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July 27, 2006
Only Catholics Can Go To Heaven
On Thursdays, when my better half enjoys playing in the Greater Trenton Pipe Band, I walk to town to enjoy a slice of fresh tomato and basil pizza. This evening, the skies were heavy with rain, with the temperature gauge over ninety in my shaded yard. I took a small, toy-like umbrella my mother won in Bingo--just in case--and set out, to quickly pass the first restaurant quarter near my house, the tables bending under food, with Princetonians and visitors alike enjoying a balmy evening outdoors.
In front of our Garden Theater, I passed two people, seeing mostly the long gray tresses of a woman carrying a large white poster. I turned sideways, being only slightly curious, and managed to catch the word "Catholic" in the short inscription facing all passersby.
One slice of my favorite pizza sat behind the showcase, and I consumed it with gusto and washed it down with a year's allotment of Coca-Cola sold to me as "small-sized." I don't know why I bought it; I suppose I don't think much of Princeton tap water. Not being in a hurry, I sat, chewing the slice absentmindedly, musing about life in a university town where people from all cultures and religions live, teach, and assemble.
Suddenly, the outside light began to fade dramatically and I thought to turn back. The first drops, heavy with moisture, began bouncing off the parked cars, stippling the sidewalks in a determined pattern, enough to open my silly umbrella just as I passed the strange couple sheltered by the awning of one of the stores.
Seeing the storm move rapidly, I pressed on. Yet, something stopped me, having read the sign large enough for a blind person to see: ONLY CATHOLICS CAN GO TO HEAVEN.
Oh, Eva, just run on! I usually don't talk to these people, I reminded myself. Actually, I never do, but something pressed me to turn and face the ascetic-looking woman with a question: "Do you mean to say, that Protestants can't go to heaven?"
The gleam of light coming from the woman's eyes, rather than her thin lips, frightened me as she replied. Lightning large enough to illuminate the whole street colored her face, and before I could breathe, the street shook, echoing the sound of thunder. That was close, I mumbled to myself. What am I doing here? To this moment, I have this vision of a self-appointed prophetess in a corner of my mind, announcing to me, and to the world, that "only Catholics can go to heaven."
"Do you mean to say that God doesn't embrace all children to his bosom?" I replied, not being interested in her hogwash how only the Catholic God speaks the truth. Nor did I have time for the man sitting on the doorstep, who reminded me of one of the senators who conspired to kill Ceasar (I did watch a bit of Cleopatra tonight, to cleanse my thoughts, yet thinking how the world has changed since Elizabeth Taylor made this film). It was not the heavy rain and unusual fear of a raging biblical storm, but my sincere contempt that made me reply: "In that case, I am ashamed to be a Catholic."
I ran through Nassau street obliterated by torrential rain, the magisterial oak trees caught in gusty wind, with orange-yellow lightning ripping the sky in all directions. Remembering how a person had been killed by lightening on the university campus a few years back, I fought my foolishness in chasing the storm, wanting to say: God, please, protect me!
Then I stopped myself. Which God? The answer was clear. The god of all people, as it was in the Beginning, as I voiced in Maddalena.
Posted by Eva Siroka at July 27, 2006 09:32 PM