Pearly Gates
My friend Pauline helped make the flowers for my wedding. She’s hilarious, and she’s got a way of looking at the world that manages to be both ridiculous and completely sound at the same time.
Her theory on men, for one.
She reckons boys should be born without their penises. The mothers should hold onto them instead, and only hand them over once the boy in question has proven himself respectful enough of women to deserve one back.
Then there’s her other one, which she tells with just as much conviction.
Pauline’s a devout Christian. She says that when she finally gets to the pearly gates, she fully expects God to turn round and tell her she picked the wrong one.
Actually, it’s Allah.
Or actually, it’s a Jewish God after all.
Her answer’s already prepared.
“Well,” she’ll say, “I picked wrong. But I’ve still been a good person. Can I still come in?”
I love that.
The way she’s managed to make room for the possibility that she might be completely wrong, without letting that make what she believes meaningless.
That perhaps the important bit isn’t whether you picked the right name for God, but what you did while you were here.
Whether you lived a good life.
Whether you were kind to the people around you.
And if the answer’s yes, perhaps the rest is just details you got wrong.
