In Practice

As most of you know, I spent my freshman year of college at Syracuse University before transferring across the street. It was December 21, 1988 when 35 students from that university were flying home from studying abroad on Pan Am flight 103 and were horrifically killed along with 235 other people in what came to became known as the Lockerbie bombing (it was seriously horrific—read the account of how they all died and it'll churn your stomach. No one died from the bombing; they died from falling for two minutes while tornado-like winds ripped off their clothes. Apparently most of them regained consciousness as they fell closer to earth so they knew what was coming as they were strapped to their seats. The 11 killed on the ground (including two families) were literally incinerated; nothing was left of them. The two wings of the plane both landed in a crater where houses had been. They too were burned to nothing. The only way they discovered where both wings landed was by counting the only thing that remained from the houses, families and the wings: screws.)
Every year on the anniversary of the bombing there is a moment of silence on campus and the bell tower tolls once for each student lost. Their photos are featured in the student union with their biographies; 35 students are named prestigious Remembrance Scholars in honor of those lost. Syracuse has a student-exchange program with a school in Lockerbie, Scotland to keep that bond fresh. It is my opinion that SU has done a fine job keeping the memory of those students fresh, even twenty years after the tragedy. Students today live with that tragedy in their minds.

And so I bring this experience to the recent release of al-Megrahi, the only man convicted in the deaths of those 270 people. After serving seven years of a life sentence he has been released on “compassionate” grounds and I am struggling mightily with all of it. Mathematically, he served just 9 days for each life he took. That seems unacceptable to me. But I believe in compassion, I think. I want to forgive, to not feel a sense of outrage that this man is being allowed to go home to die. I want to believe that I believe in compassion, even in the face of utter evil. That the only way to end the cycle of violence is unabashed grace.

But in practice, I'm less forthcoming with forgiveness. I'm American; we sure do love vengeance and grudges even while we extol bible verses when they conform to our existing beliefs. We want to see someone held accountable for every injustice and we want to show no mercy (unless its to us). I want him to pay for his crime, but who am I to say he hasn't already? How are we to sentence one to death based solely on the worst moment in their life? What about all the other moments? How do I know what is in his heart, how do I know the crime hasn't haunted him for 21 years (that would be 28 days per life he took), that it will haunt him until his last breath? I don't. As a Christian I am called to forgive carte blanche, not when it is necessarily easy or justified. And by choosing to only forgive when it is easy, when it is offered, when it is convenient then really, what is my compassion worth?

I don't have a conclusion. This isn't easy on anybody.

Best Diner

In Syracuse there is this 50 year old diner that never closes, the waitresses are surly and chain smoked as long as they legally could, one of my favorite places to study and recover from nights and blurry mornings. Doc is now applying for chapter 13 bankruptcy and I suspect Doc's will close for good. End of an era, a beloved spot on the west side of town, just off 690.

It is so beloved that Martin Sexton (a Cuse native) mentioned it in song... "grab yourself a cheeseburger at the Little Gem Diner off the old 6-9er..."

The 1,000

I found this photo the other day--the 1,000 steps. As one walks along Euclid Ave, between Maryland and Lancaster, a steep stairway arises from the cracked concrete and dashes of college houses. There seems to be no purpose to it; by darkness it is dangerous, a place to be avoided. In the winter it's the most entertaining sledding around. Yet at it's summit was a small park, an overlook onto Syracuse with one of the best views of city, day or night (short of the REALLY sketchy Air Force tower on top of the old ski hill on South Campus). Westminster Park, as it's known, is largely a secret. Most students never know it's there, and the city has all but forgotten its existence as well. I don't know why I'm thinking about that little park and those steps so much right now.
My first trip to that overlook was about a month into my freshman year, with a boy I'd kissed when we were drunk and he wasn't yet sure how to end it. He was a senior and to me seemed to know the world. He showed me places that would later become some of my favorite spots in the city. This was one. I recall standing up there next to him, feeling invincible, free, opulent, graceful and good, looking down onto a new place and claiming it as my own with a grin.
I didn't go back to that park again til my senior year. Time caught up, threw some viscous hooks and jabs and had left me simply weathered. My house was on Lancaster, and there was a way to get to the park without braving the steps. The first time I went up that year was with my roommate. It was late, the stars were out, and our friend who should've been in a house a block away was gone forever and we were still trying to process it.
The next visit was with a boy who was trying very hard to get me to love him, and I knew I couldn't, but still I was glad for the company. That night was spend with wooing and ultimate rejection, and in memory it is melancholy. Standing next to him that night I felt more alone than I ever thought possible.
After that I'd take walks up there to smoke a clove, sit on a little cement fence post and stare out. Be still. I could hear the parties, hear the drunkards, hear the mistakes being made like the breaking of glass. The world still felt like my own, like it was full, but not of what I'd claimed that night years before. Below those steps was the world I lived in and knew well, but in that little space I had my own cloister--my own reprieve in which to simply...I don't know. Remember maybe? Dream? Without it I think I would have cracked in the chaos.
I'm realizing I'm forgetting these things.
Some I'd like to keep.