I see it on a big screen.
The pope dies.
Film OPENS with his last breath and immediate experiences thereafter, as the man’s soul is greeted on the other side by his mother... brother... father... childhood friends – not exactly... CUT TO:
Announcement from the Vatican: “The angels welcome you.”
Back to the dead pope. Yeah, where are the dang angels?
Turns out Heaven is a whole lot more rubber-meets-the- road than he had envisioned. He is not choired in by Saints and prior Holinesses. There’s some modest “good job, buddy", slap-on-the-back stuff, yada-yada-yada – but far more pressing – far more sacred - is the opportunity to grow and learn from one’s errors.
The concierge squints at the dead pope's reaction to this word. "Oh now, don't go there! Up Here, we all know better."
It turns out that mere men who assume positions of inordinate power go to a particular way station – a special therapy unit, if you will - for as long as it takes to make initial amends, grasp essential lessons. Nixon’s still there – mostly waiting for Kissinger at this point. Reagan is, too, but he hasn’t woken up yet.
“There are lots of folks waiting for you, Karol,” says the concierge cheerfully. And indeed, there are: People who were molested... Molesters who might have been stopped. Nuns with lists. Homosexuals. A welcome committee representing everyone who died in childbirth, or starved, or shriveled from AIDS because “someone” insisted that putting on a condom was a sin. Oops. And miles and miles of women. As far as the eye can see...women.