How Duplantis got into Heaven, and, even more intriguingly, how he got back, are not subjects covered in detail by the Reverend. Whether it was a Tunnel of Light he was whisked through and booted back out of, or whether he was offered a couple of free hotel nights Up There in order to get him to attend a timeshare presentation, we can’t say. However, we deeply appreciate his vision of the Son of God getting group-hugged by a swarm of fetuses, like an eternal porch light attracting a cloud of moths.
Of course, our researchers here discovered that the Reverend made his trip to Heaven in 1988, so now, thirty years and countless abortions later, Jesus may well have tired of fetal affection. Picture Him saying, “This constant grasping by their little proto-limbs, the kissing by their unformed lips, the rubbing of their little eyeless heads on My best robes—all this is getting a little old. I can’t wait to get into a long shower after this, and maybe invite Joan of Arc to watch The Towering Inferno on Netflix again. Never fails to get her hot.”
The theological implications of the Reverend’s vision are profound. When a woman is contemplating an abortion for whatever reason, she can now say to herself, “My little blastocyst is heading straight into the arms of My Savior as soon as I take these morning-after pills. Godspeed, my pre-human one. After all, you are better with Jesus than with me, because I know I don’t have a job or even an attention span, and am irresistibly attracted to men whose interests mostly include cooking meth and keeping loaded guns under the furniture.”
Women who might have experienced regret after an abortion can now buck themselves up by saying “My little embryo is nestling in the armpit of Jesus right now.” That, and some vodka, ought to get them through the tough times.
And Planned Parenthood can rename itself Planned Heavenhood.
Nobody’s going to picket that.