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11/07/05

The vigil at the Delaware Correctional Facility last Thursday night confirmed for me the  entrenched divide that separates opposing sides of the death penalty question. 

Two groups of people faced each other across a small road that ran between the makeshift fences erected by the state on that chilly midnight field. Two groups, shivering on the wind bowed grass that seemed unnaturally green under the tall generator lights. Each group occupied its own orange nylon mesh pen.

There were about fifty of us in our pen. Fifty people who had come in the middle of the night, some from as far away as New York, to bare witness and to pray for the murder victim Sandra Long, her family, and, not always easily, the soul of the man who had taken their very worlds from them.

Their pen contained about fifteen people. Though smaller in number they were much louder than us. They had come not only to bare witness. They had also come to celebrate the execution of Brian Steckel.

From the vitriol they expressed, I surmised that their group contained, as did ours, family members and friends of murder victims; probably folks who'd known and loved Sandra herself.

There were many reporters and TV crews present. Many of us were interviewed and several people got up and spoke through a barely audible battery operated PA system. One of the men who spoke in our group was Michael Berg. Michael’s son Nicholas was the local contractor who was beheaded in Iraq in the days following the invasion. Tears filled our eyes as Mr. Berg told of his courageous and ongoing struggle to turn from hatred to forgiveness. While Mr. Berg spoke of his personal journey towards salvation and grace, angry tortured voices screamed at him from the other pen. Their hatred of the condemned man seemed to be directed at anyone who could oppose his execution.

It seemed a strange sad thing to me that, though all our words were directed towards each other and towards heaven, all their words were directed at us; as if we were sequestered in some weird kind of purgatory while they raged at us from some proudly occupied manifestation of hell. As I stood clutching my rosary and meditated on this, the prison access road that separated our groups seemed to disappear before my eyes, being replaced at that moment by a deep and truly unbreachable chasm.

I had driven there that night with my friend Dan who had kindly agreed to tow a small trailer holding a bell which we rang in solemn remembrance for victims of the death penalty in Delaware and for each of the 29 years that Sandra Long had lived on this earth. Each time the bell tolled the group across the road screamed the word “Fry!”. The feeling in the air was oppressive. The pain was palpable. My friend Dan, whose spiritual practices, have migrated somewhat east of Christianity surprised me by invoking the Agnus Dei; speaking out in a clear voice the words “Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace.”

Our group sang together softly and then became silent as the time for the scheduled execution drew near.

 When someone from the prison finally came out to give us official word of Mr. Steckel’s death (the execution had had several complications and had taken much longer than it was supposed to) our neighbors danced in delight beneath the starless sky. There was such anguish, even in their momentary expression of joy. I remember hoping that, though I disagreed with their idea of justice, it would finally bring these poor folks some kind of lasting peace. 

Sadly, I don’t believe it will.

When it was time to go, the state officials asked our group remain in its pen and allow the revelers to leave first. We heard their triumphant screams from departing car windows as we clasped hands and recited the Peace Prayer of Saint Francis -“Where there is hatred let me bring love…”. As I watched their small parade of taillights disappear into the night it occurred to me that following the path of revenge is like setting yourself on fire so you can find your way in the dark.