When I was a kid, I thought my parish priest, Father Finn, should have been pope. I was 8, 9 10, 11, 12. I thought Father Finn was God incarnate.
I believed it all back then, everything the Church and the good sisters taught me. I believed that eating meat on Friday was a grievous offense to God. That unbaptized babies went to limbo. That every time you lied or had a bad thought or disobeyed your parents, you pushed the nails the executioner pounded into Jesus’ hands deeper.