Surreal Shrove Tuesday

This has been quite a day. My mind had been mostly on the impending execution of Martin Grossman. I've been thinking about him, about that room at the Florida State Prison, and about how, again, it appears the death penalty isn't so much about carrying out justice as it is about carrying out an agenda. Again, my mind goes to the words in Psalm 146:

Put not your trust in rulers, nor in any child of the earth,
for there is no help in them.
When they breathe their last, they return to earth,
and in that day their thoughts perish.

Nobody stopped this execution. And so, once more, Florida has answered blood with more blood, more victims. It felt like Ash Wednesday had arrived a day early. I did weep as I prayed before a candle in the St. John's chapel this evening. My tears weren't just for the individual people involved, but for the brokenness of this society where we believe that doing more killing will somehow make a difference.
This issue of the death penalty remains important to me even though I no longer have to follow it as closely as I did as a reporter. Because I spent so much time with this issue as a reporter, I have (unfortunately) a greater understanding of all the facets of the problem than most people. Most folks don't know how many hours I've spent in court rooms and legislative chambers on this issue, let alone the fact that I witnessed an execution in 1996. I was reminded of that this evening when I realized I had arrived at the end of the vigil for Martin Grossman being held at the Governor's mansion. It was 6:15 and folks were already wrapping up the vigil. A woman approached me and explained that they had done some prayers and sung a song.
"It really is over pretty quick. Like how quickly an execution happens."
I bit my lip. "Um, yeah, not always."
Executions are not quick. The ritual lasts several long minutes. And when you are in that death chamber, you feel that time has suddenly dropped out of warp speed.
I lingered for a while and talked to a few folks. And then tried to decide if I was in the mood to head back to St. John's for the rest of the Shrove Tuesday send up fondly called, "The Flapjack Follies". Split-second decision making said, "Yes, go back, and enjoy the silliness."
And it was the correct decision. Not only because I got a good laugh, but it was a reminder of what was missing for me when I was a reporter wrestling with the death penalty as my "area of expertise". At the time that I really could have used a faith community, I had none. Now I do, and I am glad of it.
Martin Grossman prayed the Shema at the end of his life. I'm glad for him. I don't know how the Park family felt about his apology and taking responsibility for having caused them pain. To give forgiveness in that instance takes an act of faith. Believing that Grossman was sincere in his remorse also takes an act of faith. As with all things, one only hopes that those involved are listening to God. May God hold them, and us, at this time.