Today, a friend remarks, is the day all the good things happen.
Well, not today. Not this day, the day after death with no resurrection No redemption No return from the plunge over the edge.
Mark this Sunday down in your books, Pilgrims. It is the day when the wound was re-opened; the deep wound of 9-11, thought closed until torn open and pulled apart in Boston, where the boast was we were strong. The wound that, I think, has finally reached the heart of these Untied (at last) States; where the weapon has been aimed from evil’s center for long years.
I remember the flags years ago flying from little staffs on pickup trucks and motorcycles, the flags of hurt and unity, gone in weeks, except for the tattered rags of flag fabric fluttering from the bridges over freeways. And, of course I remember the many Boston strong hats and t-shirts; all the self affirming gear. It did and doesn’t do a damn thing except attract the hyenas and the vultures who love the smell of death and fatten on carrion.
What to do?
What, dear God, to do?
Some say we should support the police men, wave to them, smile at them, pat them on the back. That seems to me like little more than pouring a glass of water on a volcano, punching a tornado. Others cry havoc and let slip, at last, the dogs of war. I understand that. My own blood is up, and I really do wish to hurt, and know whom I wish to hurt. Aah, but then…
My first reaction was unutterable rage; still smoldering, against the evil madness among us, a rage which finds its justification in the actions of stupid men and women in offices and places of power real or imagined, in the words and the policies of the self-absorbed bloodsucking servants of influence and privilege, and the opportunistic liars and demagogues in the public square, who pander to and feed pain; who fan the flames of, and warm themselves in, the fires of hate. And, then, what?
And, then, deep sorrow.
That lasts, today.
The day all good things happen.