IF YOU CAN'T SAY SOMETHING NICE, DON'T SAY ANYTHING

LOST's mom was always fond of that saying, and it is of particular importance today. There's great temptation to speculate - in a uniquely "Soprano's-style" way: Was he whacked, and was it Robertson, or Dobson, or both? Or there's the semi - reverent, "will he lie in state at the Crystal Cathedral - or at the Reagan Library?" The grassy knoller approach: "I'll bet he's really just having drinks with the not dead Ken Lay and Cheney at the latter's "undisclosed location;" the bluntly vengeful: "hope he enjoys the smell of sulfur, and the enduring warmth of brimstone:" The flamboyantly funny, "if Saint Peter greets him at the Gate dressed like Liberace, he's in for a long, bad hearing;"

The bottom line is that Jerry Falwell professed faith in the archetype of Compassion, yet displayed so very little compassion in his own public life. May God have abundant mercy on his contorted soul.