Between Heaven and Presence

By Earl Smith

Roger Steris reached the gate at LaGuardia airport with the brisk stride of a man who believed that purpose was a form of armor. His backpack – Yale Divinity School patch carefully stitched on – thumped lightly as he walked. He was twenty-eight, newly degreed, bound for what he imagined would be the beginning of his true calling: a weeklong interdenominational retreat in San Francisco titled Many Ways to the Same God, followed by a move to Dallas to begin his work as assistant pastor in a mega-church led by a charismatic preacher he greatly admired.

He arrived at the gate to discover an upgrade to first class. When the agent called his name and handed him a new boarding pass, he felt the warmth of providence settle over him. A sign, he thought. God eases my path.

He boarded the plane, found seat 1B, stowed his backpack, and settled in to the plush first-class seat. He was rehearsing the opening lines of the testimony he planned to share at the retreat when an elderly man approached.

The man had the soft eyes of someone who smiled often, though not always visibly. His clothes were simple – loose, grey cotton pants and a faded indigo shirt. Not quite monkish, not quite civilian clothes. His hair was white, tied in a loose ponytail. He bowed his head gently toward Roger.

“I believe I’m 1A,” the man said in a soft, almost musical tone.

“Yes, of course,” Roger said, standing quickly.

“No need to rush,” the man replied, moving easily past him with the calm fluidity of someone who had long ago surrendered hurriedness.

They sat. The plane filled. Pre-flight announcements crackled overhead.

Roger extended a hand. “I’m Roger.”

The older man shook it lightly. “Frank. It seems we share the blessing of an unexpected upgrade.”

Blessing. Roger liked that word on the man’s tongue, even as he suspected the gentleman meant it differently than he.

“You’ve been upgraded from coach too?” Roger asked.

“Yes,” Frank said, leaning back. “I imagine our names rose to the top of some mysterious algorithm that governs human fate – or at least airline seating.” He chuckled. “The monks in Japan would’ve loved such a metaphor.”

“Monks?” Roger asked.

“Yes,” Frank said. “I’m returning from a long journey capped by eight years of intensive study in monasteries in northeast India and later Japan. Returning home to Seattle, by way of old friends at Stanford. It’s been decades since I’ve set foot on American soil.”

Roger blinked. “Decades?”

“Thirty-two years,” Frank said wistfully. “Give or take a few months. Time becomes sketchy when your days are full of silence.”

“You’re a monk?” he asked.

“A Zen monk,” Frank answered. “By compulsion, though not by vocation. In younger years, I taught existentialism, post-modernism. Harvard PhD. But that was many lifetimes ago.”

Roger wasn’t sure whether the monk meant literal lifetimes. He nodded politely.

“What brings you to San Francisco?” Frank asked.

“A religious retreat,” Roger said, stiffening his posture, energized by the chance to articulate his mission. “Followed by my assignment in Dallas, where I’ll be serving as assistant pastor at New Horizons Church.”

“Congratulations,” Frank said warmly, and with unmistakable sincerity. “You look like a man prepared to begin something important.”

“I am,” Roger said. “Very.”

As the flight ascended, the men chatted lightly. Roger spoke about the security lines – how the TSA agent had barked at him twice to remove his laptop, how exhausting airports had become.

Frank chuckled. “You should have seen air travel in the 70s and 80s,” he said. “My friends once threw me a going-away party at the terminal. No boarding passes needed. They followed me to the gate. We hugged goodbye right at the aircraft door. Those were the days of real freedom.”

Roger frowned slightly. “Doesn’t sound very secure.”

“Oh, security wasn’t an issue back then,” Frank said, gazing out the window as if he could still see that old terminal. “Freedom is something you rarely notice until it’s gone. You’re freest when you’re not aware of being free.”

Roger wasn’t sure he agreed.

The plane leveled out. A flight attendant took their drink orders. Sparkling water for Frank. Ginger ale for Roger.

“Tell me about your life in the monasteries,” Roger said, genuinely curious now.

Frank smiled.

“My time in India began with restlessness,” Frank said. “I’d taught philosophy at Stanford for a few years. Good students, good colleagues. But something inside felt… unfinished. Philosophy is a wonderful compass, but at some point, you must put down the map and walk into the world.”

“What made you choose Buddhism?” Roger asked.

“I didn’t,” Frank said with a shrug. “It chose me in the form of a moment. One day in Calcutta, I watched a woman feed a stray dog even though she had almost nothing for herself. That simple act of generosity struck me as a kind of divinity. Something wordless, but undeniable.”

Roger paused, then said. “So, you joined a monastery.”

“Not immediately,” Frank said. “I wandered first. Then I studied. Years of reading sutras, of meditation. In Japan, my Zen master – an ancient man who spoke little – taught me that stillness is just another kind of movement, one that turns inward.”

Frank smiled softly. “He also taught me that the hardest part of the search for enlightenment is keeping your knees from aching.”

Roger laughed quietly.

“And now,” Frank continued, “I’m returning to Seattle. Through a country I barely recognize. I left before smartphones. Before social media. Before… whatever is happening now.” His eyes softened with concern, not judgment. “It will take some adjustment.”

Roger felt an urge to defend the country, but stayed quiet.

“What about you?” Frank asked. “What set you on your path?”

Roger sat up straighter.

“I grew up in South Carolina,” he said. “In a family where religion was more social than spiritual. Church was for potlucks, choir days, Sunday school, and community events. I didn’t take it seriously until college.”

“What changed?” Frank asked.

“Emory University,” Roger said. “I joined a student group devoted to evangelical theology. People who believed in the absolute truth of the scriptures.”

He paused. “I felt called.”

Frank nodded.

“And at Yale Divinity School,” Roger added proudly, “I deepened my commitment. I studied the Bible intensively, the commentaries, the teachings. I found clarity.”

“What kind of clarity?” Frank asked gently.

“That the word of God is true. Literally true. That salvation is real. That heaven and hell are real. And that those who don’t believe…”

He hesitated only briefly.

“…are lost.”

“And now?” Frank asked.

“Now I serve God,” Roger said. “And fight for truth. I volunteer for political causes aligned with Christian principles. I believe in the movement because it defends those values. And I support our President because he champions Christians.”

This time Frank did not nod. He simply studied Roger’s face for a long, slow second.

“A devoted man,” Frank said at last. “Certain of his path.”

“Absolutely,” Roger answered.

The discussion shifted to the existence of God. Roger was certain, passionate, and articulate about Scripture, heaven, and hell. Frank described the Buddhist perspective, emphasizing awareness, presence, and the divine in all beings, without a singular God, explaining that Buddhism measured life by deeds and compassion for all beings, not words or belief.

Roger found this abstract. “But without certainty, how can anyone live rightly? How do you guide yourself?”

“Not by guidance alone,” Frank replied, “but by observation, reflection, and compassionate action. We are accountable to ourselves and to those around us. There is no posthumous judge, just the consequences of our actions… or failure to act.”

They debated sin, hell, and the origins of scripture. Roger insisted on literal interpretation. Frank responded with questions, not contradictions. The conversation became warm, then fell into thoughtful silence.

After a few minutes, Roger asked: “Buddhists don’t believe in God, right?”

“It’s not a question we ask. As Buddhists, we don’t worship a deity,” Frank said. “We honor the divine nature in all beings. Buddha wasn’t a god. He was just a man who understood something profound… and wanted to help others find it.”

“But without a God,” Roger said, “what’s the point? What grounds morality? What gives life meaning?”

Frank tilted his head. “Do you believe meaning comes from outside yourself?”

“Of course,” Roger said. “God is the source of all meaning.”

“And for others?” Frank asked. “Jews, Muslims, Hindus? Are they all wrong?”

Roger hesitated. “Misguided at best,” he said. “Or members of cults. The Bible is the word of God. Everything else leads away from its truth.”

Frank folded his hands. “You know,” he said quietly, “the scripture you read was written by men in Alexandria, in a language few Christians now speak. And the New Testament was assembled in England by men who wanted to please their king. Words shift with translation. Meanings tend to slip through the cracks.”

“It doesn’t matter who wrote it,” Roger said sharply. “It’s God’s word.”

Frank didn’t contradict him. He simply asked:

“How do you know?”

Roger frowned. “Because I believe.”

“Belief is powerful,” Frank said. “But history is stubborn.”

Roger bristled. “Are you saying Christianity is wrong?”

“No,” Frank said gently. “I’m saying certainty can prove a fragile shelter.” He touched Roger’s arm, “Carry your certainty lightly,” he said. “Let it guide you, not bind you. Listen – truly listen – to those who believe differently. You may find unexpected insight.”

The plane descended into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. The passengers deplaned into a bustling terminal. Roger and Frank went separate ways – Roger to find a sandwich, Frank to walk slowly through the corridors as if acquainting himself with an alien world.

When they reboarded for the second leg of the flight, neither man spoke at first. The silence felt like a thin crust over cooling lava.

But it didn’t last.

“Frank,” Roger said suddenly, once airborne again, “Do you believe in an afterlife?”

Frank looked at him for a long time. “No,” he said finally. “Not in the way you mean.”

Roger waited.

“For me,” Frank said, “life ends with death. No heaven. No hell. Just the echoes of what I’ve done. The kindnesses or harms I leave behind. The impressions on other people’s lives. That will be my legacy. That is what will continue.”

Roger felt a chill. “So… that’s it? Dust to dust? That’s supposed to be enough?”

“For me, it is,” Frank said. “Meaning is found in living, not through bargaining for redemption.”

Roger recoiled at the phrasing.

“So, you live,” Frank continued softly, “and you do the best you can. You follow whatever path brings compassion into the world. The Four Noble Truths and the Eight-Fold Path aren’t commandments: they’re reminders. Guides for cultivating Buddha nature.”

“And if you don’t follow them?” Roger asked.

“Then you suffer,” Frank said. “Not in a fiery pit somewhere else. Here. In this life. That is the Buddhist hell – being trapped in your own unexamined suffering.”

Roger frowned. “I prefer the clarity of Scripture.”

Frank smiled faintly. “And I prefer the questions over the answers.”

Roger took a deep breath. “I could not live in a world where this” – he gestured at the cabin, the view out the window, the world beyond – “is all there is. Without heaven, without eternal life… there would be no point.”

Frank’s eyes softened. “That sounds more like fear than faith.”

Roger stiffened. “I’m not afraid.”

“No?” Frank asked. “Then why does the reality that all life eventually ends – including yours – seem to trouble you so deeply?”

Roger swallowed. “Because… if there’s no heaven, then everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve dedicated myself to – ”

“ – would have to matter on its own terms,” Frank finished.

Roger stared at him, unsettled.

“Roger,” Frank continued, voice soft, “may I ask you about redemption?”

Roger leaned forward. “Redemption? You mean in the theological sense?”

“Yes. What do you seek when you seek redemption?”

Roger’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Forgiveness. Salvation. A way to reconcile with God for our sins. Without it, life has no eternal meaning. We strive to be worthy because only through Christ’s grace can we be saved.”

Frank nodded. “And your life here? Not after, but now – what does it look like?”

Roger hesitated. “It is directed toward salvation. All actions, thoughts, choices – they are preparation for eternity. We cannot save ourselves; only God can redeem us.”

Frank leaned back, contemplative. “I see. And in my life, I do not seek redemption in that sense. I seek alignment, presence, and awareness. Each action, each day, measured by understanding and compassion. The consequences of choices ripple outward. There is no eternal judge, only the impact of the life we live.”

Roger frowned. “Then there is no accountability, no motivation to do good?”

Frank shook his head gently. “There is accountability – just not in the afterlife. Accountability lies in how our actions affect others, and in our own awareness of what is just, compassionate, and mindful. We live fully because the present matters.”

Roger’s voice rose slightly. “But that is mere self-improvement. Christianity transforms the soul; it is grace, not just action.”

Frank smiled faintly. “Yes, grace. But for me, grace is the awareness and compassion we practice each moment. You seek to be made whole by God; I seek to live whole now. The methods differ, but the intent – acknowledging suffering, acting with care – connect us.”

They lapsed into silence, reflecting on the contrast: redemption and alignment, certainty and awareness, eternity and the present. Not the cold silence of anger. It was the heavy silence of thoughts overturning. Roger felt his usual certainties challenged, unsettled by Frank’s calm, consistent logic. 

As the plane taxied to the gate, Frank placed a hand lightly on Roger’s arm.

“You know,” he said, “your path is no less meaningful than mine. But certainty can close doors. Curiosity can open them.”

Roger stared ahead. “I don’t know if I can be curious in your way,” he said quietly.

Frank smiled. “That is the most curious thing you’ve said.”

They walked off the plane together. At the fork in the terminal – one path leading to baggage claim, the other to connecting flights – they paused.

“Thank you, Roger,” Frank said. “For allowing the conversation.”

Roger nodded. “And thank you,” he said. “For… challenging me.”

Frank bowed slightly. “May your retreat be meaningful.”

“And may your monastery be peaceful,” Roger replied.

They parted ways.

***

Months later, in very different corners of the country, the memory of that flight still lingered. Frank, now managing a quiet northern Minnesota hilltop monastery, sometimes told the story of the earnest young pastor he had met at thirty thousand feet. He spoke of him with fondness – not as a man to be corrected, but as a man in the middle of becoming.

And Roger, standing at his Dallas pulpit, sometimes thought of the monk. Not with resentment. Nor confusion. But with a strange, unsettling curiosity.

Between heaven and presence, redemption and alignment, they found a shared humanity – persistent, quietly transformative.

Earl Smith writes fiction and essays that explore the moments that change us. Drawing from lived experience, his work examines loss, reckoning, resilience, and reinvention. He is the author of published novels, with work appearing in multiple literary journals. https://open.substack.com/pub/earlrsmithii/