How I know I'm going directly to Heaven when I die

Originally posted in Open Salon:

The Catholic Church is bringing back a theological Golden Oldie called "plenary indulgences."

To Catholic Boomers like myself -- Caboomers -- indulgences were nothing less than a ticket to Heaven -- a free pass from purgatory's fires for you and yours, a bailout for your very soul. Indulgences fell out of favor in the '60s, when Vatican II ordered the Church to go native, to swap the wheezy pipe organ for a seminarian's out-of-tune guitar and endless choruses of "Michael Row the Boat Ashore."

Here's how it worked in the bad old days: It was well-known among Caboomers that they were all sinners. We were told this five days a week by the nuns who taught us to fear God as much as we feared them. Indulgences were like work-release programs for convicted sinners -- a way to bank up good time against the punishments of sin that every child above the age of seven stood constantly accused of.

There were two kinds of indulgences, plenary and partial. Partials were just what they sound like -- certain short prayers, for example, usually got you 300 days off your accruing sentence in purgatory (i.e., hell with an escape hatch). The nuns would pass out holy cards like so many baseball cards. On one side was a picture of a saint. On the other side was a short prayer whose days-off value would be noted.

These short prayers were called "ejaculations." That's all I'll say about them just now, for fear of providing an occasion of sin for Caboomers who are easily led astray.

Plenary indulgences were seeming jackpots for junior sinners (whose darkest sin was usually something on the order of calling your brother a stupid-head.).

The New York Times described plenaries with admirable concision Monday: they eliminated all your sins, at least until another one was committed. You could get one for yourself, or for someone who was dead. Even for your brother. But you couldn't buy one either (especially on the money a paper route got you in those days). And there was a limit of one plenary per sinner per day.

Plenaries, in other words, seemed like the smartest bargain. Sin was everywhere back then -- you could go to hell for eating meat on Friday. As George Carlin once noted, "there are guys down in hell today doing time on a meat rap."

But because the plenaries were such an all-or-nothing deal, smart Caboomers like myself looked to the partials for long-term redemption. Simply by ejacula . . . saying something as simple as "Oh Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who have recoursed to thee," you could get almost a year lopped off your inevitable sentence in purgatory. It was an extremely good deal, incareation-wise: big time off for very little time spent.

Have you any idea how many prayers like that a hell-haunted little kid can rattle off in a single hour? A day? A year?

The nuns' prophecies came true, as will any such poisonously proposed prediction will. I've led a sinful life. But I'm Heaven-bound anyway. I figure I've got a stockpile of partials so deep and wide, the Pope might envy me, if envy weren't such a sin and he weren't such a Pope.

But if you think I'm ever doing time on a meat rap, you must be some kind of stupid-head.