I have recently begun reading 18 Days in Heaven by Gabe Poirot, and very early on he makes a statement that stopped me in my tracks. He writes that heaven is not merely a location, but that heaven is Him.
At first hearing, such a thought can be unsettling. We are, after all, creatures who instinctively think in terms of place. We imagine heaven as somewhere — a realm of beauty, of landscapes unspoiled, of light, of peace, of all that is loveliest in creation. And quite naturally, we anticipate it in those terms, because God Himself has given us senses by which to delight in His world. The sweep of a coastline, the stillness of snow, the grandeur of mountains, the quiet abundance of a garden — these things stir something deep within us, and we do not imagine that heaven will be less than this.
So when we are told that heaven is not essentially a place but a Person, it can feel, if we are honest, as though something is being taken away. Yet the more I have reflected on it, the more I have come to see that nothing is lost, and everything is gained.
What helped me most was not an abstract theological argument, but a memory.
As a child, in those early years before independence begins to assert itself, home is not defined by walls or furniture or even by familiarity. Home is where your mother is. I can remember, quite distinctly, that when my mother was absent, the house itself seemed altered. Nothing outwardly had changed — the same rooms, the same arrangement, the same daily patterns — and yet something essential was missing. There was a hollowness that could not be explained to a child, only felt. Her presence had given the home its meaning, its warmth, its life. Without her, one simply existed in a place that felt strangely empty.
Of course, like all children, I took that presence for granted. I rebelled, I argued, I was careless with what I had been given so freely. Only much later, looking back across the span of many decades, does one begin to understand what was always there — that it was not the house that made the home, but the person within it.
That memory has helped me to understand what it might mean to say that heaven is Him.
Scripture, in its own way, gently leads us to the same conclusion. The psalmist writes that in the presence of the Lord there is fullness of joy, and that at His right hand there are pleasures forevermore (Psalm 16:11). And in the closing vision of all things, we are told that the dwelling of God will be with men, and that He Himself will dwell with them (Revelation 21:3). The emphasis is not on the architecture of heaven, but on the presence that fills it. It is not the setting that is central, but the One who inhabits it.
Yet this does not mean that the beauty of creation is somehow diminished or set aside. Quite the opposite. The wonders we now glimpse in fragments will be gathered up and fulfilled. The difference is that they will no longer stand alongside God as separate delights, but will be seen as flowing from Him, sustained by Him, and revealing Him (Romans 11:36).
This is where the familiar words come to mind, that no eye has yet seen, no ear has yet heard, and no human heart has fully grasped the wonders that God has prepared for those who love Him (1 Corinthians 2:9). And perhaps this speaks directly into the very tension we feel when we try to imagine heaven. For we are attempting to picture, with earthly categories, something that lies beyond them. We reach for landscapes, for beauty, for atmosphere, because these are the highest expressions we know; yet even at their best, they are only signposts. They awaken longing, but they do not satisfy it. They hint at something greater, something fuller, something that cannot be contained within the boundaries of place alone.
If heaven were merely a perfected version of what we already know, it would still fall short of what the heart truly seeks. For even now, in our most contented moments, there remains a sense that something lies just beyond our grasp (Ecclesiastes 3:11). The most beautiful view fades, the most peaceful setting cannot hold us indefinitely, and even the dearest earthly relationships, precious as they are, carry within them a note of incompleteness. We are grateful for them, deeply so, yet they do not bring us to rest in the fullest sense (Hebrews 4:9–11).
That rest, it seems, is bound up not in surroundings but in presence.
To say that heaven is Him is not to diminish its reality, nor to strip it of colour or form, but to place its centre where it has always belonged. Everything we now delight in will find its true meaning there, because it will no longer stand at a distance from its source. The beauty of creation will not compete for our attention or draw us away; rather, it will lead us more deeply into the One from whom it flows. The enjoyment of what is made and the love of the Maker will no longer feel like separate things, but will become one seamless experience of joy.
Perhaps this is why the Lord calls us, even now, not merely to believe in Him but to abide in Him (John 15:4–5). The language of Scripture is deeply relational: to dwell, to remain, to be with (John 14:23; Psalm 27:4). These are not the words of geography, but of communion. They prepare us, gently and faithfully, for a reality in which distance is removed and fellowship is complete.
And here we return, in a way, to the simplicity of childhood — not in immaturity, but in purity. There was a time when presence was enough, when being with the one who loved us gave shape and meaning to everything else. That capacity is not meant to be lost; it is meant to be fulfilled (Matthew 18:3). What we knew dimly and imperfectly in those early years will be restored and perfected, not centred on another human being, but on Christ Himself (1 Corinthians 13:12).
We may grow out of our parents, as life rightly unfolds, but we will never grow out of Him. There will be no diminishing, no moving beyond, no quiet drifting into independence. Instead, there will be an ever-deepening knowing, an ever-widening joy, a continual discovery that does not exhaust itself (Ephesians 3:17–19). To be with Him will not narrow our experience, but enlarge it beyond anything we have yet imagined.
So the thought that at first may seem disconcerting becomes, on reflection, deeply reassuring. Heaven will not be less than we hoped; it will be more than we are presently able to conceive. And at its very heart will be not simply a place prepared for us, but the One who has prepared it (John 14:2–3) — and who, in giving Himself, gives us everything (Romans 8:32).