"And, as good as I have it, I can't wait to go to heaven," Father Murphy says in his Easter sermon. The siblings a couple pews in front of us keep poking each other and whispering, until their mother taps them on the shoulders and they settle down.
"Because, as good as it can be here, heaven is non-stop ecstasy, ecstasy, ecstasy!" Father continues, his voice rising with each repetition.
Perhaps I'm getting prudish, but a priest saying "ecstasy" in church in increasingly rapturous tones makes me a little uncomfortable.