435 | Law Not Excuse Ignorance

435 | Evan and Tom Discuss How Claiming Circumstance Does Not Erase Karma for Religious Criminals

Chapter 1: Evan and Tom Discuss Religious Criminals and the Cosmic Law

As Evan and Tom discuss religious criminals and the cosmic law, the quiet reality of everyday temptations becomes clear. Late‑afternoon sun slants into the kitchen and turns the marble countertop into a river of gold. Evan leans on the island, one hand wrapped around a half‑empty glass of milk, the other scrolling through his phone.

His feed swarms with headlines.

Another scandal. Another pastor. Another politician.

His chest tightens.

He locks his phone and stares at the light sliding across the counter.

“How do people who lie, cheat, and steal still think they’re going to Heaven?” he says. His voice is quiet, but it cuts straight through the hum of the fridge.

His dad, Tom, stands at the sink rinsing vegetables. Water runs in a calm stream, as if nothing in the world is urgent.

“They claim the right of circumstances,” Tom says.

Evan frowns. “What does that even mean?”

Tom turns off the faucet. The kitchen falls almost silent—just the fridge humming and a lawnmower droning somewhere outside. He dries his hands on a faded dish towel and studies Evan’s face.

“It means,” Tom says slowly, “that religious criminals are gradually corrupted by what I call the Tempters. They usually don’t start as obvious monsters. They start… good‑ish. They want to see themselves as good people. But they excuse their progressively more evil actions by insisting they had no other choice.”

A prickle crawls up the back of Evan’s neck.

Some old, half‑buried memory shifts.

“I used to do that,” he says. A quick, embarrassed laugh slips out. “When I robbed the cookie jar before dinner. I was hungry. I told myself I had no other choice.”

Tom’s eyes soften, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“They create a downward, hellish spiral for themselves,” Tom says. “One tiny bend at a time. They bend the cosmic laws—basic truths about right and wrong—until the Truth stretches so thin it finally snaps and becomes a lie.”

He folds the towel, mostly to give his hands something to do.

“They blame their negative karma, their bad luck, their childhood, their stress—anything. Being ‘good‑ish’ permits them, in their own minds, to be mostly good… but still partly evil. Then they need more lies to cover the first lies. They convince themselves life is unfair, so they feel justified in acting outside the law.”

Evan watches a dust mote float through the golden light.

“That’s just foolish,” he says quietly. “Thinking water isn’t contaminated doesn’t make it pure.”

He hears his own words and feels them settle under his ribs.

Tom smiles faintly.

“Those who are mostly righteous—or think they are—selfishly claim permission to do evil so their forbidden desires can be satisfied,” Tom says. “They tell themselves their urges give them special permission to act outside the law, while still imagining they’re virtuous.”

The word virtuous hits Evan like a spotlight.

How virtuous am I really? he wonders.

Something sharp and old stirs.

“Being a little naughty grows into being… sort of naughty,” Evan says, voice drifting. “With the cookies, I was forced to lie after stealing them. At least, that’s what I told myself.”

The memories begin to line up.

“One thing led to another,” he goes on, “and I ended up breaking the empty dessert container to cover it up. I made up this whole story about mice knocking over the jar and eating the cookies.”

Tom leans on the opposite side of the island, elbows on the cool stone, chin resting on his folded hands.

“You were disappointed in my crime spree,” Evan says with a crooked smile. “But you were patient. You told me I’d lose dessert for a month. You talked about choices. Consequences.”

He swallows.

“But my desire for cookies didn’t disappear because you said no,” he admits. “It still doesn’t go away.”

He doesn’t add: sometimes it isn’t cookies anymore. Sometimes it’s attention. Or approval. Or escape.

“So I started taking other kids’ cookies at lunchtime,” Evan says. “I told myself I had a right to fill my appetite. That I deserved it more.”

He laughs once—humorless.

“Eventually, nobody would sit with me,” he says. “No matter how much I begged forgiveness or swore I’d changed. I just wanted the cookies back. And the friends.”

He feels the empty bench again. The way conversations died when he walked over.

“I told myself I had no other choice but to shoplift cookies from the grocery store,” he says. “In my head, my need was greater than the owner’s. He had a whole shelf. One package wouldn’t hurt him.”

Evan clenches his hands together.

“Eventually I got caught,” he continues. “I wasn’t allowed in the store anymore—even if I had money. My world spiraled downhill, and I kept thinking circumstances were forcing me deeper into crime.”

He lifts his gaze to meet his dad’s.

“I wasn’t an evil kid,” he says. “Just a kid addicted to cookies. At least, that’s what I believed. I could’ve sunk into a full‑on life of crime.”

He takes a slow breath.

“But you taught me how to keep a better connection to my guiding conscience,” he says. The words feel like a handhold. “Instead of listening to the Tempter—that voice that always tells me I had no choice.”

Tom’s gaze is steady. There’s that quiet, unwavering compassion in it that always makes Evan feel both exposed and safe.

“The Tempters are very devious,” Tom says softly. “Their goal is to shape kids like you into adults—religious criminals—who leave a trail of disappointment and disaster wherever they go. Devout people who embrace lawlessness still consider themselves virtuous, because their habits ‘force’ them to bend the rules and stretch the Truth. Their lack of self‑control becomes their excuse to escape moral control.”

A shiver ripples up Evan’s arms. Goosebumps rise along his skin.

In his mind’s eye, he sees them: thin shadows sliding behind thoughts, nudging them just a few degrees off course—pure ideas shading darker at the edges.

“I’ve heard murderers still expect to go to Heaven,” Evan says. “They say they’re sorry. They ask to be forgiven.”

Podcast episodes and documentaries blur together in his head.

“But then you find out they lied about being sorry,” he continues. “They claim the situation left them no choice but to murder… and then to cover up their robbery. They say they had to steal because they didn’t have enough money to buy what they wanted. None of it is their fault—because every time, they convince themselves they had no choice.”

He tightens his grip on the glass.

“There are other options,” he says. “Less desirable ones. But they can’t even let themselves see those.”

A tight ball of fear presses behind his ribs.

What if I’m like them—and I just haven’t met my breaking point yet?.

Tom holds his eyes.

“Evil is designed,” Tom says, each word deliberate, “to evolve into a sucking vortex with no apparent escape.”

Evan pictures it: a swirling funnel of dark energy, tugging everything toward its center.

“Depression and hopelessness spin around that vortex like storm clouds,” Tom continues. “They cloud the mind. They drown out the inner guiding voice. The selfish ego will go to any lengths to avoid being exposed as weak or worthless. It would rather burn the world than admit it needs help.”

Evan looks away, jaw tight.

He remembers lying awake last month, staring at the ceiling, feeling small and pointless next to the chaos in his feed. How tempting it seemed to go numb.

He forces himself to look back.

“So what can other people do?” Evan asks. “To help religious criminals, I mean. Being a good example, constantly forgiving them…” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem to cure them.”

Tom sighs and glances at the window. Outside, kids pedal past on bikes, shouting to each other.

“That’s a tricky question,” he says at last. “Returning negative karma—letting consequences come back to them—can make their lives an even more intense hell. They’ll blame everyone but themselves. It feels cruel to hope they hit bottom.”

He pauses.

“But often,” Tom says quietly, “that’s their only option. As long as they allow the Tempter to control them, they aren’t really in control. Society has to distance itself from those who refuse to listen to their conscience.”

The cafeteria bench flashes in Evan’s memory—the space around him like a force field.

“Like when my friends wouldn’t eat lunch with me,” Evan says, voice low. “And when I got banned from the store. People who can’t control themselves enough to make virtuous decisions can’t be trusted with the freedom to mingle with the uncorrupted.”

He hesitates.

“But doesn’t everyone act a little naughty sometimes?” he asks. “Just to let off steam?”

A crooked half‑smile tugs at his mouth. Worry tightens in his eyes.

If everyone cheats a little, maybe he isn’t that bad.

Tom shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “But that is exactly what the Tempters want everyone to believe.”

He rests his palms on the counter.

“That belief creates a weak spot in your self‑discipline,” he says. “Morals, virtues, values become flexible—stretchy. People start bending them to fit difficult circumstances. Little white lies and bending cosmic laws turn into normal behavior.”

He meets Evan’s eyes.

“People start expecting others to lie for them,” he continues. “To smooth things over and protect their reputation when their ‘small’ crimes get exposed. Once an upright citizen has done a few ‘no‑choice’ forced crimes, they tell themselves there’s no reason not to commit more.”

Evan nods slowly.

“After I stole the first two cookies,” he says, “eating the rest wasn’t a big deal. It felt like I’d crossed a border. Like I’d conquered something and now I owned the territory.”

He can almost see it now—a line in the kitchen tile he stepped over.

“I’d gone into forbidden territory,” he says. “So I might as well take full advantage. I knew I’d get caught eventually, but I told myself the punishment for two cookies or all of them would be the same. So it was too late to go back to being virtuous.”

In his mind, a tunnel of dark smoke spirals downward, each bad choice another turn.

Tom drums his fingers lightly, thinking.

“Using this method,” Tom says, “the Tempters have built businesses, organizations, religions, political parties—even countries.”

Evan lets out a breath.

“So the ninety percent virtuousness justifies and cancels out their ten percent criminality?” he asks.

There’s sarcasm in his voice, but a real question underneath: Am I doing the same math?.

Tom doesn’t answer with a joke.

He holds Evan’s gaze.

The sunlight slides lower along the counter. A draft creeps under the back door, cooling the warm gold into shadow.

Somewhere outside, the lawnmower stops.

The silence feels like a held breath—waiting for what Evan will do next.

Chapter 2: Evan and Tom Discuss Corrupted Values and Separating from the Unvirtuous

As Evan and Tom discuss corrupted values and separating from the unvirtuous, the gravity of their choices hangs in the air. That evening, the sky over the neighborhood glows pink and orange, like someone painted fire along the horizon.

Evan sits on the front steps, hoodie pulled tight, earbuds hanging but silent. The concrete is still warm under his palms.

He thinks about good people doing bad things.

About his own sliding‑scale morality.

About guilt and shame knotting together until he can’t tell one from the other.

The front door opens behind him.

Tom steps out with two steaming mugs. He hands one to Evan.

“Mind if I sit?” Tom asks.

“It’s a free step,” Evan says, but there’s a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

They sit side by side, not touching, watching the street. A dog barks down the block. A siren wails in the distance, then fades.

Tom takes a sip of tea.

“You remember what we talked about earlier,” he says. “Religious criminals. Consequences. There’s another side to it. Not just individuals, but groups. Friends. Communities. Whole cultures.”

Evan glances over, interest flickering despite his fatigue.

“A culture that doesn’t promote the individual soul’s mission,” Tom says, “the journey that continues beyond one lifetime, is doomed to fail.”

The words hang in the air like a prediction.

“The primary reason bonded groups fail,” he continues, “is corruption of values in some individuals. Someone lacks certain virtues, and from that, they grow corrupted values.”

Evan thinks of his old friend group. One dare. One cruel joke. One line crossed, then another.

“When corrupted people mix with weak‑minded but still uncorrupted people,” Tom says, “the weak‑minded usually become corrupted. Not the other way around.”

Images flash in Evan’s mind: kids being pressured to bully, cheat, vape, share humiliating videos—just to fit in.

“Releasing people with criminal values back into a community,” Tom says, “is more likely to generate more criminals and more crime.”

Evan frowns.

“That sounds harsh,” he says. “People can change. Right?”

“They can,” Tom says. “But purifying corrupted morals isn’t easy, even when the criminal actually wants to change.”

He nods toward the maple tree in their front yard. Its leaves tremble in the breeze.

“Pulling weeds and then replanting them somewhere else in the garden,” Tom says, “is a good way to spread weeds, not remove them. If you don’t treat the roots, they keep showing up.”

Evan follows his gaze.

In his mind, the soil under the lawn turns transparent. Roots twist around roots, dark threads pulsing out from one plant to another.

“People who support and promote corrupt values,” Tom says, “even if they call themselves ‘nice’—are helping the group fail. Corrupted humans contaminate others much faster than virtuous people can cleanse them.”

A quiet chill works its way down Evan’s back.

Was I the weed, or the one tangled in someone else’s roots? He wonders.

Tom sets his mug on the step between them.

“So,” he says, “contaminated individuals must either leave the group—or change their values. Leaving the unvirtuous in a virtuous group risks corrupting those who are still virtuous. Rotten apples in a basket cause all of them to rot.”

“We did that lab in science,” Evan says. “One moldy strawberry ruined the whole container in like two days.”

Tom nods.

“Exactly,” he says. “Virtuous, caring people can’t force criminals to become righteous. If they try too hard, they risk becoming corrupted themselves.”

Evan remembers seventh grade, when he skipped class to babysit a friend who was sliding deeper into drugs. The lies he told teachers and parents. How the darkness started creeping into his grades, his sleep, his mood.

“So what then?” he asks. His voice is softer now. “Just abandon people? Give up on them?”

Tom studies him.

“If the immoral humans are not removed,” Tom says carefully, “the only choice left for the virtuous is to separate themselves from the group. They have to separate from corrupt friends and acquaintances. They have to become… separate, righteous people.”

The words land heavily.

Separate. Righteous. Alone.

“They have to protect themselves,” Tom continues, “from being pushed to compromise their morals and virtues. They need to separate into a new bonded group, so they don’t get physically, emotionally, or mentally damaged by the unvirtuous.”

Evan stares at his sneakers.

He remembers that horrible gap between friend groups—after he said no to one stunt that crossed a line, before he found new friends who didn’t require self‑betrayal as ticket price.

“That’s a tough choice,” Tom says quietly. “And it’s even harder because immorality is everywhere. Parents’ acceptance of corrupted values shapes their kids’ values.”

He looks at Evan, eyes dark in the fading light.

“Modern society pressures you to accept revised, unvirtuous values,” he says. “If you don’t give in, you’re condemned, canceled, punished. They promote fear, hate and hopelessness.”

For a moment, the whole street feels like it’s holding its breath.

Evan imagines invisible currents flowing through every house—screens glowing behind curtains, outrage posts, whispered rumors at lockers. Streams of thought weave around people like unseen vines.

Some glow a steady, soft gold. Others flicker sickly green or bruise‑purple, pulsing with envy, cruelty, despair.

He doesn’t know which color is wrapped around him.

“So,” he says quietly, “if I stay in a group that keeps bending the rules, I’m going to bend with them. Even if I think I’m strong.”

“Most of the time, yes,” Tom says. “That’s how the Tempters work. Not with giant, obvious temptations first—but with tiny, reasonable‑sounding sacrifices of your own conscience.”

He ticks examples off on his fingers.

“Just a little lie here,” he says. “A little theft there. A little prejudice excused by ‘circumstances.’ One ‘harmless’ rumor. One ‘joke’ that punches down.”

He looks at Evan.

“One day you wake up,” Tom says, “and realize you’ve been living as a religious criminal—claiming virtue while acting like the rules don’t apply to you.”

Evan’s throat tightens.

He thinks of kids at school who mock others for their skin color, faith, gender, or pronouns, then hide behind, It’s just a joke.

He thinks of classmates who volunteer for service hours while secretly recording humiliating “pranks” for clicks.

He thinks of himself, laughing along when he knew it was wrong.

“How do you fight that?” he asks.

The question feels bigger than their block, bigger than his life—like he’s asked it for more than one lifetime.

Tom doesn’t pretend there’s an easy answer.

“You start small,” he says. “With one honest choice. One honest friend. One honest group.”

Evan takes a slow breath.

In his chest, that tiny golden thread he imagined yesterday pulls taut. It hums there—a quiet, stubborn note under the noise of fear and habit.

For the first time today, he feels less like invisible currents are dragging him and more like he’s standing at the edge of a map.

Paths branch in every direction. Some are bright. Some disappear into the shadows.

He doesn’t know yet which one he’ll take.

But now, he knows something the Tempters never want him to say out loud:

He has a choice.

And this time, he refuses to tell himself otherwise.

Chapter Synopsis

While scrolling through news headlines about scandals involving religious figures and politicians, Evan discusses "religious criminals" and the cosmic law with his dad, Tom. Tom explains how corrupt individuals fall into a downward hellish spiral by claiming the "right of circumstances"—gradually bending cosmic laws and excusing their evil actions with excuses like stress, bad luck, or forced necessity. Evan reflects on his own past childhood thefts (such as stealing cookies and lying), realizing how easily small rationalizations grow into a life of crime. Later that evening on the front steps, Tom explains the danger of corrupted values within groups, noting that unvirtuous individuals contaminate others faster than virtuous people can cleanse them, which ultimately forces righteous people to separate from corrupt influences to protect their souls.

Core Themes & Laws

• The Right of Circumstances: Religious criminals and failing souls justify their progressively evil actions by convincing themselves that their difficult circumstances or needs left them no other choice.

• The Hellish Spiral of Rationalization: Small violations (like a white lie or a stolen cookie) create a psychological border; once crossed, individuals feel justified in committing larger crimes because they believe it is too late to go back.

• The Contagion of Corrupted Values: In social groups and communities, unvirtuous individuals contaminate the weak-minded much faster than virtuous people can reform them, making separation a necessary defense.

• Conscience vs. The Tempters: The Tempters whisper excuses and twist truth into lies, clouding the mind and drowning out the inner guiding voice of the soul's conscience.

Key Entities Featured in this Document

• Evan: A high school student who wrestles with his past shoplifting memories, examines his own sliding-scale morality, and learns about the spiritual danger of self-justification.

• Tom: Evan’s grounded father who uses the kitchen countertop and front steps to teach Evan about moral corruption, the mechanics of self-deception, and the necessity of guarding one's associations.