Columbine:  Six Months Later
	Rev. Jeffrey Symynkywicz, October 17, 1999
Why look back? Especially after so (relatively) brief a time-- not even a full year yet... Six months from now, I know, the media will be crammed with retrospectives that begin: "One year ago today, two high school students, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, walked into Columbine High School and opened fire..." Why look back? What does it accomplish? Is it helpful, useful? Does it usher in a new world, or mire us in the pain and sadness and confusion of the past? For, in a deep and fundamental sense, life is all about letting go and moving forward... it's about dreams unrealized and hopes fulfilled and graduation and commencement and the start of a new school year and reclaiming the hallways that once were drenched in blood. So, why look back? And why now? Those of us with access to the public ear (to a greater, or a lesser, extent) need to ask ourselves just that; a bit of discernment about our own motives are in order: The purpose of remembering a sad and bitter event like that at Columbine last April is only as important as the lessons we can learn from it. But too often, we read the lessons life teaches only through the same old lenses we've worn too long already. (For example: If we were to bring the Rev. Mr. Jerry Falwell, say, to our church this morning, and he was to stand at that podium over there, and I at this one, and we were both to speak about the "lessons" we had garnered from the Littleton tragedy, you could pretty much guess what we might have to say... Mr. Falwell would approach things from his right wing political and religious perspective, and I from my left wing one... and that pretty much would color the way we saw the events at Columbine.) Too often, we read the lessons life teaches through those same old lenses. To really remember the martyrs of Columbine, it has to go deeper than that... If events like Columbine can teach us something new, can provide new insight, can guide us, somehow, through our stumbling, falling march toward progress,   they have to touch our hearts, and if they can do that-- then it is right to take the time to remember, to take stock, and to make note. But if remembering serves only to inflame again past hatred, spite, enmity-- then it's better to forget-- and to leave those parents, siblings, and schoolmates to their private sorrow. Then it's time for us to let go, and move on. But there are lessons to be learned here, and remembering now, before too long, before it is too late, can, perhaps, light at least a small candle in these confusing, troubling times... Six months pass and the hysteria of the moment (blessedly) fades and we return to our calm and collected, well-tended suburban routines while out in the streets of our cities a war still rages and death comes more than once or twice a year... couple times a day more likely... But those people are different, we tell ourselves; that's out there, away from here... Violence on the street, in the ghetto, has nothing to do with violence in affluent, white, suburban American schools. So we lull ourselves into thinking. When will we ever learn? When will we learn that there is, really, no "us" and "them", no "here" or "out there"; that we are all in this together and if we don't start bailing soon then the whole damn ship's gonna sink? It's like the pastor and his flock standing across the street from the memorial service for Matthew Shepard (another anniversary we could be remembering this day) holding signs that read "Death to queers" and "God hates fags" with no realization in their little, little minds that their actions-- and those of the goons who beat Matthew unconscious, and trussed him up against a fence post like a scarecrow, and left him to die on the cold, dark, all-alone prairie-- that their actions, and those of Matthew's killers-- and those of Klebold and Harris-- and those of the crack dealer on the streets-- and countless, unnamed other agents of despair and hatred-- are somehow interrelated in a seamless web of life and an unbounded garment of destiny that cloaks us all. But is that garment an angel's robe or the shroud of death? That is the question we must answer in our lives. So, now, just a little way down the road of years, before all the voices fade away, and we turn our attention to "more important" matters (like whether the Patriots can win again or Pedro's awesome heroics); before we fall into our sleep of bliss (or boredom) the alarm clock rings yet again and we know we have to wake up! Wake up, and rise, and remember: that these dead did not die in vain, and that there is nothing "more important" than protecting our children (all of them) from the scourge of violence, and bringing to birth a new world where all are cherished, and all are esteemed, and all are given the chance to succeed-- not because they're white or black, not because they're rich or middle class, not because they're straight or gay, but because they are, each one of them, precious, precious Children of God. When tragedy strikes (as in Littleton, or on the plains of Wyoming) there is always this great burst of righteous energy, which ushers forth from us, finds its voice, and demands to know: "What shall we do about it?" I'm sure that in the aftermath of the shootings at Columbine there were many worthwhile projects that arose, and that many are functioning still: providing solace to those afflicted; new ways of meditating disputes; alternatives to violence, and pleas for tolerance: worthwhile projects all, so worthy of our support... But as deeply moved as we were by those events of six months ago; as much as the faces of those victims, and the perpetrators, haunted both our waking and sleeping hours, it is also true that when the klieg lights cooled down, and page one ceded place of priority to the next crisis du jour, and CNN moved on elsewhere, most of us went back to our previous priorities and did precious little about really changing anything... So maybe we need an anniversary like this one-- only six months out-- before too much time has passed (and the age lies unredeemable);   before it happens again (and God knows where); --It could be right up the hill from here at Stoughton High. Who knows?-- We need an anniversary or two to wake us up again; and remind us that we're not in the Promised Land yet (and probably not much closer than we were six months ago); that so many deeds cry out to be done and always urgently; and that this hour  (a later hour than it was, and maybe our last hour-- who knows?) cries out to be seized and minded and mended and cared for and tended and transformed from hatred to love, from violence to peace, from apathy to action. We need to look back and find some meaning, for it is meaning that there lies the birthplace of hope and armed with hope there is nothing that we can't do; nothing that is impossible. The eyes of youth are cast upon our well-meaning indifference and their voices cry out:-- Not: What have you said? What have you preached? What have you pontificated about? But: What have you done? What are you going to do? What shall we do about it? It's a harsh judgment to hear sometimes (though no harsher, in truth, than that which our own consciences levels against us). But it is a judgment which reminds us that we are not powerless, that we aren't just faceless victims, dragged helplessly into the morass of violence and injustice and despair. It is our weakness that reminds us of our strength, and our powerless of our power. It is our abiding sense of how much more we could be that reminds us that when we join hearts and souls, minds and hands, with kindred spirits of goodwill and compassion, that we can unleash a spiritual atomic bomb of infinite power which can lay waste powers and principalities of hatred and oppression. We can build a bridge between the races and between the generations over which we walk together to the Promised Land That Can Be. But we can't just talk about it. We can't just preach about it. We can't just pontificate about it. We shall (if we really heed the call) have to do something about it. And the first thing we can do (and perhaps the most important thing) is to reclaim those small, daily victories we have won: those times when we reached out to one another in love, and not in mindless anger; when we said "Enough!" to this mad culture of materialist consumption, and searched for gentler ways of living upon our Mother Earth; those times when we stopped listening to those voices of "You're not good enough... You're not good enough..." and lived from the center of our beings, the persons we truly are, and each saw that that person was "good enough" to model, to mentor what it means to be a functioning, productive (if imperfect) adult man or woman in this world; when we shared openly and freely the particular skills and insights and wisdom and character traits that we are, with young and old alike, with all our brothers and sisters, comrades and friends, all around us. And when we let ourselves be open to who they are as well; when we removed the blinders that our generation, or our race, or our class, or our lifestyle place upon us, and moved beyond society's little boxes, and moved beyond categorical thinking, and listened to what others have to say, without first putting on the filter of "He's too young" (or "too old"), or "She's not educated enough" or "They're just black" or "They're just gay" (or, "just straight"). When we really listened to the ideas of others without judging them first, and learned in them a lesson, and saw in them the clear reflection of our humanity and our experience, then (just in that instant perhaps) the guns of the violent ones were silenced, and the hatred in our own souls was snuffed out, and the world was changed, and those blessed souls of Columbine, and Matthew Shepard, and James Byrd, and countless other martyred souls smiled down on us from heaven. And hope was born anew. These are the big questions we need to ask ourselves: What kinds of houses-- what kinds of homes-- are we building? What kinds of houses of the spirit? What kinds of communities? We've made houses for hatred, it's time we made a place, where people's souls may be seen and made safe. Be gentle with each other, these fragile flames, innocence can be lost. It needs to be maintained. [Jewel Kilcher] Our children's fragile flames-- and ours; our children's innocence-- and ours-- are all threatened by the harsh winds of hatred and violence and little-mindedness. But it's time to build together something better: it's time we made a place, where people's souls may be seen and made safe. (We can build that kind of place. We do it all the time, when we dare to love one another.) The most important lessons we learn from Columbine may well be the simplest, not those that impact national policy, but those that change our individual hearts, and that change the way we treat one another. The most important lessons we learn from Columbine may well be the simplest principles of human being together on this good earth carved deep again in our hearts: to know the miracle of our birth, to know our own worth, to listen to our different drummer, to respect ourselves, and to respect one another. If we can teach our children nothing more than these simple values, and if we learn nothing more from them than these, then our job will be done, and the future of the world will stand secure.