One morning, with my Trapper Keeper ...

What was the sin that landed me here?

I sat alone at a granite desk in the principal's basement office, my penance being to write out the following phrase over and over, evidently until either I demonstrated authentic belief in its veracity, or until the end of human history:

"I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior."

"I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior."

"I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior."

It wasn't lost on me that my Lord and Savior, being both a Lord and a Savior, would be a pretty poor example of both if he took pleasure in the cramp that was starting to develop in my wrist. 

Is this the best way for a God to reach the hearts of his people?  Principal Chatfield walked back into the room, wearing what looked to be a black cape, and drinking from a …is that a chalice? 

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I decided to keep my thoughts to myself.  

The experience was beginning to take on a dream like quality. A nightmare, to be more specific. 

Maybe it was the heat lamps overhead, or the fact that the red crayons kept melting in my hand.  Or the Successories poster on the wall that read: "Tickets On the Hellfire Express: One-Way Only."  

What was the sin that landed me here? 

To be sure, there was plenty from which to choose.  But the one that led me directly to this current predicament was my suggestion during a fourth-hour sociology discussion about the opioid crisis that it was foretold over a century ago by Karl Marx, when he declared that “religion is the opium of the people.”

Oops. My Bad.

Judging by the reaction of the class, it was as if I had, in one sentence, not only criticized the two sacred cows of America, capitalism and Christianity, but butchered them, ground them into the most indecent pink slime, molded them into the shape of pitchforks and horns and then force-fed them to innocent babies.

Mr. Murphy turned bright red, and froze for a few seconds, presumably deliberating on the appropriate course of action.  The eyes of my classmates were upon me, burning with hatred. 

Recovering himself, Mr. Murphy smiled ironically as he charged over to my desk. Raising his hand high above his bald head, he pulled a chain that dropped out of the ceiling. One I had always taken as a light switch. 

As soon as he released it, the floor disappeared below me, and down I went — down, down, down, still seated at my desk with my Trapper Keeper open to a page detailing the different types of opiates, their scientific names and their street names written in cartoonish font below.  

Gee, I thought to myself as I traveled down the chute, I thought this was a public school!

I don't remember much after that, and I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here working on my penance. 

All I know is I've got writer's cramp, and it's hot as hell (no pun intended, as I'm starting to think this literally might be hell).

The irony of all this is that I'm no apostate. 

Maybe a little irreligious and impious at times, but I recognize my need of a savior as much as anyone, and from what I know of Jesus, he comes about the closest as anyone I've ever heard of at filling the bill. 

I simply grow weary of his name being used as a cudgel for bourgeois values, as if Jesus were some kind of NIMBY community leader or president of the local home owner's association.

My irritation has grown into resentment.

Now even when I hear something as innocuous as someone giving glory to God after witnessing a medical miracle, I can hardly resist the stereotype of seeing them as a two-time Trump voter and brainwashed sheep of right-wing media.

I know this is unfair, but my emotions get the better of my rational self, and if I deserve to be in hell for anything, it's these prejudiced judgments of my fellow man, not some half-hearted attempt at a witty remark during fourth-hour sociology. 

God help us all (or at least me) if He sees blasphemy as a greater sin than intolerance.