poem

 Presbyter

There once was a man who so loved the universe he refused to accept the truth of the last prophet as his savior unless it was guaranteed that everyone else would be saved. No matter what. Give me the hell and pain of eternal fire, he said, and for no one else instead. Not one soul deserves to suffer for even a tenth of eternity, no matter what, even the devil. Even the most cold-hearted killer. Even Stalin. Even Judas Iscariot. Everyone gets saved. No exceptions. Given an infinite series of random exchanges even the devil is statistically salvageable. Instead of a benediction he recites his favorite poems. Instead of certainty he offers hope. Instead of hope he offers his hand. Instead of martyrs we patiently listen to what everyone has to say. Instead of a catechism we practice good manners. Instead of god he asks you to love the world. Instead of presbyter he offers you a handful of dirt.

10/18/26