We Can Do Better

Today marks the tenth anniversary of the tragedy at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. It is difficult to believe that has been ten years since two seniors at Columbine unleashed an attack with guns and pipe bombs at their school.
The gunmen, Eric Harris, 18, and Dylan Klebold, 17, committed suicide as their violent rampage ended.

Locally, the Million Mom March held a candlelight vigil to remember all the victims of gun violence, including those at Columbine. I was asked to be one of the speakers for the evening, and I gladly said, "yes." The following are my remarks.

Since being asked to speak here on this tenth anniversary of the shootings at Columbine High School, we have had to add to our list new place names which mark death from tragic gun violence in our consciousness as Americans: Samson, Alabama; Washington State; Pittsburgh; Oakland; Binghamton, New York. On April 8 an editorial in The New York Times noted that there had been 57 deaths in mass shootings in the past month. The toll continues to rise as last Thursday in Long Beach, California a gunman, a hospital employee, entered the Long Beach Memorial Medical Center shot and killed two workers before taking his own life. As we gather tonight our hearts are justifiably heavy. We feel the effects of this violence, these deaths. We grieve, and for those who have lost loved ones to gun violence, new incidents tear at the scars of previously felt grief. Our sense of security is made more precarious.
Into the heaviness of this evening, let me share a story from my faith tradition, a story that will initially leave us feeling even heavier. Cain rose up against his brother Abel and killed him. Then the Lord said to Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?” He said, “I do not know; am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4:8b-9) Just two chapters after the beginnings of humanity comes this story. The placement of the story suggests that early in the human enterprise there is violence and killing. In her book The Fall to Violence, theologian Marjorie Suchocki writes: As a species we present human beings all wear the mark of Cain… within our souls. We have evolved through a long history of violent death, and retain a continued penchant to inflict violence in life. Our birthmark is a common capacity for violence, an aggressiveness written deep within the structures of our being. (94)
As human beings we can be violent and aggressive and a part of what that means is that we cannot prevent every tragedy that occurs in the world. I wish this were not so. I wish I could wave a wand or sprinkle some magic powder and take tragedy out of the world, but I cannot, and we cannot together. We cannot prevent every Columbine, every Cold Spring, every Red Lake, every Virginia Tech, every Binghamton. Our grief and mourning are very real tonight, because we know others will gather in the future to grieve and mourn.
But the story from Genesis contains seeds of hope, hints at the possibility that while we may not rid the world of violence and tragedy entirely, the world can be different than it is. After being confronted with the fact that his brother is missing, Cain utters these remarkable words: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” In the context of the story, the clear answer is “Yes!” As human beings we may have capacities for aggressiveness and violence, we also have capacities to be in community with each other, to see ourselves as our sister’s keeper, our brother’s keeper.
That wonderfully evocative notion of being our brother’s keeper, our sister’s keeper, opens up to a more expansive vision for human life, a vision that, in the words of theologian Marjorie Suchocki, bespeaks the beauty of reciprocal well-being, of justice, of love without boundaries. It bespeaks a vision of no less that the community of God. This vision calls us to recognize who we are individually and communally; and to live toward the hope of transformation. (160) As human beings we cannot, we must not simply shrug our shoulders in the face of violence and tragedy, even knowing that we cannot prevent it all. We must also know that we are our brother’s keeper, our sister’s keeper, that we can work together for a world that evidences reciprocal well-being, justice, love without boundaries. We can live toward the hope of transformation.
We may not be able to prevent every tragedy in our world, every violent death, but we can do better.
In a country where almost 600,000 people were murdered between 1976 and 2005 – about 70% by guns, where our murder rate is three times that of Canada or the United Kingdom and five times that of Germany, we can do better. We can live toward the hope of transformation.
In a world where there will be some violence, we can lessen the violence and lessen its murderous impact by limiting the means for acting out aggressiveness and violence. Rage is one thing – rage with an assault weapon that keeps firing once the trigger is pulled is another. Gun ownership is a right guaranteed by our Constitution, but the courts have also provided for reasonable restrictions of that right for the public safety and the public good. What could be more reasonable than to ask that all sales be subject to a background check, to screen out those who seem to have difficulty managing their aggressiveness? We can do better. We can live toward the hope of transformation.
In a world where there will be pain, we can lessen the pain and grief of victims and families and communities by minimizing the number of violent deaths through modest and reasonable means. We have mutual responsibilities for each other’s well-being. We affirm our communal bonds when we look beyond our own wants, our own preferences, our own rights, and look as well to the good of the community. We can do better. We can live toward the hope of transformation.
In a world where there will be some fear, we can lessen fear and anxiety by enhancing our sense of community. Let’s affirm that we are our brother’s keeper. We are our sister’s keeper. Some of the provisions in our laws which makes access to weapons that kill and maim possible for those who should not have such access are not simply legal loopholes, but are holes torn in the fabric of our common life, and when that fabric is torn we all feel less safe, more alone, more fearful. We can do better. We can live toward the hope of transformation.
As I wrap up my remarks, allow me again to turn to my faith tradition, this time to the Book of Proverbs. Wisdom cries out in the street; in the squares she raises her voice. At the busiest corner she cries out; at the entrance of the city gates she speaks (1:20-21)
Wisdom still calls to us – cries out from our blood-stained streets and bullet-marked city squares. Wisdom calls to us, reminding us that we are our brother’s keeper, we are our sister’s keeper. Wisdom calls to us – we can do better. As we remember victims, as we mourn, may we hear wisdom’s voice telling us we can do better, reminding us to live toward the hope of transformation.


For speaking at this event, the organizers from the Million Mom March presented me with an apple pie and as I eat it I hope for the day when gun violence will no longer seem as American as apple pie.

With Faith and With Feathers,

David