When I was a year or two short of being a full-fledged teenager, I was invited to attend my first funeral. It was not a Catholic funeral – and as I came to know – nothing like a Catholic funeral. It was a fundamentalist, born-again, raucous affair for a person who by all measures was a backsliding, church-skipping, no-good, no-count, reprobate of a man. The preacher made no bones about where this particular dearly-departed would spend eternity. He held up the miserable failing and sinful ways of this man as a warning of what would happen when Satan got his claws into you and dragged you down into the pit. Continue reading
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