S’mores with Demons: An Easter Story

“So, someone said you’re a mystic, huh?” an evil little bastard snarled, red eyes glowing. “There’s a special place in hell for people like you.”

I remembered the story of Pilate quizzing Jesus about being King of the Jews and how Jesus turned the question back. Then the sophisticated defense strategies of adolescence came to mind: If I’m a dumb ass you’re a dumb ass.

“No, you’re a mystic,” I said. I pulled my blanket tighter and dozed off. The wind howled its midnight discontent. I was where I wanted to be. Asleep.

But the earth continued turning, dawn arrived, and my sanctuary was greatly diminished.

An ancient walking stick helped me keep my balance as waves of morning hatred rushed in. I fought my way through the putrid sludge to an island where love was freely available with toast and coffee.

“The haters are doomed,” a sweet dog reassured me with the wag of its tail. “With so many self-destructive choices, lies, and pathologies, they’re going to lose.”

“But I don’t want them to lose,” I protested. “I want them to find their way through the Molasses Swamp and arrive at the Candy Castle with the rest of us.”

“Sure, you do,” my red-eyed bastard guffawed from across the table.

“No, seriously, I do,” I said.

“Ain’t gonna happen.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Drop the hopes and prayers. Try introducing legislation.”

 “You can’t legislate forgiveness. Or reason. Or redemption,” I said. “You’re a fool.”

“That I am,” she said. “A fool for reality-based behaviors. That’s why I hate mystics of all stripes and colors.”

“You can hate all you want,” I said. “But we’ll love you back.” I was on my third piece of toast, feeling feisty and fit.

The red-eyed bastard screamed like the witch that Dorothy splashed as she doused the burning Scarecrow with water. I held her tight as she writhed.

“We’re going to love you back.” I repeated. And I meant it.

It’s hard to look down from the places we’ve been nailed and ask forgiveness for the gloating executioners, liars, lynchers, shooters, and those who’ve tied us to the stake. They don’t even want forgiveness. But revenge risks igniting the final blaze–the one that would burn the parched world down. Without absolution from the cooling waters of compassion, we’re lost.

The intense heat of an ongoing resurrection shimmered around my companion.

“Burn, baby, burn,” she yelled, spitting hot coals from her lips into a campfire fed by pruned branches.

I cheered her on. We sat hip to hip, watching the flames die down. We had everything we needed to make S’mores.