I never dwelt on the theology of pets, of creatures, until my first cat passed away.
She was a cantankerous little thing: a diva, not overly fond of anyone but me. She ripped the belly out of our first couch, knocked over Christmas trees in our absence, and periodically clawed my husband’s hand to shreds.
But she would also sneak into bed when she thought we were asleep to fall asleep on our legs. She let me carry her for as long as I my arms could bear it. She had a special place on my lap and in my heart. And, when she died—far too early—from cancer, I was so broken up I swore I’d never get a cat again.
At that time, I often wondered: will I see her again?
Theologians stand divided on the issue, which is not directly addressed in Scripture. Many theologians say no, because animals do not have souls—that they are material only, that they simply cease to be. And many other theologians say “probably,” because Scripture tells us that God intends to redeem creation, so there’s at least a likelihood our beloved pets will be there, at the end/beginning of it all, with the rest of creation that has been transformed.
I now have two cats, one of whom was recently diagnosed with a genetic disease. I don’t know how long we’ll have with him: maybe a really long time. Maybe a brief one. There are treatments, and possibilities.
What I do know is that my heart is breaking. This little cat of mine loves. He’s more like a dog than a cat: a lap-sitter who loves pets and fetching, who has an instinct for when I need snuggles, who is quite simply the sweetest, gentlest creature I have ever met. He’s my “life cat,” my special boy, deeply loving and deeply beloved–my vigil-keeper during my mother’s death, a tiny furry friend and blessing.
And I find myself, in my heartbreak, wondering: God, can you save him, too?
The same theologians who say there will be no pets in heaven are the same ones, I find, who like to thunder at people that it shouldn’t matter if pets aren’t in heaven because God is there, so why wouldn’t we be perfectly, overwhelmingly, happy, regardless? And the theologians who say there might well be pets in heaven say that God is compassionate and knows our hearts, loves his creation, so why wouldn’t He have them there?
Here is what I know.
I know that God loves His creation. Enough that He delighted in having Adam name it and enough that He saved it from the great flood. Enough that in Nineveh, He has compassion for the animals as well as the people. Enough that He is paying attention when a single sparrow falls. This tells me that God loves and values His creation and deems it worthy of redeeming, protecting, and valuing. This tells me that God pays attention not to creation merely as an abstract whole but as a series of individual creatures.
I know that God’s new kingdom has redeemed creation in it, and that part of that redeemed creation is a peaceful world where the lion and the lamb lay down together.
I know that God cares about the things that break our hearts. I know He understands us deeply and made us to feel and care deeply—yes, even about the creatures He made.
I know that God uses creatures—yes, even my cats—as tools to express His lovingkindness. (And sometimes, as in the case of Balaam’s ass, His messages!)
I know that God’s generosity and His compassion often crosses the borders of what we would deem good sense.
I know that I don’t know everything about heaven, and what’s going to be there, and what angels are even made of or what they constitute in terms of “matter” or “souls,” but I know it will be a wonderful, glorious place.
More than anything else, I know not to underestimate the compassion of God.
I’ve mentioned the story in passing here before but, in the days of her dying from cancer, my mother couldn’t eat. She went without food for over a month. Initially, she was able to manage a few Ensures and supplements but she couldn’t keep those down. Then flavored waters. Then regular waters. Then nothing.
She loved eating with her family. One of my most heartbreaking memories of her sickness was when she demanded we bring food in to eat together, even when she couldn’t share in it. And her favorite food in the entire world was pizza.
She was completely lucid and without medication of any sort for the entirety of her last days. It was during this period, awake from a nap, that she told me it was pizza—of all things—that broke her heart. “I was thinking,” she told me, “I know I’ll eat again at the marriage supper of the Lamb. But I told Jesus, I’m just sad—” She started crying. “—I’m sad I won’t be able to have pizza again.”
She confessed she was ashamed of how silly it was. Pizza! Why would the Lord care about that? And surely the food at that dinner would be much nicer than something like pizza. Anyway, pizza was a silly thing to grieve about or miss when she was going to see the Lord.
“But then I felt a hand on my shoulder,” she said. “And I looked, and Jesus was sitting there with me. And in His hand He was holding a plate. I couldn’t look at it right away because of His face. He smiled at me. He nodded to the plate. And on the plate—”
And we both cried.
Probably, there is a theologian ready to scoff at me that we won’t even need food in heaven, much less pizza, and to that, and to the “pets in heaven” issue, I simply say this:
I believe God is lavishly, foolishly, ridiculously generous and good.
I don’t know what “pizza in heaven” could look like or even be. Do I believe God could create Domino’s ex nihilo? I do. Do I believe God could create a form of pizza that is the ultimate and holiest expression of pizza-ness? I do. Do I believe God could have all sorts of pizza-type surprises in mind just for my pizza-loving mother in glory, irrelevant to and addressing all manner of theological considerations about the definition of “hunger” and “appetite” and “food”? Of course I do.
And do I believe God knows my cat’s names? Has used them as part of His creation to show me love and warmth, loyalty and goodness? I do. Do I believe God knows my heart and how it breaks over what it’s like to lose them, or worry when they are sick? I do. Do I believe in a God who will mend all wrongs, wipe all tears away, and redeem all broken creation? I do. Do I believe in the possibility that God will include my beloved creatures specifically, all our beloved creatures, in some way in His great redemptive plan?
Why wouldn’t I?
In the end, when it comes to grace, love, and mercy, I’d rather not place limits on my imagination of what God might do. And if Scripture remains vague, I suspect that is by design. In God’s hand is the life of every living thing and the breath of all mankind (Job 12:10). I trust that hand. I trust God not to lose what is precious to Him. Or to me.
I trust God.
Samaritan's Song 