The S'more Society

So why is it when I'm not thinking about myself, life is pretty carefree, but when I'm faced with my own sinfulness and greed, all I see is death?

Take today, for instance.

Three TVs hang in front of the workout machines at the spa. On one, CNN was reporting another school shooting, this time in Cleveland, interspersed with clips from fighting in Iraq. On the other TV, actors were slamming each other against their high school lockers in One Life to Live. On the third screen, ESPN was replaying all the illegal hits in this weekend's NFL games. Ouch.

So, I'm sweating at the gym. Why, exactly? To live longer? To flee the emptiness of my own soul? To keep from going out and shooting someone myself?

I wonder if it's possible that a whole country could be possessed by one demon. And I wonder what that demon would look like. I'm picturing something from Ghostbusters-- not the evil Sumerian god Gozer (Hmm. Iraq again), but something more like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Big, soft, sugary, stupid and white, consisting mostly of air.

Or even better, picture the beloved camping treat, the S'more. Our politics and religious sentiments are the chocolate-covered graham crackers that give an illusion of substance to the gooey marshmallow center of our national confection.

(And to think people are lining up at our borders to trade in their genuine traditions and customs for our amalgam of junk food).

The S'more Society--a fitting label for a national philosophy of self-indulgence.

I guess our name is Legion. May God forgive us.


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