Sometimes we need to go back to heaven and hell to give ourselves context. Sometimes I miss the definitive sense of direction and hierarchy that the priests I knew as a child would instill in me, sitting in the corner of a pew at church.Christ's pale wet face, a confusing yet poignant sign of redemption, a beacon between the arches. Or (my favourite) chancing upon a near-empty church on a Saturday afternoon, hearing that distinctive clop of my shoes across the cool tiles, standing before the heart-warm prayer candles when an organist begins to practice. At first, a few big heavy chords, before the harmonies break and the roof of the church seems to swell and splinter with the discordant cries of ancient longing, "O, O," like lost whales.
When we burn in purgatory, our past is burnt off of us and we become free of our memories. All conception of self - our pride, our presumed morals, our likes and dislikes - vanishes, alongside our pretension and guilt.
I, for one, think purgatory sounds like just what I need right now. And I bet that idea curled some pangs of longing in your belly, just now.
And here comes the obvious leap: what is stopping us from visiting purgatory right now, tomorrow, this evening, when you're lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, unsure if you can actually see or feel or think anything at all.
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