Zombie War (This is not an advertisement for a video game!)

Headlines are crashing down, day after day now. Parents mourn their child even more as his last words are argued over and his last steps are challenged. I'm sorry, but what kind of fucking justice system allows this to happen?! I'm not questioning the motives of George Zimmerman. He felt justified in the actions he took that night; this is clear. I am questioning why his mindset is acceptable, even when supposedly scrutinized.

I am puzzled by what others view as security. I go back to this constantly. We televise and absorb a man walking a rope over the Grand Canyon, somehow viewing this risk as a worthy one. Yet, we fail to extend ourselves to other human beings for fear that they might be dangerous. We put up fences to halt the threat of invaders eating our food and seeking healing in our hospitals while we go to church and smile (across the aisle) at someone we can't imagine having lunch with. We reward the petty conflicts that keep us from each other and call this "reality (TV)"! How far are we from a Jesus who stopped at nothing to show love to strangers?

Trayvon Martin will ever be remembered for his hoodie; for covering his head in a rain storm. With his right to bare arms intact, Zimmerman tracked him and ultimately murdered him. Zimmerman may have felt his life was in danger. If we are going to deal in perceptions though, next time it will be acceptable for someone to take a pot shot from a car- to take out the hoodied intruder before he does any harm. Beyond that, our neighborhood watchers will be allowed to fire at will while standing their ground from a balcony outside their back door. Bring on the Zombie War! In essence, Trayvon was dead to Zimmerman before the gun went off; a virtual zombie.

Still Begging!

This is a follow-up to a previous blog addressing gun violence. The hamster in my brain kept running and I felt it necessary to cover another corner of this discussion.


We, all of us, are living a myth; a myth perpetuated in each breath we take toward that one last breath. So we frame our fears on the mantle of security, seeking immortality. Security runs the same cycle as the chicken and the egg and justice is even more elusive. I am talking about self-defense; about playgrounds and punching and Call of Duty and deployment and courtrooms and departments and covert strikes and overt desperation. I am talking about fists and feet and billy clubs and knives...and yes, I am talking about guns. No battle can be won. We live in a country steeped in the tradition and the mystery of faith, yet we have so little. There is one immeasurable line walking away from the few willing to take a leap of faith.

Do I believe in the preservation of human life? I do and I love life and I love the human race and the opportunity to give and receive love each day. What I don't believe in are good guys and bad guys. We have witnessed evolution; taking on racism, sexism and homophobia. Disabilities are less disdained and we may, after enduring mass murder after mass murder, scratch the surface of mental illness. Once we do, once we get there, we will find our beloved brothers and sisters opening their arms instead of opening fire. Then there will be no Cowboys and Indians. Utopia? Perhaps. But we will never get anywhere climbing the stockpile of guns that are scattered about our great land. Starting now, somewhere in the discussion, we must consider the only answer that feasibly confronts a culture of dualism- unilateral love. Heaven lies behind that dimly-lit door.

We spend a lot of time and money on protection. I'm not saying it is foolish to lock doors, but I think we have to take a long look at how we can, more effectively, "love thy neighbor". In the process, we will redefine neighbors and shrink the world around us. So many bonds are formed when fears are hurdled. Lives are saved and love grows. Love your neighbor. I beg of you!

I beg of you!

Growing up in Waterloo, IA, it was part of my childhood and my young adult life to attend many events in the UNI-dome. While I saw a few concerts in the dome, I mostly attended sporting events. Large crowds cheered for the home team. Voices echoed through the vast stadium. My mother worked in the dome. She was Secretary to the Athletic Director. It was there I found her after calling to tell her my good friend and former roommate had been murdered; shot down while out for a walk with his fiance. Mom left her work that morning and took me out into the seats of the dome.

There was no cheering. For the most part, my tears were silent. I was sad, angry and confused and I couldn't find a reference point for my pain. It was like the first time I had the wind knocked out of me or my first bee sting, but worse. I told my mom that I thought I should go on a hunger strike until somebody did something about guns being so accessible. Her answer was poignant and compassionate. I have a short memory for many things, but I think I have this one right. She said I should do what I felt I needed to do, but that she wanted me to know that she believed God was angry too.

I made a little noise and wrote a letter to the editor, hoping to calm some of the racist reactions to this tragedy. We planted a tree for Jeff in the park near where he had grown up. I may have believed that, as we threw dirt over the roots of that tree, we were burying this sin; this senseless misguided, evil thing that had happened. We were burying it so it would never be seen again. If only that were the case.

A few years later, my same-age cousin was murdered. She was managing a restaurant while a man walked in and shot her and a co-worker in cold blood, as they say. That gun was designed for elephant hunting! Cara was my mother's Godchild. My mom and my aunt composed a petition to get people to act on the sick reality that guns and ammunition were being sold just feet away from children's toys and lipstick.

I was influenced by these losses. My innocence was gone and I tried to reclaim it by doing good for others. I moved into a Catholic Worker house and was part of a live-in group that provided shelter and meals to people who were down on their luck. Shortly after one of our live-in staff moved out, he was shot and killed while working at the laundromat a few blocks from our house. Again, a tree was planted. It grew in our front yard as a sign of Derek's life and spirit. It was all there was for Derek's parents when they arrived from Poland, looking for a remnant of their slain child.

So, I am a victim of gun violence. I don't claim that often. I don't feel victimized in an oppressive sort of way. But lives were taken. Relationships were lost. Connections were disconnected. Hearts, including mine, were broken.

Massacre is a word that is hard to fathom. I don't know this experience with the intimacy of simple murder. It's a matter of numbers, I suppose. But it seems even more senseless and I feel some sort of exponential grief as I am restimulated by these events. And then....children. For weeks I noticed folks only discussed this recent tragedy for moments at a time. It was gruesome enough to envelop us all and close enough that we could not put our collective outrage into words.

There is a heated debate brewing and I know some feel that their rights or even a way of life is being threatened. I can only analogize this in terms familiar to me. I am an avid golfer (I am referring to frequency and not quality). My favorite club is my driver. But, if hundreds of thousands of people were being murdered with drivers, I would gladly sacrifice that club from my bag. I would melt it down, immediately! The hole in this analogy is that you can run from a golf club. Even if unexpected and someone is clubbed from behind, a room full of people would have time to escape and a few people could rally and detain the mad golfer. Please don't propose that someone can do the same damage with a kitchen knife as they can with a semi-automatic weapon. This is absurd!

Another part of the debate concerns mental illness. Via my career and the work that I continue to do with the homeless community, I have known many people who live with mental illness. There are some I most certainly would not want owning or possessing a gun. But, be sure of this. There are many more people that pass us in the mall and on the road that we travel each day who go undiagnosed. Many are pent up or clad with anger, sadness and total defeat- folks we will never know are feeling that way. While we can make headway through the throngs of persons receiving medication and other forms of treatment, those who are most lost have either abandoned a path toward recovery or have never been identified. I submit that no sane person can take the life of another. It is a noble area to explore and I'm sure we will have a better society if resources are maximized and the larger community can understand the signs and symptoms of mental illness. However, this is a multi-tiered challenge and clearly not a hefty solution to gun violence. I see no logical solution to gun violence that does not eliminate the gun from the violence.

For weeks, I have been unable to write about this. I get stuck because I can't think of a way to sufficiently influence people with a radical view on this subject. I'm sure many would see my view as radical. There is a middle ground. I will not be satisfied with banning only assault weapons. My friends and my cousin were killed with far fewer bullets. But I will feel like progress is made if we can start with assault weapons. There has to be movement from those who will feel naked without their AK-47s. We don't have time to wait for a discussion on this. Someone filled with rage- misguided on how to express it, someone who cannot connect with other human beings in a way that will lead to them feeling loved, someone is going to do this AGAIN. Please join me in trying to stop it. Please let your representatives know how you feel. Please, I beg of you, ACT!

An election has ended. We move on with our lives and do what we need to do. We stand up for what we believe in--whatever that may be. I will remember this election; not for all of the sarcasm and snyping leading up to it, but for the importance of it. My beliefs were challenged and even entwined a bit among the platforms that appeared to emerge from the presidential campaigns. I consider myself a pro-life, family values, patriotic LIBERAL. There's not really a place for me in a two-party system, but I attach myself to the candidate who seems to represent my ideals. I want a candidate who knows charity is not an obligation but a fulfilling way of life.

The voting booth was empty when I entered the school building. The building was empty, for that matter. I paused in the corridor as I leaned over the water fountain. I had found a place to pray. Thoughts swirled through my head, but that happens all the time. Prayer came about because I was focused and the moment was meaningful. I prayed for peace. It is my most constant prayer: peace in my family, peace in my body, peace in the world. I thought of my daughter and my nieces and nephews and the country I want them to inherit. I prayed I could be helpful and I could find others (regardless of party affiliation) that will have their best interests at heart.

The actual voting process was solemn. I approached it like lighting a candle at church. No one offered me an "I voted" sticker and that seemed strangely appropriate as I didn't feel the need for a prize or a banner. I drove home relieved I didn't have to wait in line and hopeful that those who did would be that much more determined to vote with their hearts.


 I stayed up to hear the election results, but couldn't hang on long enough for the speeches. I was satisfied the candidate I voted for was elected, but I didn't feel the need to celebrate. Again, I was closer to prayer. "Just give folks a chance" I thought. "Can we be loving and merciful with one another?" I pleaded. Since a voice did not thunder back at me, I resigned myself to the work ahead. I was thankful for my family and the communities I have found, spawned from my family experience. I owned that love and fellowship and let it be my pillow.

Something of Substance

It is a few hours before the second presidential debate. I am decided, but not impressed. I heard what Obama said in the first campaign. I read what he wrote. As he feathered hope in our caps for what WE could do, he emerged as the one who could lead us. It was a tall order. If there is failure, we failed too. All of us. We failed to courageously confront injustice at every opportunity. I failed. I didn't always speak up and I didn't push forward in my community at times when I could have.

In politics, parties prevailed (which is always ugly.) As Lincoln said, "A house divided against itself cannot stand." Our president took many opportunities to lead and made some wise and courageous decisions. He also made some weak and ineffective decisions (apparently trying too hard to please.)Too many times, he surrendered where he might have fought for the poor, the marginalized and for the world. The last debate simply magnified where he has fallen short. We need him to stand up tonight. We need him to be our president. Pliable statistics will not do! We need to hear about hope and opportunity and our successes. We need to hear about this world where people are recognizing their worth and claiming their space. We need something of substance!


 And after he exits the room tonight (if we believe him), then we need to follow him. Not just to the voting booth, but to the mountain! We need to take on what is ours to carry. We cannot wait to hear about the bills we want to pass. We need to find the front lines and stand there in solidarity. Steps have been taken: to challenge the military-industrial complex, to create a safety net within a healthy competitive marketplace, to be stewards of the earth and to ensure that folks from all walks of life have access to the things we all deserve as children of a loving God. Let's walk together FORWARD, as they say, and make our country a better place by electing a leader who understands the value of all people in a democracy and welcomes all as participants. Let's help him get there!

Where Politics come home

I can not thrust my political opinion upon anyone else. I know that. There are many days that I'm not even sure what my political opinion is. I know where I lean. I'm pretty sure I know why. But I'm not intimately familiar with the ins and outs of Social Security.  I don't agree with either political party on what they would consider a just war. I think pronounced approaches toward Israel are lacking. Etc, etc.

There is a place where politics come home for me though. I will be impacted by how the Dream Act pans out after this election. The Development, Relief and Education of Alien Minors Act will help children of undocumented parents start a path to citizenship. More importantly, the youth who take advantage of this act will be recognized as valuable members of our society: a society they were thrust into and have come to know as their only influence. I will be affected because I have three nieces whose lives beyond school depend on if this act is upheld beyond this administration.

These young women are a part of my life. I love them like daughters and I would die for any one of them. They came to us eight years ago worn from a 2-day, sardine-packed van ride across the United States. The van was the easy part, after being separated from their mother and being held in a Safe (and I use that term loosely) House in Tuscon. Lizbeth was four, Lizeth six and Jessica eight. They were tired and timid when they arrived. Everything was strange. As hard as we tried to make our place a home for them, it took awhile. English was hard at first. It was hard making friends while learning the language. I can't speak for all of them, but I would guess the word to describe their first year of school would be "hell". But they learned and they made friends and they grew and have become sweet, intelligent, caring, aware young women- all of them.

Do they think about what it means to be here? Do they care about their immigration status? I'm not sure where it falls on the list after cell phones and first kisses, but I'm pretty sure it's not toward the top. Some day they'll care. Maybe when most young people start caring- when they start making their own decisions and when their lives depend on those decisions. I want them to have opportunities when they start caring. I don't want them to experience the humiliation of deportation. No matter what they decide to do as adults, I want them to be able to call this country home along with their native Mexico.

Some minds will turn to parental choices. As irrelevant as this is, I want to address it. If you had to choose to do something illegal to help your children survive, wouldn't you? Under the current economic system in Mexico, opportunities are scarce and U.S. businesses have not helped the situation by utilizing the cheap labor in Mexico and many other struggling countries. Our ancestors (with the exception of Native Americans) left somewhere to come here by whatever means necessary. Some of our ancestors forced slaves to transport them. The history is deep and complicated and most groups have some representation that wanted to close the door behind them. It seems it would be more productive to discuss how we are going to work to effectively reduce (and eventually end) global poverty. It's the only fair, humane solution to this problem and I hope my nieces will be here (or wherever they choose to be) to help our world take steps toward that solution.

Wherever You Go...

I hate the cold. I have never been a fan. I am from the Midwest and spent my fair share of time outside in the winter, but I always preferred a hot summer day running around shirtless, sweating in the summer sun. I know Cold though. We made friends once.

 I was working at the Saint Francis Catholic Worker in Waterloo, IA. It was my first experience of immersion. I lived and served and often did not know the difference as I slowly became part of a community. But violence would come to reign on us as a friend was taken in a shooting. Another friend died beneath a bridge. Another friend reached for help as he struggled in the grasp of mental illness and alcoholism and we all suffered as we watched him sabotage his success. Some who lived among us found they could show the worst of themselves where they knew they would still be loved, so they did and we had to evict people who could not respect the community. I loved what I was doing, but a part of me ached and I was not sure why. Community members helped me arrange a sabbatical. The first stage of the sabbatical was three days and nights at a Trappist Monastery. It was a few weeks before Christmas and the Iowa winter was already biting.

I honored the vow of silence the monks had taken and I kept silent even among the other retreatants. I read and reflected and I spent a lot of time outside, finding peace in the stillness of the trees and excitement as birds and squirrels rustled through the branches. My thick beard scarved my face but, even with gloves, my fingers ached. My body shivered and I let it. I was alone there, as alone as I'd ever been. I faced demons I had forgotten about and thought honestly about what God might be calling me to do next. There were worse things than cold and I had seen some.

I was fortunate to have those days at the monastery and I continued my spiritual journey after, then joining a friend and entering into prayer and study with a group at a retreat center in Wisconsin. When I returned to the Worker, my housemates were decorating the Christmas tree they had gotten while I was away. The house had light and color and I felt awake. Maybe I had needed the break. Maybe I could have listened better to my friends and let them help me through. Whatever the case, eventually I left the Catholic Worker and came East. Perhaps I was escaping something. But I soon learned to heed the words of author John Kabat-Zinn who penned a book entitled, "Wherever You Go, There You Are".  Maryland was a new experience with new friendships and new challenges. I was able to continue the work I believe I was called to. I had to learn to live in my skin though. I still struggle with that occasionally. Now I live in community with my family and we have a union within the community we live in. It is a rich way to live among the poor.