The Baptism of Lazarus

Lazarus is a skeleton. Some say he’s my alter ego. He sits at the head of the office conference table. He reads Rolling Stone. He’s looking for a resurrection.

I found Lazarus sitting underneath an ancient oak tree on my land. Judging from his smile, I assume he is a former real estate tycoon. He apparently ate his own flesh for the last few years, waiting for the market to return. He’s looking for a resurrection.

He has no more flesh to eat. He now writes. He must think he can add fictional flesh to his bones. He has no brain, either. He needs a resurrection in a bad way.

Apparently having been in the dirt business, it may be assumed Lazarus has buried some skeletons of his own. On New Year’s Day he declared his 2011 resolutions. Short and sweet: “More dirt.” Which is it, dirt for cover, or dirt to write? One wonders.

Being compassionate, I want to help Lazarus overcome his dilemma. I ask the Higher Authority for advice. I am warned by angels in a dream that any skeleton seeking resurrection must first show proof of having been baptized.

I ask Lazarus the whereabouts of his baptismal paperwork. He thinks. He offers up facts of his induction into the Sigma Nu frat at Dawg U., the Masonic Temple and resignation from the KKK. I tell him Authority has no dogs in those hunts and doesn’t buy swamp land. He shrugs his bony shoulders.

I call George, we cook up a plan. We dress Lazarus in his Vineyard Vines swimsuit, put on his Chinese emperor’s robe, a straw hat, lather him with 95 sun screen and take him to the January 1st Polar Bear Plunge into the icy Atlantic Ocean.

People there swarm the skeleton, are incredulous. They ask questions, seek autographs, make pictures. Tiny children shake Lazarus’s hand, kiss him. Grownups have their pictures made with him. A lady asks him to marry her, says he might not snore. Lazarus remains mute. He ain’t dumb!

A lunatic throng lines up the ocean’s edge. The air fills with shrieks and cries of hyperthermia, Titanic. Apprehension and fear hover. The Atlantic awaits its victims. Survival is in question. We look for a preacher to baptize Lazarus. No last rites are necessary. Others join in. A Lutheran is found, sipping from a silver flask. He refuses, muttering something about blasphemy.

We ask why. He says no preacher gives last rites or baptisms on shifting sand. He recites something about building houses on sand and rock. We leave him mumbling incoherently and taking comfort in the contents of his silver chalice. We make other plans.

The whistle blows. Like a herd of Gadarene swine, the maniacal mob rushes into the swirling surf like a pack of loosed lunatics. They are swallowed up by the Atlantic. Some survive, retreat to hot chocolate. Some still remain MIA. The waves cease. Calm prevails. The sea is satisfied.

We find The Lutheran lying on the sands, singing Scottish hymns. We ask if the most efficacious form of baptism is aspersion or submersion. “Submersion,” he slurs. We leave him in his stupor and walk into the bone-chilling waters. Lazarus attempts to escape. Too late, we tell him. Resurrection is imminent, we promise.

With the power of madmen, George and I attempt to submerge Lazarus. We fail. He refuses to cooperate. He says we’re not John, says only a Baptist can guarantee success. We curse him, saying we’re empowered by angels. He gives us that swamp-land grin. We commit the stubborn skeleton to the power of the Atlantic. He floats, stands and walks on the water.

Curious spectators flee the scene. No dove descends. Two pelicans and a buzzard show mild interest in the spectacle. George and I are the only human witnesses to the miracle of a skeleton walking on water. We emerge with a grinning Lazarus, dry ourselves and find The Lutheran. He’s now asleep. We share his flask.

Later in the day the chill and the scotch wears off. George and I agree that Lazarus may not be a man after all. He must be a woman. After all, only women can walk on water. Ms. Lazarus is resurrected. We’ll all live happily ever after now!

Bud Hearn
January 6, 2011