Washed in the Blood
by Anthony Esolen
We Roman Catholics have at least anecdotal evidence of the existence of Purgatory. It comes when we attend Mass and must listen to the music. What is worse than doggerel? What doggerel leaves on the bottom of your shoe, maybe, because when the slack and slovenly stuff begins, I find myself scraping my feet on the floor and looking furtively roundabout for the exit. I think fire would be much nicer. At least it would burn up the hymnals and reduce them to ash.
"How long, O Lord!" I cry.
"Shh! About twenty minutes," says . . .