how long the homily might be today. Sunlight spilled through stained-glass windows, painting the pews in soft blues and reds. The air smelled faintly of incense and old hymnals. It was one of those peaceful Sundays when heaven didn’t feel very far away.

The priest had reached the part of the homily where voices soften and eyes grow thoughtful. He had been speaking about heaven—how it is not just a place but a promise, not just a destination but a relationship with God fully restored. He spoke of joy without tears, love without limits, and peace without fear. Heads nodded. A few people sighed wistfully. Heaven sounded very, very good.

Then the priest paused, smiled gently, and asked the congregation,

“Whoever wants to go to heaven, please raise your hand.”

Immediately, hands shot up like rockets on launch day. Old hands, young hands, wrinkled hands, manicured hands—almost everyone raised one high, some even higher than necessary, as if afraid heaven might miss them if they didn’t stretch far enough.

Almost everyone.

In the front row sat a little boy, legs dangling, hands firmly planted on his lap. He stared straight ahead, calm as could be, while a forest of arms surrounded him.

The priest noticed.

With a curious grin, he leaned forward and asked, “Young man, why do you not want to go to heaven?”

The church grew quiet. This was unexpected. Adults shifted in their seats. A few parents smiled nervously, bracing for embarrassment.

The boy looked up, blinked, and said with total sincerity,
“Oh, Father, I want to go to heaven. Just… not right now.”

Laughter rippled through the church—warm, surprised, and relieved. The priest laughed too, nodding slowly as if he had just been handed a treasure disguised as a child’s honesty.

But he wasn’t done.

Turning back to the congregation, he raised his eyebrows and said,
“Alright then. Let me ask it another way. Who here wants to go to heaven right now?”

The hands that had once reached toward eternity suddenly hesitated. One by one, arms lowered. Someone coughed. Another person adjusted their glasses. A few people glanced at their watches.

Slowly, surely, until not a single hand remained raised, the church returned to its natural position—hands folded, laps full, feet planted firmly on earth.

The priest looked around, smiled gently, and said,

“You see? Not one of us—including me—is ready to go to heaven right now. Not because heaven isn’t good, but because we know we’re not prepared yet.”

The room grew still again, but this time the silence carried weight.

We all want heaven. Of course, we do. Jesus Himself describes it with tender hope:
“In my Father’s house are many mansions… I go to prepare a place for you” (John 14:2).

Who wouldn’t want a place prepared by God, filled with perfect love, where nothing breaks and no one leaves?

And yet, when “right now” enters the picture, our confidence wobbles.

Because right now, there are apologies we haven’t made.
Right now, there are grudges we’re still holding.
Right now, there are prayers we keep postponing and changes we keep promising to start “next week.”
Right now, our lives are half-packed for heaven and half-settled into comfort.

That little boy understood something many of us struggle to admit out loud: loving heaven doesn’t automatically mean we’re ready for it.

The Bible gently reminds us, “Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come” (Matthew 25:13). It’s not meant to scare us, but to wake us up. Preparation for heaven isn’t about fear—it’s about alignment. About letting our daily lives slowly match the future we say we want.

The wisdom of that moment in church wasn’t about avoiding heaven; it was about living honestly on earth.

Heaven isn’t just a reward waiting at the end—it’s a direction we walk toward every day. Every act of kindness, every choice to forgive, every prayer whispered when no one is watching is a small step in that direction. God isn’t asking us to be perfect right now; He’s asking us to be willing right now.

The little boy didn’t reject heaven. He simply knew he wasn’t finished with today. And maybe that’s the point. God has placed us here, in this moment, for a reason. There is love to give, work to do, lessons to learn, and grace to receive before we go home.

Preparing for heaven doesn’t start at the gates—it starts in the pews, in our homes, in traffic, in forgiveness, in patience, and in love.

And when the time finally comes—whenever that may be—perhaps we’ll raise our hands again, not with hesitation, but with peace, knowing we’ve been walking toward heaven all along.

So yes, we want heaven. Deeply. Longingly. Joyfully.

Just maybe not right now.