Today being the feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary, I went to Mass on my lunch break. And all through the litrugy I thought about what it might mean, what it might be like, to be without sin. And I realized that I have no idea. I don’t mean to be without guilt for specific sins; I can imagine that, sort of. What I can’t imagine is being anything but the damaged, anxious, uncomfortable thing that I am.
As I know I’ve mentioned here before, I’ve had my share of ordinary doubts about the faith, moments of wondering if the skeptics are right and it’s all too good to be true, and so forth—the usual sort of thing. But in recent years I’ve encountered a more subtle difficulty: the inability to imagine myself in the place or condition we mean by the word “heaven.” No matter how wonderful I imagine it to be, I don’t see how it could really be heaven for me—that is, how the person I am could be at ease there. I can imagine, at most, being on the outside looking in.
Light On Dark Water 
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