This was our delight. We were limited in our town and desperate for pastimes. We found pleasure in a warehouse each Wednesday where for two dollars we were given a lesson on Christ, some laughs with our friends, two slices of pizza, and if lucky, a chance to make eyes at Nat McClain. Some came on skateboards to awe us, most were dropped off by parents, but all of us received groundless judgment. We settled Indian style on the floor post Jesus songs, specifically after asking Pharaoh—two times weekly—to let the Hebrews go.  Our angst filled our semi-circle as the lights were softened to tear us down us more easily. We contested it, but the power of the Holy Spirit would move through Him to the microphone reclining on His belly, and someone would break. The ceremony had been perfected, prayer weekly was that, “The veil of guilt not be nebulous, let the film cover them so thickly we can see it.” Curtailed shoulders, recently heat broken, sub par report card, Principal’s Office, singled out by Coach Grovenstein for not reading through his instructions before you started, and anyone not perfect were prey. He addressed purity and shamefulness throughout His thesis on sexual immorality. At no time covering His two personal shortcomings—gluttony and deception. Gluttony so His mic could relax and deception as He’s sinless from the back—posing as a classically fit pregnant woman with a handlebar mustache in charge of evoking guilt in us for our innocence. Professional Outfielders were stationed as Awareness Volunteers on the peripheral of the warehouse, anxious to mime signs of weakness so He could gracefully sway toward you like a palm tree chanting “if you have anything heavy on your heart, let it out, let it out, and let Him in, anything heavy…” We fought our chin’s quiver, urged our tears back, and rejected His rhythmic tune, but yielded.  After one accepted, all of us felt convicted. Innocence meant nothing. Tears surfaced like clockwork—condemned for not feeling guilty. We were under attack to sign a slip for God, promising to keep our innocence before marriage. Professional Outfielders like bouncers at our backs—their judging eyes burning a hole through us; Him swaying and chanting over us while the pen sweats in our hands and we decide our fate in either Heaven or Hell for eternity. Each nodding acceptance at those who picked up their pen up; each shaking their heads in disdain at those who were reluctant. I had no specific plans to give myself away as I kissed my first boy in 8th grade and had a social anxiety seizure as a result. I do neither and their expressions tell me I’ll go up in flames when I leave. I don’t mind and will return for more injustice because no matter how thick the film, He always washed it clean.