I had no intention of becoming a martyr for free speech. My great crime was not burning a flag, not storming the Capitol, not even forgetting to tithe—no, my heinous offense was reading Romans 12:14–21 in public. Imagine that. I might as well have recited the lyrics to “It’s a Small World” in a biker bar.
“Bless them which persecute you: bless, and curse not,” I said, smiling as though the Holy Spirit Himself had just handed me a Hallmark card. The congregation shifted in their pews like I had recommended kale instead of fried chicken at the potluck.
I pressed on, gentle as a lamb. “Recompense to no man evil for evil.” You could feel the room freeze. The dear saints, patriotic to the marrow, stared at me as if I had just slapped an eagle. When I got to “avenge not yourselves,” the tension snapped. Sister Bertha’s eyes lit up like she had just spotted sin in the nursery. Out came the smartphones. You’d think Paul himself had scribbled these verses on Antifa flyers.
Within twenty minutes, the Trump Administration had apparently been alerted to my unholy blasphemy. Some Department of Homeland Faith Security agent in a red tie must have tapped a button labeled “Heretic Detected.” By sundown, I was being escorted out of my own sanctuary, handcuffed between two ushers who moonlight as volunteer informants.
In the holding cell, I tried to explain. “Brothers, all I said was, ‘If thine enemy hunger, feed him.’” But irony has no bail schedule. Feeding enemies, it seems, is now classified as agricultural terrorism. My words were officially cataloged under Hate Speech Against Vengeance Enthusiasts.
Meanwhile, word on the street is the church has already replaced me with a holographic preacher who delivers sermons pre-approved by the Office of Devotional Compliance. He’s programmed to quote the Beatitudes with a shotgun cock in the background, just to keep everyone comfortable.
So here I sit, incarcerated, apparently for weaponizing kindness. My Bible is considered contraband—too many subversive ideas about love, humility, and turning cheeks. And yet, I find myself oddly comforted. For if they call the Scriptures hate speech, then at least I’m guilty of loving my enemies too loudly.
After all, if prison is the price of Romans 12, then I’ll gladly take the stripes. Just don’t ask me to bless those who scheduled me for the Sunday evening “Re-education Hymn Sing.” That, my friends, might be asking too much.
