Does God grade on a curve?

Christ tells us that it’s easier for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven. Be that as it may, I wanted that $340 million lotto a few weeks ago as much as the next guy. Oh, sure, I could be self-righteous and say I don’t want $340 million, but then I’d be lying, which would hurt my chances even more.

So, I’m no Donald Trump, but that’s only when I compare myself to Donald Trump. What if I compare myself to, say, a grass-hut dwelling native of Bhundi? What if this native, who’s never owned a pair of shoes, who has never tasted the glory of Pizza Hut, who has never experienced the joy that is "Monday Night Football," came to stay at my home? What might he tell his friends upon his return?

"And when you turn a lever, water pours right into your glass!"

"Noooo!"

"Yes! And this you won’t believe — they have an indoor outhouse!"

"Inside the house? That’s disgusting."

"Not as much as you would think. They also have TVs and computers, little boxes that draw their attention for hours on end, making their eyes red and their stomachs big."

"They sit and watch a box? Are they touched in the head?"

"Not as much as you would think."

Compared to a multitude of people on the planet, I’m wealthy to the point of myth. Do I really stand a chance of getting into heaven? Will the good Lord turn me away because I’ve squandered so much money on DVDs instead of helping those who have no food? (I know I didn’t need "It Came From Outer Space." I just really, really wanted it.)

Even if he does let me in, I’m so afraid he’s going to give me that look. You know the one. It’s the same one your spouse gives you when you come home with a sofa you found by a dumpster that you thought had "potential."

I don’t want to get that look. I want God to be so pleased to see me that he forms a welcoming committee: my grandma, my old poodle Cricket, and Audrey Hepburn.

Now, if it were only about being rich, I could fix that. I could sell everything and give the money to the poor. Of course, I’d have to keep enough to get a little apartment. And a TV. A DVD player would be nice.

But it’s not just about wealth. There are those pesky mortal sins you hear about. Mortal sin, St. Augustine said, "averts us from our true end." When I was a child, I thought everything was a mortal sin. If I said "God" in anything other than prayer: mortal sin. The first time my 14-year-old physiology allowed me to look at Becky Webster as anything other than a harbinger of cooties: mortal sin. When we stole penny candies from Dee Gee’s 5 & 10 down the street: mortal sin. When I ate my mom’s entire oatmeal cake: a really bad stomach ache, and by the way, mortal sin.

But even then, when I was so young, I realized that taking the Lord’s name in vain, while wrong and very disrespectful, was not the same as, say, strangling New Hampshire. Perhaps this was why (my friend Dave, who was much smarter than I was and now is a psychology professor, told me) God had the good sense to invent purgatory.

Perhaps I wasn’t going to go to hell after all, I thought. Still, if purgatory’s anything like staying after school, I’d better watch it. Who wants to spend several millennia writing an essay on the evils of "wet willies?"

Today? Well, I’m no Son of Sam, but neither am I Mother Teresa. Sure, I make a conscious effort to be kind, to help people when I can, but, to be honest, I fall short of many of the people I come across while on the job.

I think what it comes down to is that we’re all wired differently. Who receives more heavenly kudos, a rich man whose financial insecurities nearly leave him KO’d as he manages to give $1 to the Church, or a poor man who happily gives $10?

No, God doesn’t grade on a curve. We’re each judged by our own merits, our own strengths and weaknesses, our own wiring.