It began with a quiet question from across the dinner table—the kind that hangs in the air like fog. My father stirred his coffee as he asked, “Do you think there’s a place in between? You know… if we’re not bad enough for hell, but maybe not good enough for heaven yet?”
There was sorrow behind the question. My aunt had passed just a week before, and though she’d believed in God, her walk with Him hadn’t always been steady. My dad was wondering where she had gone. Not in terms of geography—but in soul.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—standing beside a gravestone, praying in a hospital, staring up at the stars and wondering: Is there more after death before we get to God?
Hebrews 9:27 answers that with pointed simplicity: “And just as it is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment.” Not “waiting.” Not “a holding room.” But judgment. In other words, a decision. A verdict. It happens after we die—not after we work off our sin.
That might sound harsh at first, especially if we've been taught to imagine a soul sweating in purgatory, paying off debts like a prisoner in an invisible cell. But look again—not through the lens of fear, but through the lens of what Jesus actually said.
In Luke 16:26, Jesus tells a story about two men—one rich, one poor—the poor man named Lazarus, carried by angels to paradise. The rich man, in torment, begs for relief. But Abraham tells him, “Between us and you a great chasm has been fixed.” A chasm. Uncrossable. Final.
There’s no bridge there, no shuttle from one side to the other, no divine escalator after we die. That story paints death not as a hallway to heaven—but a door that locks behind us.
And that’s not bad news. It’s the most loving warning a Father could give. Because if you wait until then, it’s too late.
The notion of purgatory—the in-between space where sins are purged—wasn’t something the early apostles taught. It entered Christian tradition centuries later, shaped more by human ache than divine truth. People longed for a second chance. For hope after loss. For grace extended beyond the grave.
But here’s the wild hope: if you belong to Jesus, you don’t need a second chance. Everything needed to cleanse you already happened—on a cross, outside Jerusalem, 2,000 years ago. Jesus didn’t say, “It has started.” He said, “It is finished.”
If forgiveness is already finished, what more could purgatory possibly add?
Besides, let’s not pretend our own efforts would help. What could we suffer that’s holier than Christ’s blood poured on our behalf? What could be added to perfect love?
Still, the idea lingers. Not because Scripture supports it, but because hearts wrestle with fear. We wonder: What about the loved one who struggled? What about me? What if my faith has faltered too many times?
Can I share something honest? Some nights, even now, I lie awake remembering things I can’t undo. Failures I’d purge if I could. But the thing about grace—it doesn't ask us to fix the past. It simply asks us to trust the One who already did.
The enemy wants us to imagine God as a warden, locking us in a cosmic waiting room. But Jesus shows us a Father full of mercy, arms wide open the moment we arrive.
The shocking truth about purgatory? It’s not what you think. It’s not a halfway house. It’s not a mercy extension. It’s not even biblical. The Bible talks about salvation as a choice made here, in this life, not later.
So if you're wondering where your hope rests, don’t look ahead and wonder if you’ll be enough. Look back—to the cross. Look up—to a Savior who didn’t ask you to earn your place, just to receive it.
And that’s the freedom of today. That’s the clarity of Scripture, not clouded by fear, but shining with grace.
A soul at rest doesn’t delay in hope. It knows. It trusts.
Jesus didn’t prepare a purgatory.
He prepared a place.
It began with a quiet question from across the dinner table—the kind that hangs in the air like fog. My father stirred his coffee as he asked, “Do you think there’s a place in between? You know… if we’re not bad enough for hell, but maybe not good enough for heaven yet?”
There was sorrow behind the question. My aunt had passed just a week before, and though she’d believed in God, her walk with Him hadn’t always been steady. My dad was wondering where she had gone. Not in terms of geography—but in soul.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—standing beside a gravestone, praying in a hospital, staring up at the stars and wondering: Is there more after death before we get to God?
Hebrews 9:27 answers that with pointed simplicity: “And just as it is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment.” Not “waiting.” Not “a holding room.” But judgment. In other words, a decision. A verdict. It happens after we die—not after we work off our sin.
That might sound harsh at first, especially if we've been taught to imagine a soul sweating in purgatory, paying off debts like a prisoner in an invisible cell. But look again—not through the lens of fear, but through the lens of what Jesus actually said.
In Luke 16:26, Jesus tells a story about two men—one rich, one poor—the poor man named Lazarus, carried by angels to paradise. The rich man, in torment, begs for relief. But Abraham tells him, “Between us and you a great chasm has been fixed.” A chasm. Uncrossable. Final.
There’s no bridge there, no shuttle from one side to the other, no divine escalator after we die. That story paints death not as a hallway to heaven—but a door that locks behind us.
And that’s not bad news. It’s the most loving warning a Father could give. Because if you wait until then, it’s too late.
The notion of purgatory—the in-between space where sins are purged—wasn’t something the early apostles taught. It entered Christian tradition centuries later, shaped more by human ache than divine truth. People longed for a second chance. For hope after loss. For grace extended beyond the grave.
But here’s the wild hope: if you belong to Jesus, you don’t need a second chance. Everything needed to cleanse you already happened—on a cross, outside Jerusalem, 2,000 years ago. Jesus didn’t say, “It has started.” He said, “It is finished.”
If forgiveness is already finished, what more could purgatory possibly add?
Besides, let’s not pretend our own efforts would help. What could we suffer that’s holier than Christ’s blood poured on our behalf? What could be added to perfect love?
Still, the idea lingers. Not because Scripture supports it, but because hearts wrestle with fear. We wonder: What about the loved one who struggled? What about me? What if my faith has faltered too many times?
Can I share something honest? Some nights, even now, I lie awake remembering things I can’t undo. Failures I’d purge if I could. But the thing about grace—it doesn't ask us to fix the past. It simply asks us to trust the One who already did.
The enemy wants us to imagine God as a warden, locking us in a cosmic waiting room. But Jesus shows us a Father full of mercy, arms wide open the moment we arrive.
The shocking truth about purgatory? It’s not what you think. It’s not a halfway house. It’s not a mercy extension. It’s not even biblical. The Bible talks about salvation as a choice made here, in this life, not later.
So if you're wondering where your hope rests, don’t look ahead and wonder if you’ll be enough. Look back—to the cross. Look up—to a Savior who didn’t ask you to earn your place, just to receive it.
And that’s the freedom of today. That’s the clarity of Scripture, not clouded by fear, but shining with grace.
A soul at rest doesn’t delay in hope. It knows. It trusts.
Jesus didn’t prepare a purgatory.
He prepared a place.
