Here is a little something that helped me to take another look at Purgatory!
By Rev. Ron Rolheiser, OMI
"A common soldier dies without fear. Christ died afraid."
Iris Murdoch wrote those words. Among other things, they unmask the
simplistic notion that if one has faith and a clean conscience he or she will face death more serenely than someone who dies in bad conscience or dies lacking faith and virtue.
Sometimes faith and good conscience do ease the passage into the next life, but the reverse can be just as true:
People who are sick of heart or warped in conscience can welcome death as a friend, even as people who have faith and virtue fear death because, like Jesus, everything in them cherishes living.
Murdoch's adage reveals something else too, about the old doctrine on purgatory.
If Jesus was afraid of death, then a healthy fear of death is indicative of something.
Of a certain pain that comes with death and which Roman Catholics have classically called purgatory.
Protestants have always, for good reasons, rejected this notion, at least as it has perennially been understood in the popular mind --- namely, that there exists, outside of heaven and hell, a third place, purgatory, where we go after death and spend time in painful purification, readying ourselves for heaven. Biblically, of course, this doesn't wash.
Protestants are right; there's no state after death outside of heaven or hell. We're either at God's right hand or at God's left hand, sheep or goats. There's no third option.
But Roman Catholics are right, too. While there's no place between heaven and hell, there's a painful, transformative experience that has to be undergone between enjoying the health and bloom of our natural lives and eventually bursting into full ecstasy within the embrace of God and the communion of saints in heaven.
Purgatory isn't a place, it's an experience, that of enduring a necessary, purifying pain that readies us for the full joy of heaven.
What does this pain consist in and why is it necessary?
The pain of purgatory is two things:
First, it's the pain of being unconditionally embraced by selflessness while we are still selfish, the pain of being enfolded by goodness while we are still sinful. We already experience this, partially, in our daily lives where, as we know, few experiences are as humbling, painful and purifying as the experience of being undeservedly loved and gratuitously forgiven. Love purifies, that's why love hurts.
But there's a second pain that makes for purgatory. Purgatory is also the pain of letting go of the every-day securities, attachments and pleasures of this life. Purgatory is the pain of letting go of this life in order to live in the next. That's not an abstract concept.
We see it in those facing death. The pain in dying is more about saying good-bye to this world and our loved ones than it is about facing the unknown on the other side. It's hard to die because it's hard to shake a hand and say good-bye for the last time to a loved one, a loved home, a cherished routine, a healthy body. Letting go like this isn't like purgatory, it is purgatory.
Imagine dying a sudden death, by an accident or heart attack. One minute you're alive, tangibly connected to family, friends, a home, a routine, a healthy body, plans for a future, an anticipated dinner that evening, your favorite sports team on a wonderful playoff run. Wham! Death!
The next minute you're on the other side. In heaven, yes ... but, in one instant, stripped of everything you've drawn your life from. You're in God's arms, secure, loved, forgiven, but with a lot of suddenly severed attachments and unfinished business on earth. You're living in the eternal but it's been quite a jolt exiting the natural. Full ecstasy doesn't come instantly, even when it's offered unconditionally.
The pain of purgatory is the pain of the Ascension, the pain of standing where Mary of Magdala stood on the morning of the Resurrection and hearing: "Do not cling to what was! Eternal life is infinitely richer, but it's not your old life!" Letting go of this world with its joys, its beauties and its wonderfully solid flesh is the pain of purgatory.
And our prayers for our deceased loved ones need to reflect that. More immediately after their deaths, they still want and need our former contact. Slowly, though, as time passes, our prayers must more and more invite the ascension and must work at freeing both them and us from how we once had each other ("Do not cling! Let the old ascend!").
Eventually our prayers must give our loved ones permission to be free from how things used to be with us and the world, so that they can enter fully into that final ecstasy of love which, though dimly glimpsed in faith, is beyond our imaginings and which we too will one day enter, though only after having --- through purgative pain --- ourselves let go of the marvels of earthly, natural life, with all its wonderful tangible solidity.
Oblate of Mary Immaculate Father Ronald Rolheiser
is a specialist in the field of spirituality and systematic theology.
vicardoug in retirement 10-2010
Here is a little something that helped me to take another look at Purgatory!
Returning to my place I find ducks swimming in the pond. A nice welcome home. Ha!
A great story on how lay people built the Church. Worth reading
Saints Andrew Kim Taegon, Priest, and Paul Chong Hasang, and their Companions, Martyrs
For centuries, Korea was closed to all outside influences, and all contact with foreigners was forbidden. No missionaries went there. Nevertheless, a number of laymen sought to find out all that they could about the outside world, through the annual embassy to Peking. Some books about Christianity fell into their hands, and they were converted. Because of the secrecy involved, it is impossible to date the origin of Christianity in Korea with any precision: it may have started in the early 17th century, but the first known baptism is that of Ni-Seoung-Houn, who was baptised under the name of Peter when he visited Peking in 1784.
The first known martyrs are Paul Youn and James Kouen, who in 1791 refused to offer sacrifice on the death of their relatives. Over the next century, over ten thousand Korean Christians were executed, with great cruelty; and many others perished.
For most of this period, the church in Korea had no priests and was an entirely lay phenomenon. The first priest, a Frenchman, entered the country in 1836 and was beheaded three years later. Andrew Kim Taegon, the first Korean priest, secretly trained in Macao, entered Korea in 1845 and was executed in 1846, together with his father. A lay apostle, St Paul Chong Hasang and many others perished at the same time. A further major persecution occurred in 1866.
In all, 103 of the Korean martyrs are celebrated today: they are mostly lay men and women: some married, some not; some old, some young, some even children.
“The Korean Church is unique because it was founded entirely by laypeople. This fledgling Church, so young and yet so strong in faith, withstood wave after wave of fierce persecution. Thus, in less than a century, it could boast of 10,000 martyrs. The death of these many martyrs became the leaven of the Church and led to today’s splendid flowering of the Church in Korea. Even today their undying spirit sustains the Christians of the Church of Silence in the north of this tragically divided land.” – Pope John Paul II at the canonization of the Korean Martyrs, May 6, 1984.
Every morning massive amounts of birds appear for the food I put out for them. Everyday God feeds us. Help me to eat of the events You place before me today
I am always amazed at how God works in my life.
The last Funeral I did before leaving my parish in Laguna Beach was with a super couple, Pat and Nancy. Pat was dying when I first met him. I was greatly impressed with their being able to talk about his coming death. Wow! What faith I saw.
It was great to see Nancy and her friends a little after one year from Pat's death. Certainly tears were shed but what a great time I had reflecting on all that had happened. And the dinner was great.
Thanks for this great gift of Pat and Nancy and their friends.