Arriving in the afterlife one unexpected Sunday, the result of a left turn onto a one-way street, Mr. Average Southern Baptist Joe was met at the Pearly Gates by an angel of great radiance, who greeted him like a long-lost Alpha-Omega frat brother with, "Hi, Bro! You finally made it.
"Take a seat on the straight-and-narrow bench. There's 150 newbies ahead of you. (St. Peter's conferring with the pope on some priestly matters of, shall we say, youthful and costly delicacy)."
Average Joe – not fully recovered from his sudden accident occasioned by sipping too much New Year's champagne – did as he was bidden by the Welcome Wagon angel (tagged Last Supper Bruce). And, awestruck by the immensity of his surroundings, Joe's jaw dropped repeatedly. "There's enough gold here to fill a thousand Fort Knoxs," he mused.
Minutes passed. Each a small eternity. (The experience was not unlike waiting in the dentist's office, only there were no Time, Newsweek, Good Housekeeping, Penthouse magazines, only gilt-edged Bibles, words of Jesus in red, printed in 24-pt English Gothic typeface.)
Fortunately, Joe's wait was retroactively dreamy, thanks to the music piped in: hymns, interspersed with vocals by George Beverly Shea, Johnny Cash, and – what could be more unearthly – Mahalia Jackson, Patsy Klein, Bing Crosby, and Holiday with Cher.
"My God, er, gosh, it's so blindingly bright," stammered Joe, audibly enough to be heard by nearby waitee #148. "The light's so dazzling. It's brighter than a zillion NFL nighttime football fields beaming together."
No sooner had Joe reflected on this than a celestial angel – ID: 'Rock' of Ages: Grade B, Junior – surprised the bejesus – er, heck – out of him by handing him a pair of gold-framed, Urim & Thummin, Angel Moroni peepstone sunglasses.
"They're rose colored," said Angel Rock. "They'll glitter you up a bit. By the way: you're now #147. St. Pete's back. The holdup's because numbers 2 and 3 used Windows instead of user-friendly Apple. Even here there's computer gate crashers."
Before Joe could ask what in – er, heck – that was all about, Angel Rock was off in a flash, quicker than you could say Amen! Selah! Press ESC!
"What's with crashes and computers?" Joe asked #146 sitting next to him, now that he could see the long roll of newbies clearly though the trifocal – tri, as in Trinity – sunglasses he wore.
(It occurred to Joe – out of the wild blue yonder – that #146 looked like someone he had befriended either on Facebook, or – oh, let's hope not, dear PG unsaved mortals – some naughty X-rated site he just happened once or twice to come across.)
"Well, Brother Joe – anyone seated here I'm certain I can call 'a Holy Facebook friend' if he's presumed washed in the Blood of the Lamb. Yea, verily! It seems that Heaven's finally gone high tech. Beatin' the old devil at his Mark-of-the-Beast, One World, 666 game.
"What happens now when you kick the bucket is that your computer, iPad, cellphones, text messages are miraculously appropriated for final judgment of time spent, thoughts thought, actions taken, for good or, in some cases – say Islamic terrorists – for nefarious deeds. Big Brother really, truly, does know all.
"Me, I'm not worried," #146 boasted. "I was – still am – computer illiterate. For a good born-again-er like me – and presumably yourself, Joe – you part your hair on the right side – illiteracy can be a salvation. You can waste your mind. Just don't waste your soul."
"Thank God, I erased my hard drive for New Year 2011," beamed Joe smugly to himself, as overhead the heavenly loudspeaker hymned away, "Count your many blessings. Name them one by one. You'll be surprised to see what God has done."
