Two days after PJ’s death, a group of my friends undertook what I can only describe as a mission of compassion: They entered the home of our dead friend and they cleared out all the pornography. Every Playboy and videotape. All of it. They wanted to spare PJ’s parents any more pain than they were already dealing with. That, I preached, is the inbreaking of the kingdom of heaven on earth. That we might clear out the pornography from our dead friends’ homes before their nice, small-town parents come to settle their son’s affairs. It’s small, it’s surprising, and it’s a little profane, but it’s
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