My mother had an expression I heard often. "Sorry doesn't count," she'd say when I apologized for my many infractions. Mom's theory was the damage had been done. "Sorry" only lets the perpetrator off the hook; the injured are still in pain.
     Lately, a lot of important people are saying they're sorry. Mom wouldn't have been swayed. She would have sent them all to their rooms with a point of her finger. "Think about what you've done," she would have said to Mel Gibson. "Do you think being drunk gives you an excuse to malign Jewish people?" Mel would have been better off dancing on a table with a lampshade on his head, a rose clenched between his teeth.
     Mom wouldn't have cared about papal infallibility, either. When Pope Benedict XVI insulted one of the oldest religious groups in the world, I can see her pointing a finger in his face and saying, "This is what starts holy wars, young man."
     When I was in grade school, the older sister of a friend of mine got married. The reception was held in their back yard with tents and caterers and a band. Too young to attend, another friend and I watched the extravaganza through a hole in the hedge. Sitting next to me on the grass, Jeannie said when she got married, she wanted me to be her bridesmaid.
     I asked my second grade teacher if this was possible. Sister Therese didn't think it was a good idea. You see, I was a Catholic and Jeannie wasn't. It didn't matter Jeannie and her mother walked two blocks to the Lutheran church every Sunday, where Jeannie learned right from wrong in Sunday school. Mine was the true church. I worried about Jeannie when the priests and nuns talked about the eternal fires. When Sister told the story about people in hell being thirsty, I vowed to bring Jeannie a glass of water.
     When Pope John XXIII convened the Ecumenical Council in 1962, offering a hand to Protestants, I stopped worrying Jeannie would burn in Hades because she and her mother walked to the wrong church. Pope John was on the right track. Maybe if he'd lived longer, he would have extended his clemency to other religions. Wouldn't it be nice if John came back and told Mel and Benedict what it's like in heaven? I'll bet he was surprised at who he was hob-knobbing with up there. Think about it: isn't it possible being a good person, no matter what religion you are (or aren't), is good enough to get you through the pearly gates?
     Will Rogers said it best: "Don't monkey with somebody else's religion." If everyone stopped thinking their road is the only road, we could see others are on parallel paths.
     In my book, it all boils down to the golden rule: treat people like you want to be treated yourself. Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Muslims—everyone has a variation of the theme. Everyone has been told to, "Be nice."
     Because we don't know what's waiting for us at the end, shouldn't we leave judgment for Judgment Day? We'd have fewer messes to clean up. Fewer people trying to fix things with an apology.
     Whatever awaits us at the end—Saint Peter, self-reckoning, or one last finger-pointing from Mom—I do not know. Someone once told me he believes Judgment Day means we see the faces of everyone we've hurt and feel the pain we've caused. Really feel it. What will we say? Sorry?