1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a new blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #724: I’m ungrateful.

Youth is no excuse, but if I’m standing before St. Peter and he asks, that’s what I’m going with. I was young, and stupid hadn’t worn off, yet. (Sure, I’ve done many stupid things since then, but I’m working on other excuses for those moments. I’ve got time, right?)

I was 20 and feeling a bit inadequate. Not that I had reason.

My brother majored in defending the world. Me? Radio.

He chose West Point. I aimed just a touch lower.

On trips home, he wore perfectly tailored, status-elevating dress uniforms with buttons so shiny they could power small towns. I wore radio station T-shirts adorned with liquor store sponsorships.

He was Captain America, I was Mr. Microphone.

But this story isn’t about how I viewed my brother. It’s about how I viewed my parents. (Psychologists, amateur and otherwise, will see a third option.)

From my view, my parents were proud of my brother, and indifferent to me.

Not that I didn’t have evidence. 

Upon his college acceptance, our house morphed into a shrine to all things West Point. Conversation became Army centric. Eventually, the postal service established a virtual home office in our living room to handle the onslaught of care packages from our house to The Academy.

Army-Navy day was immediately upgraded to prime holiday status, below only Christmas and any Imo’s Pizza delivery.

A return trip by my brother was akin to a Papal visit.

Lest you think I’m a total clod, I was proud, too. But, I was also looking forward to star treatment when I left home. And, when it didn’t come, I was disappointed.

There were no life-size portraits of me wearing headphones. No tape recorders hung on the wall with descriptive plaques.

In my mind, I was being slighted.

And, for some reason, the sweatshirt became my focus.

I could have chosen anything. My dad had seventeen Army hats, my mom five pairs of USMA sweatpants. But it was the sweatshirt disparity that I decided had to be resolved.

So, one day, I decided to make a stand.

“Why don’t you own a single sweatshirt that represents my college?”

The question was direct. The message implied.

Now, my parents could have answered with a single sentence. “I guess we’re too busy working double shifts to pay for your college.”

It would have been a show stopper.

But, they didn’t.

Instead, they handed me 60 bucks and charged me with finding the perfect sweatshirt to display their pride.

I promptly spent it on Imo’s pizza.

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Have a burning desire to tell me I'm not a horrible person? Drop it in the comments below.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a new blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #11: I’m a screenwriter.

At first glance, eleven might feel like a high number to rank my profession on a list of reasons I’m going to hell, but allow me to explain. 

The top ten is, of course, reserved for the biggies like (spoiler alert) I don’t believe in God. But a person’s profession is a big part of their identity. You think Al Capone’s career choice had an influence on his eternal destination?

But screenwriter?

I think most reasonable people would concede that while screenwriting is a dastardly profession, it doesn’t generally rate as high on the evil scale as say, Ruthless Dictator.

For me, though, it’s a bit of a different equation. It seems that my writing wheelhouse is consistently in areas that are, as one friend put it, “hard on God.”

My very first project, a sitcom called OH, BROTHER!, centers on characters that were born out of long conversations with my brother regarding areas of faith. Specifically, my lack of it.

Since birthing that project, I’ve written several others that also hinge on questions of faith. 

Recently I entered a new project in a contest sponsored by the evil-doers at the Center For Inquiry and the Freedom From Religion Foundation. (I didn’t win, but since they don’t announce runners-up, I’m left to assume I finished 2nd.)

The decision to enter the contest forced me to face a fact: I’ve been pulling my punches. It’s not to say I need to be harder on God. It’s just, I need to be more okay with who I am, and let my work reflect that.

I don’t believe in God and I don’t pray for divine intervention. Well, except when I really wanted to win the Atheist screenwriting competition. Then I prayed, just for the delicious irony of it all. (It didn’t work.)

I need to be as comfortable not praying at family gatherings as my brother is praying. I need to not get my gander up when my brother unintentionally intimates that I’m incapable of making moral decisions. (Breath. He didn’t mean it that way. I think.)

I need to own the fact that I entered a contest sponsored by groups that align with my values, but not those of my parents. If you’re reading this Mom and Dad, consider yourself informed. (That counts, right?) 

And, as a screenwriter, I need to be comfortable writing projects that reflect my voice, evil as it may be. 

So, I announce to the world: I’ve written a feature drama called THE HAND OF GOD. It’s about a guy who absolutely knows that God exists. He just hates Him. 

No, the lead character is not me. He’s not even a reflection of me. But the script does represent my desire to write every character exactly as they are. No pulled punches. Even if that means I write a story about a God I don’t believe in.

If I’m hell-bound because I'm a screenwriter, so be it. At least I'll have something to do.

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On a highway to hell? Lonely screenwriter looking for salvation? Drop in a comment below.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a new blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #438: I tend to exaggerate.

The first time I nearly died, I was probably ten years old. It was a hot summer afternoon. The kind of day you wouldn’t dare step outside for fear your shoes would melt to the pavement.  I think.

It might have been a frigid winter’s night, so cold it would freeze a sneeze in mid-air.

Doesn’t matter. Point is, I was ten. Probably.

My parents weren’t home. No doubt taking my sister, the only child they truly loved, to dance class. I didn’t get classes. Or attention. Just scraps of food, tossed into my room every other day or so. Usually leftover peas.

Again, doesn’t matter. Point is, my parents weren’t home.

It was just my brother, a twelve-year-old trouble-making machine, alone with his naïve, innocent little sibling. Me.

I was minding my own business, making papier-mâché figures of Gandhi or writing letters of peaceful protest to evil animal-testing corporations. I don’t remember exactly. But, I was doing God’s work.

Suddenly, and without provocation, my ne’er-do-well brother maliciously and violently attacked me.

Keep in mind, I’m a strong guy. Even then I was the toughest 76-lb string bean this side of fourth grade. But Jeff, he's a beast. At twelve, he carried 180 pounds of sheer muscle with the ease of Hercules delivering helium balloons to a kindergartner’s birthday party.

Still, I could have taken him, if I saw it coming.

There, sitting quietly, quilting an afghan for my mother, I was blind sided with a kidney shot so vicious it would have knocked Rocky 2 all the way to Rocky 4.

My breath was sucked out of me faster than the cream filling from my birthday donut. (My parents didn’t love me enough to buy me treats. All I got was one donut. Per year. On my birthday. And, I don’t even like cream filled donuts.)

Point is, I couldn’t breath. I was dying. Right there. In front of my brother.

What did he do? My only brother? Convinced I was dying?

He ran.

He ran to the phone and called for help. “Please get here fast. My loving, innocent brother, who I so callously and rebelliously boxed, is desperately attempting to draw what could be his final breath! Please, hurry!”

Except that’s not what he did.

To be clear, I’m not saying he didn’t run. He definitely ran.

It’s just, he ran downstairs. To watch reruns of Gilligan’s Island.

But I’m the one who’s going to hell.

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Have a near-death experience of your own involving Bob Denver? Share it in the comments below.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a new blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #78: I’m a liar.

“Do you know Jesus?”

The question bounced off the tile walls like a Ping-Pong ball in a hot clothes dryer.

Under normal circumstances, I might answer this question in a different way. But, this wasn’t a normal circumstance.

So, I did what had to be done. I lied.

“Yes. God has blessed me.”

I realize the egregious level of my infraction. 

On the scale of “Bible Thumper” to “Fire Surfer,” I generally rate on the warmer side. That is, the religion stuff just doesn’t work for me. But, I was raised in a Christian household, so there remains a basic discomfort in saying my beliefs out loud. This, however, was not that. This was survival.

You see. The man with the question was naked. And, so was I.

I had taken a chance. The community center shower was empty 10 seconds ago. Quick calculations showed that I could shower, dress and clear the room in approximately 44 seconds.

I had just ridden my bike 59 miles and I was sweaty. My car was new. The risk was worth it. 

Until it wasn’t.

He was six feet tall and easily 240 pounds. I am neither. But, it wasn’t fear of assault that made me lie. This guy was a gentle giant, a fact that was obvious before I turned around.

No, this was fear of having “that conversation” while naked.

If you’re like me, you’ve been approached about salvation many times. I’ve successfully fended off well-dressed youngsters on bikes on at least five occasions. 

I’ve hid in my darkened house, lying on the floor, sneaking glances, desperately trying not to get noticed moving the blinds. I’ve tried the direct approach, “I have no interest in having this discussion.” The brushoff, “I have a pizza in the oven.” Most times, I’m overwhelmed by my fear of confrontation. “Yeah, thanks for stopping by. It’s just, you know, I don’t really-- Sure, I’ll take some literature.”

You may be shocked to learn, but I’ve even answered the question honestly. (I’m not a total coward.)

In fact, one of my favorite life moments came from the direct engagement of a salvation soldier. It’s a story for another day, but the short version has an extremely kind Baptist preacher standing on my doorstop in a completely flummoxed state asking me, “Aren’t you afraid?”

Truth be told, if I felt like any of these well-intentioned soul-savers were actually interested in a conversation, I’d likely participate more often. Most times, though, I find the point is not to engage in an exchange of ideas, but rather just to tell me how utterly wrong I am.

But, the moment in the shower was none of these. Or, all of these. I was too thrown to know for certain.

I had never had “that conversation” while dressed like Adam and Eve.

I wanted out, and I was willing to do anything to get there. So, I lied. I lied a big lie. And, I sold the lie. That day, in that moment, I was Pat Robertson rolled into Billy Graham. I was the single most saved guy on the planet. I loved Jesus like no one has ever loved Him before.

Then, I got dressed. And went directly to hell.

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Have a salvation-avoidance story of your own? Like to share how you would have handled the situation? Add it to the comments below. At worst, I'll know I won't be alone when the end times come.