Not paying attention during Mass was a sin, and I did my best to pay attention—even though most of the time, the service was painfully dull. But one Sunday in 1962 when I was twelve, the celebrating priest read a quote from Jesus that was not dull but quite shocking: “But I say to you, that whosoever is angry with his brother, shall be in danger of the judgment. And whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council. And whosoever shall say, Thou Fool, shall be in danger of hell fire” (Matthew 5:22).

I looked around to see if anyone else was panicked by this information but noticed only the usual yawns and fidgets. Apparently, everyone else already knew! So you call your brother “Raca” or “fool” and you go to hell? This was a major safety tip that I had somehow missed.

I had two brothers, Jim and Tom, and sometimes we had little arguments that degenerated into name calling. My usual insults were head or face preceded by something vile or brain preceded by something tiny. I was quite sure I had never called a brother “Raca” but was less sure about “fool.”

At age twelve, I could already be damned. I envied my friends who had no brothers, only sisters. They could call their sisters “Raca” or “fool” all day long with no worries.

Immediately after Mass, I asked my mother if I had understood the priest correctly. She did not want to talk about it much but clarified the meaning of brother as much broader, basically any male. This did not help. Surely at some time I had called some male “fool,” maybe someone acting foolish.

I didn’t know what Raca meant but assumed it was really bad. I wished I had never learned the word, because now I had to worry about saying it by accident. You know how it works: Your brain says, “Whatever you do, don’t say Raca,” and your mouth gets just part of the message and out comes “Raca.”

I knew the other mortal sins, offenses that would land you in hell—for example, missing Mass on Sunday, eating meat on Friday, questioning the faith, and indulging in impure thoughts. It was easy to attend Mass and eat fish sticks but pretty hard to control thoughts about religion and sex. Thinking just comes naturally.

Some sins were mortal depending on the particulars. For example, stealing was a mortal sin if the stolen item was valuable. A priest told me the cutoff was about twenty dollars. Stealing wasn’t my thing anyway, but it would have been nice to know the exact cutoff. The danger was going a penny over.

Being late for the essential part of Mass was also a mortal sin. Did it matter if I was just a little late? Again, it would have been nice to know the exact cutoff. The danger was going a second over.

The nice thing about mortal sins was that they could be forgiven. I could confess them to a priest, say a few prayers, and no longer deserve eternal punishment. The penalty for sin seemed harsh and the remedy magical, but that was the way God wanted it.

About this time, I lapsed into a period of scrupulosity. I obsessed about avoiding sin and strove to be perfect but still thought I was constantly sinning. Sometimes I would call the parish priest to ask if some silly act was a sin. He would reassure me, but I would soon be obsessing about something else.

One day, without my parents’ knowledge, I rode my bike to the rectory to talk to the priest. He explained that I had it all wrong. God was a good and loving father. But it didn’t seem like it. God’s rules seemed so arbitrary, and his penalties were infinitely severe. Giving up, the priest suggested that I see a doctor.

I attended a Catholic high school with many classes taught by priests. I later learned that some of the priests were pedophiles, but I had no bad experiences myself. Most of the priests were kind and decent men tragically trapped in a sick religion. I had daily religion class, but the more I learned about Catholicism, the less sense it made.

In college, I stopped going to Mass and began the long process of unlearning all the Catholic nonsense. But it was hard. What if there really were a capricious, tyrannical god making weird rules with dire penalties? What if the Bible really was inspired? What if all those popes, bishops, and priests were right?

Hell was the hardest thing to put to rest. In hell, I could be in anguish for a trillion years and just be getting started. I did not want to lose Pascal’s Wager.

I largely succeeded in my unlearning. I no longer believe in Catholicism or God. As an atheist, I am a happier and better person. I can judge right and wrong by how my actions affect other people and animals. I can work to make the world better without considering the opinions of ancient authorities or modern ones relying on the ancient ones.

I no longer believe in hell. Never based on evidence, hell sprang from the notion that a just god would correct the injustice in this life in an afterlife. It later became a tool for the Church to enslave people: Do what we say or burn forever. It’s your choice.

But hell, an infinite punishment for a finite offense, was never just. Going to hell for sleeping late on Sunday or eating a burger on Friday was absurdly unjust. Nobody deserved eternal punishment—not Hitler, not Stalin, not Pol Pot, and certainly not an argumentative twelve-year-old boy.

And by the way, fools, Raca means “empty-headed.”