Needless to say, we are crushed beyond words by the magnitude of the devastation in Haiti. I sought the comfort of a friend and spoke of my feelings saying “it was hard to accept that anything worse could still happen to a nation like Haiti.” And yet at the same time I know in a very personal way, how random life could be and how hitting rock bottom is no guarantee that you are on the way up. As usual, I have no answers. Unable to say anything herself, my friend simply gave me a link to this interesting insight into the persona of the 'hellish one'.
The Minneapolis Star-Tribune published a letter from Satan to evangelist Pat Robertson, "in reply" to his comment that Haiti’s persistent troubles, including the earthquake, are due to a pact the nation made with Mephistopheles.
Well, it wasn’t Satan who wrote the letter from hell but skillful Lilly Coyle of Minneapolis writing in the devil's persona. Thought she penned it down pretty good and it is a glimpse as well into deep Christian philosophies on suffering. Here, sharing with you
Dear Pat Robertson,
I know that you know that all press is good press, so I appreciate the shout-out. And you make God look like a big mean bully who kicks people when they are down, so I’m all over that action.
But when you say that Haiti has made a pact with me, it is totally humiliating. I may be evil incarnate, but I’m no welcher. The way you put it, making a deal with me leaves folks desperate and impoverished. Sure, in the afterlife, but when I strike bargains with people, they first get something here on earth — glamour, beauty, talent, wealth, fame, glory, a golden fiddle.
Those Haitians have nothing, and I mean nothing. And that was before the earthquake. Haven’t you seen “Crossroads”? Or “Damn Yankees”? If I had a thing going with Haiti, there’d be lots of banks, skyscrapers, SUVs, exclusive night clubs, Botox — that kind of thing. An 80 percent poverty rate is so not my style. Nothing against it — I’m just saying: Not how I roll.
You’re doing great work, Pat, and I don’t want to clip your wings — just, come on, you’re making me look bad. And not the good kind of bad. Keep blaming God. That’s working. But leave me out of it, please. Or we may need to renegotiate your own contract.