My first thoughts about purgatory were formed before my first stint as a Catholic convert. I was taking a juco course on the literary classics. As I recall, a middle-aged writer named Dante Allegretto laid everything out in poetry, which was very inspiring but was so hard to understand that we sophomores had to use a slim yellow and black booklet to get the general drift.
According to Mr. Allegretto and Mr. Cliff—or to be precise, according to my roommate’s notes, which were based on the writings of the abovementioned gentlemen—there are three parts to the afterlife: hell at the bottom, heaven at the top, and purgatory in between. After you died you were assigned to one of the three, depending on your behavior in real life. Hell, I believe, was for unrepentant rapists and thieves and hit men and other low life. Heaven was for saints and philosophers who went around doing good works and praying or thinking about God and repenting for their minor sins within a twenty-four-hour time frame. Purgatory was for people who were scared to death of hell, so they put in a good work here and there and repented of their sins when they got caught.
I’d forgotten about this theory when I converted to Catholicism. This was the semester after I’d taken the course on the classics. Anyway, I was Greek Orthodox at the time but was having a hard time breathing during services. Fortunately, I had a good doctor, who figured out that my problem was caused by the overdose of incense. My new roommate was also a great help. She pointed out that the closest religion to Greek Orthodoxy was Catholicism. They were practically identical, she said, except that they had gotten a divorce back in the dark ages, probably because of the incense problem.
So I started going to the Catholic Church with a new boyfriend. And sure enough, my breathing improved. My Latin was another story. But my beau said Forget the Latin, you don’t have to use it when you go to confession.
Confession? Yes, he said, Confession, and he explained it. My next question: Can we do it together? Answer: No. Why not? Those are the rules. But if we did the sin together, wouldn’t it be logical. . . . Catholicism is not based on logic, he interrupted.
According to Mr. Allegretto and Mr. Cliff—or to be precise, according to my roommate’s notes, which were based on the writings of the abovementioned gentlemen—there are three parts to the afterlife: hell at the bottom, heaven at the top, and purgatory in between. After you died you were assigned to one of the three, depending on your behavior in real life. Hell, I believe, was for unrepentant rapists and thieves and hit men and other low life. Heaven was for saints and philosophers who went around doing good works and praying or thinking about God and repenting for their minor sins within a twenty-four-hour time frame. Purgatory was for people who were scared to death of hell, so they put in a good work here and there and repented of their sins when they got caught.
I’d forgotten about this theory when I converted to Catholicism. This was the semester after I’d taken the course on the classics. Anyway, I was Greek Orthodox at the time but was having a hard time breathing during services. Fortunately, I had a good doctor, who figured out that my problem was caused by the overdose of incense. My new roommate was also a great help. She pointed out that the closest religion to Greek Orthodoxy was Catholicism. They were practically identical, she said, except that they had gotten a divorce back in the dark ages, probably because of the incense problem.
So I started going to the Catholic Church with a new boyfriend. And sure enough, my breathing improved. My Latin was another story. But my beau said Forget the Latin, you don’t have to use it when you go to confession.
Confession? Yes, he said, Confession, and he explained it. My next question: Can we do it together? Answer: No. Why not? Those are the rules. But if we did the sin together, wouldn’t it be logical. . . . Catholicism is not based on logic, he interrupted.
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