Gilligan in Purgatory

Yes, I hit the professor's man-made transmitter with my fist just as a plane was about to fly directly overhead. Sure I stuffed my lucky rabbits foot inside the NASA robot, rendering it inert and useless, and I made those other NASA guys think we were Martians after I accidentally spilled glue and feathers all over everybody. And I know it was me who inadvertently moved the stick in the lagoon that the professor was using to measure the water's depth, sending everyone into a doomsday panic.


But really—is this necessary? This ceaseless, open-ended expiation of my guilt? This limbo-like state of godless suffering?


I mean, I don't even think I really believe in this place anyway. Or at the very least, I thought it was for Catholics only. I could see a good Catholic sitting in my place, thinking about the time he handcuffed the briefcase full of important government documents to his wrist, or that time when he backed up over the burning logs that spelled out SOS making them instead spell out SOL, the name of the pilot that was flying his plane directly overhead, and feeling like this might be what he deserved. That maybe through this mandatory time of final purification he may actually gain the grace needed to be worthy of heaven.


But not me. I lean more toward the Scriptural revelation that all the demands of divine justice for things like eating Mary Ann's last coconut cream pie were completely fulfilled in Jesus Christ. That time I took over the island and overzealously locked everyone in a bamboo jail just as a plane was flying directly overhead? Totally purchased back by Christ on the tree. Penance? Atonement? Accomplished!


And please don't bother throwing Romans 5:3-5 in my face either. Yes, sanctification involves suffering, but didn't I suffer enough when the professor turned me invisible, or when he hypnotized me into thinking I was Mary Ann, or when Mr. Howell sold me those worthless oil wells, jilting me out of $3 million in well-deserved golf winnings?


And if you want to talk about who deserves forced reparation of wrongs applied, look no further than my boss, his nibs The Skipper, for hitting me on the head with his hat to mark every hour of every day for three years. There's your uncleanness that shall not enter the presence of God in heaven!


Go ahead and jury-rig Hebrews 12:14 into an argument that I have to reclaim a self-lost holiness, a holiness "without which no one will see the Lord." But I would cite the many, many times my unbelievable ineptness was countered by an act of goodness so sheer and selfless that the flames in which I now sit would be quenched forever: like when I fed those cannibalistic headhunters the magic berries I found that made them see upside down, or when I dressed up as a tiki god to lift that evil curse off The Skipper or when I saved us all from certain death at the hands of that crazy Japanese sailor. But all these paled in light of the time I actually crawled up inside a live bomb to defuse it because I was the only one that wasn't fat, self-righteous or vain. Inglorious ingratitude!


I know, I know. 2 Thessalonians 2:13. Right. Right. Sanctification's not an option, blah, blah, blah. You know what? I've heard about enough, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me, I guess I've got some evil to purge...