If I ever get to heaven, it’ll be mercy, not justice, that’s served

By David McElroy · September 12, 2026

The mention of the man she hates triggered a strong verbal outburst from my friend Friday night.

“I wish he would die!” she said with conviction. “You might think that sounds bad, but that’s what he deserves!”

Nothing had really happened. I had merely mentioned having seen this man who she now hates. I knew she had vitriol for him, but I guess I hadn’t quite seen how deep her hatred went. She had more to say — and her diatribe was peppered with strong profanity — so I just listened.

As I drove home a few minutes after midnight, I felt a dull ache in my heart over what I had heard. I wasn’t angry at my friend for her anger and hatred. I wasn’t even judging her, because there was no way of judging her without judging some past versions of myself as well.

It wasn’t that I’ve had this sort of angry outburst of personal hatred before. It wasn’t that I’ve used this kind of strong language to wish the very worst on someone. Those things aren’t my style. I’m more devious. More deceitful.

I’m better at hiding the hate in my heart, but I’m no different.

I can remember secretly wishing for terrible things to happen in the life of someone who had hurt me.

I can remember wanting to somehow hurt someone else who had hurt me very badly. I wasn’t willing to admit how I felt to anyone. I didn’t want to physically hurt her. But I wanted her to feel the pain she had inflicted on me.

I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know these thoughts, of course. I’m not like my friend. I’m more like the kind of person who might smile at you benignly and wish you could feel the pain I think you deserve.

Who’s better? My friend or me? I’d say it doesn’t make much difference.

I can justify the things I’ve felt in the past. I can justify the unloving thoughts I still have about people today. But what I can’t do is pretend that it doesn’t hurt me inside just as much as my friend’s overt bitterness hurts her.

By the outward standards of the world, I would be considered a good person. And by the standards of the world, my friend’s hatred for this man would be considered acceptable. She has a list of grievances against him — and isn’t that enough to have a right to feel this sort of vitriol?

When I look back on bad things I’ve passively wished on other people, I’d have to say those thoughts have hurt me far more than they could conceivably hurt the other people.

Those nasty thoughts and evil wishes have made my heart bitter and resentful at times. They might have given me some momentary relief to feel as though my thoughts were really sticking it to the person with whom I was angry.

But I really think I’ve only hurt myself.

I wish I could say that I considered myself a good person. I genuinely want to be good. I genuinely want to be loving. I want my heart to be pure and clean of this sort of horrible thing.

But I’m not a good person. Not all the time.

Here’s the thing. I pray that I never get what I deserve. I keep thinking about my friend’s angry words tonight about how much that man deserves something terrible to happen to him. She might even be right. I’m not the one to say.

The only thing I can say for sure is that I don’t want what I deserve, because I’m not a good enough person. I can’t be. I don’t know how. My heart isn’t pure enough. My brain isn’t kind enough.

When I think about the things I’ve done in my life — and the hate I’ve sometimes hidden in my heart — I realize how desperately I’m counting on mercy, not justice.

I believe that my calling as a human being is about love and mercy, not about judgment and justice. I’m not always good at fulfilling what I’m called to do and be, but at least I’m clear what the objective is.

There have been times in the past when I thought I should judge myself by what I looked like to others, but I understand clearly that my creator sees what’s in my heart.

And it’s his mercy and grace that I’m counting on.

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Meet my new girlfriend. Her name is Meg. And she’s my little sweetheart. A couple of months ago, a neighbor across the street told me about a new stray in the neighborhood that she and I were both soon feeding. The cat had been very skittish about contact and she had a lot of scabs and parasites in her fur, but a trip to the vet last week revealed that she was otherwise in good health. The vet estimates her to be 1 to 2 years old. I named her for Meg Murry, the 13-year-old protagonist of Madeleine L’Engle’s wonderful book, “A Wrinkle in Time.” (Please read the book. Don’t watch the horrible movie.) Since we lost Lucy almost a year ago, it seems appropriate that we finally have a new little girl to join the household. She’s already captured my heart, but Alex, Oliver and Sam aren’t there quite yet.

There’s nothing socially acceptable that’s as dangerous as drinking alcohol. Most people grow up being told to “drink responsibly” — and all of us see people abusing this drug in one way or another — but the truth is that drinking alcohol is always a terrible risk. The alcohol in these drinks is toxic and the human liver has to work hard to filter the toxins out. What most people don’t realize is that alcohol is classified as a known carcinogen by the World Health Organization — because of the well-established connection between imbibing and various cancers. Many people have taken refuge behind the idea that light or moderate drinking might be safe, but a new study shows that drinking even one drink a day increases the risks of 10 types of cancer. When I was a teen-ager, I looked around and saw the negative effects that this behavior had on a lot of people and decided not to start drinking, so I’ve never even tried this poison. The evidence keeps piling up that I was lucky to have come to that conclusion early.

It hasn’t happened yet, but there’s a possibility that I might be taking in a fourth feline. A couple of months ago, a cat-loving neighbor asked whether I’d seen a “tuxedo cat” hanging out in the neighborhood. I hadn’t, but this guy eventually wandered past my house a few weeks later — and we haven’t been able to find evidence that he has a home. I’ve been giving him water and food for the last week and he finally let me pet him two nights ago. He’s purred for me two nights in a row and he let me take a low-quality selfie with him Thursday night. Tonight, though, he let me pick him up and bring him inside to look around. This went surprisingly well, as you can see from this photo. I don’t know whether he’ll be joining the family, but I’m certain that Alex, Oliver and Sam would vote no, at least until they get to know him. I’m trying to make certain he doesn’t have a home, but if he does join us, what do you suppose his name will be?

It turns out that the radical far left has been training “Antifa cats” to sabotage anything important to Donald Trump. Everything he did was perfect. Honest. It was all the cats’ fault. Arrest all the cats! This is the latest of my ridiculous satirical shorts. Please go watch it. Then “like” it and subscribe. Please. I’m begging you. (Too much?) Although a couple of the previous videos have had views in the hundreds, most have still been seen by fewer than 20 people. So I seem to be having trouble letting people know that page exists.

Here’s the latest of my ridiculous parody shorts. It crossed my mind Tuesday to wonder what a slick and fast-talking car dealer might do right now to try to turn the high price of gasoline to his advantage. So I conceived of a fat and lovable character who tried to sell cars that don’t use any fuel — and then I started wondering if it would be funnier if all the characters were felines. Designing the King Cashpaw character took about four hours, but the rest took only another four hours, so this was a relatively quick piece that virtually wrote itself. I know it’s almost impossible for these parody videos to find a larger audience, but at least they amuse me — and there are 19 of them on my YouTube page now. The first few were very limited, but they’re getting more complex.

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