Round Midnite

After the fact, I learned there’d been a prayer vigil at the site, PSA 5, which services NYCHA (New York City Housing Authority) buildings in a number of precincts, including the one where I live.  It was round midnite when I found myself at the site, and neighborhood mourners still straggled by –  a group of friends, possibly off duty police officers, shouted their goodbyes while a couple of – teens? Millenials?  Staggered up to the makeshift memorial.  Uniformed police officers hovered nearby and in pairs up and down the block; indeed, the police presence seemed greater than usual this evening, even taking into account the fact that it was right around shift-change time.

As we approached the memorial, me behind them, the young men got quiet. They paid their respects, and were refreshingly polite when they realized I was behind them, maneuvering themselves so that I could see the memorial as well.  Nestled into a triangular alcove created by the angle of the building and the roof, the makeshift memorial had sprung up, anchored on one end by Pat Lynch and the PBA’s huge-bordering-on-ostentatious badge-shaped floral arrangement, and tapering off on the other side to an end-of-watch poster featuring a white angel, the NYPD flag and shield, and murdered officer Randolph Holder’s name, badge number, and EOW date.

I felt compelled to pay my respects there tonight.  This man, whose skin happened to be black, was murdered because he, like his father and grandfather before him, chose to wear blue.  This man was Police Officer Randolph Holder, Jr., who was murdered by someone whose name I neither know nor care to mention, on Tuesday, October 20, 2015. 

So it was around midnight that I was there, wrestling with my own grief and the grief of the entire city.  Earlier I’d seen Pat Lynch,  the PBA president, on TV but muted it.  I can barely stand to hear what is invariably his lambastic hyperbole.  I found myself wanting to speak to him, though. In my imaginary monologue, I'd say something like:

“Yes, Pat, Blue Lives Matter, just like Black Lives Matter.  Can you see how we all mourn with you when a police officer is murdered at the hands of someone whose skin is black or brown? It’s a tragedy, and we grieve with you.  When I look at the perp's face and skin, I don’t know if he would self-identify as black, Hispanic, Caribbean, or what – I know I'd identify him as a murderer. I can't help but wonder why it's so hard for you to grieve with civilians when a murderer, who happens to be wearing blue, takes the life of an innocent person whose skin is black or brown?  If you really believe that ALL lives matter, the grief would work both ways, wouldn’t it?  I don't see a potential bad cop every time I see someone in blue;  why must you see a potential criminal every time you see someone whose skin is black or brown?  There have been 101 Human Line of Duty deaths in 2015 and 25 Canine Line of Duty deaths; there have been 959 civilians killed by police in that same time period.  Y'all are killing us at about 10 times the rate that your brothers are being killed.  Why can't you understand the grief and outrage of civilians? We feel the same pain you do; why can't you feel our pain, too?  And yes, it's still important to tell you that Black Lives Matter so you don't treat us all the way you treated James Blake.  And countless, unreported others.”

But this isn’t about Pat Lynch, because I don’t believe he possesses the intellectual nor the introspective capacity to come to anything like that conclusion.  In his mind, Blue will always be right, and black and brown will always equate to suspicious and unworthy of the benefit of the doubt.  Randolph Holder was murdered because of the color of his uniform, because of his profession.  That is just as much a travesty of justice as it is to murder someone because of the color of their skin, but Pat Lynch will only see the travesty of justice when it is regarding those who wear the colors he wears.

So enough about Pat Lynch.  I went to the memorial around midnight, and I noticed young boys who, in other circumstances, might likely be profiled by the police, stop to pay their respects at the memorial to a murdered officer.  I was reminded of how Paul and Silas were in jail when around midnight there was a great earthquake and their shackles were released. 

What if the good that comes out of Officer Holder’s murder is an earthquake of consciousness, an earthquake of understanding, an earthquake of respect? What if, in the wake of Officer Holder’s murder, we could be released from the shackles that bind us to our preconceived notions which in turn keep us locked into cells of separation?  What if we could all experience freedom without having to worry about our lives being taken because of the color of our skin or the color of our uniforms?

In the Book of Acts, after the earthquake Round Midnight, people experienced physical freedom, and some who had been bound by the need to control others experienced a spiritual awakening leading them a new spiritual freedom in Christ.

My prayer is that the things I saw Round Midnight tonight will lead to a great shaking – an earthquake of sorts – that will position all God’s people to relate to one another in love while seeking the very Face of God.

Miracles Happen Round Midnight.  I’m waiting on it.

With Gratitude to the Memory of

PO Randolph Holder, Jr.

Badge#13340

EOW 10.20.15

Let's Not Let His Death Be In Vain.

Overpowered by Funk

So it felt really good to be back in the gym and the pool. I’d been out for maybe a couple of weeks, which followed a couple of erratic weeks.  I like maintaining consistency in my workouts – it’s the only “me” time I really get, and the effort of pushing my body to and beyond its limits is a great way to free the mind.

So tonight I found myself struggling because I’d been away for so long.  After age 40, it’s normal to lose about 1%/year of your lean muscle mass (though not, apparently, of your fat…).  I first saw a deterioration in lean muscle mass last year at age 58, and I’m determined to reverse it, so any difficulty swinging weights after a break really concerns me.  Then to make matters worse, somebody was really funky.  Not just normal gym sour sweaty funk, but that nose-curdling BO that comes when someone has had a major deodorant fail.  We swing bells in a small enclosed space with no ventilation (they have fans, but because we sweat so much, nobody likes to use them), I’m working hard and this person is imitating a skunk.  I found myself getting really mad, because the smell prevented me from focusing on my workout.  It’s a gym.  It’s a late night kettlebell class, so there’s lots of guys and lots of people who have already worked out for a few hours.  We’re used to stinky.  This was out of the ordinary, the kind of stink that just hunts you down, overpowers you and suffocates you. 

So I’m mad, and then it occurred to me that this stink is just like sin.  Sometimes other people’s sin is so stinky, so offensive to us, that it seems to pervade our very being.  But we’re not in this world to judge other people’s sin any more than I’m in a gym to evaluate another person’s funk.  I go to the gym to work out, not to smell people.  I suppose I could have tried to do like I do when I pass by garbage, and either mouth breathe or blow your own air into your nose, but instead I just focused on the reason I was there.  I tried to squat a little deeper and swing a little higher.  Before long, I was so busy having my butt kicked by my own routine that I didn’t have time to be bothered by the overpowering funk.  Yes, it was still there; whenever we took a water break or did partner work I could certainly smell it.  But when I kept myself busy doing what I was spozed to do, it didn’t bother me so much – it didn’t have quite so much power over me.

We live in a world where everything with which we don’t agree is either theologically anathema or legally actionable. Everything with which we don’t agree is like that overpowering funk, and its effects upon us seem to have no end.  Perhaps if we focused on ourselves a bit more (or since I’m Methodist, I’ll suggest JW’s three simple rules: Do No Harm; Do Good; and Stay In Love with God) – maybe if we focused on what it is WE’re supposed to be doing, maybe other people’s funk wouldn’t overpower us.  And maybe, just maybe, if we all focused on what it is WE’re supposed to be doing, not only would the funk not overpower us, but maybe we’d discover – new deodorants, new methods of hygiene, and who knows what else?  But we can’t let the funkiness of sin (or any other funkiness) overpower us and render us ineffective. Even in the face of seemingly overpowering funk, we have to find a way to funktion.