Falling Into Purgatory
This morning, I got the awesome opportunity to lead a retreat for a Bible study that has been going on in Georgetown for about a decade. They got a tour of the Franciscan Monastery, which is one of my favorite places in DC to meditate, pray, and study. The monastery is the Holy Land of America, containing replicas of many of the shrines, grottoes, and holy sites of Jerusalem, Nazareth, Bethlehem, Rome, etc.
And then there's the Purgatory Room. I don't think that's what it's called, but that's what I call it. It's a chapel where the mass is celebrated and prayers are lifted for souls in purgatory.
As I descended the stairs into this chapel (they are right behind the altar), I evidently missed a step, and I fell right on my Baptist-Pentecostal-Protestant butt and fell into purgatory. The most embarassing part, however, was not the fall into purgatory, but the grave and sincere concern and sympathy offered by others. I don't think anyone believed me that I really was okay.
An hour later, I had to stand up in front of these women and try to credibly present the Gospel. To break the ice, I told my other famous fall story.