Catholics
Incarcerated/FAITH
Serving
Time with Jesus Christ,
Coming
Home in the Catholic Faith
August
1, 2013
George Zimmerman
Sanford, Florida
Dear George,
Please forgive me for
beginning this letter in such a familiar way. I realize that you
don't know me, but over the past 16 months or so, the whole nation
has gotten to know you. Or at least this is the self perception of
many if not most. I know from reading your biographical information
online that we share the brotherhood of Jesus Christ in our glorious
Catholic faith, and so I use your Christian name without hesitation
or reservation. I want to state at the outset that my purpose in
writing to you is to be beneficial to you in a way that I hope is
constructive and conducive to your well being. So, let me begin by
offering to you the Peace of Christ: peace be with you.
My name is Phil Ropp and
I am lay chaplain for a correspondence based prison ministry called
Catholics Incarcerated/FAITH. This is one ministry that has two areas
of emphasis. Catholics Incarcerated seeks to instruct men in prison
in the deeper, more introspective and more profoundly healing aspects
of the Catholic faith, and FAITH (which is an acronym for "Faith
Alliance Initiative for Transitional Healing") seeks to build
upon this by helping men released from prison establish a faith based
life in the world through active participation in local parish life.
The truth of this is simple: men who come to truly know Jesus Christ
in the Catholic faith come home from prison healthy in mind and
spirit, and those who participate fully in the sacramental life of
the Catholic Church don't go back.
I know your circumstances
are different and that you are not incarcerated. This is very unusual
for me, since I have been involved in prison ministry since 2006, and
you are the first man I have encountered who was acquitted on a
homicide charge. This really doesn't happen often. I was Catholic
Chaplain at the Saginaw County Jail for two years, and, during this
time, I knew some men who, to be frank, I thought had better cases
than yours. They all ended up convicted. My purpose here isn't to get
into the whys and wherefores of all of that, and there are many
others who will do so at a much higher level of expertise than what I
possess. And I am not decrying the injustice of your acquittal, and
the streets seem to be full of those anxious to do that at the
moment. However, these circumstances you find yourself in do pose
some hidden and not so hidden dangers that concern your spiritual and
overall well being, and I do want to address this. And if you have
not realized it long before now, you are certainly learning that your
spiritual well being also is involved with that of Trayvon Martin and
his family and, by extension, those who find themselves polarized to
his side or to yours. And I wish to address this as well.
Let's begin with a quick
review of the facts, as we know them, concerning what happened on the
night you shot Trayvon. On the evening of February 26, 2012, you were
driving through Twin Lakes, the gated townhouse community where you
lived in Sanford, Florida, shortly after 7 PM. You were on an
undefined "personal errand" when you noticed Trayvon, a
young black man of 17, walking through Twin Lakes after visiting the
local Seven Eleven and purchasing Skittles and iced tea. Trayvon was
a guest at the townhouse of his mother's fiance, but to you he was a
stranger and you were suspicious and were always on the alert for
those who didn't belong in the community because you were the
Neighborhood Watch Coordinator for Twin Lakes, and Twin Lakes has a
considerable crime problem for a gated community.
At
7:09, you called the
Sanford Police Department to report a young black man acting in a
suspicious manner. You told the police you were following him and
they advised that they didn't need you to do that. Your call to the
police ended at 7:15 and an officer arrived on scene at 7:17. In the
ensuing two minutes, you left your vehicle, Trayvon challenged you,
and an argument ensued followed by a scuffle in which Trayvon
reportedly ended up on top of you, bloodying your lip and opening
gashes on the back of your head by pounding it into the pavement. You
called out for help and somehow drew the pistol you were legally
licensed to carry. Trayvon struggled to gain control of the weapon,
and in the midst of this you got off one shot at close range that
struck him in the chest and killed him almost instantly.
George,
I have lived in
Florida at three different times and in three different places over
the past 30 years. Florida is a strange place and has some issues and
problems that are pretty much unique to the Sunshine State, and so
life there is often misunderstood in far away places to the north and
west, and by those who know it as little else than a vacation
destination in the cold weather months.
In
it's heart and soul,
Florida remains a state very much of the deep south. Grits and sweet
tea, hamhock in your green beans, biscuits and sausage gravy for
breakfast. But it is also a place of tremendous diversity, with a
population greatly swelled over the past half century or so by
retired and transplanted northerners, Cubanos seeking to escape the
oppression of Castro, and more recently by Latinos from the Caribbean
basin and other places, and folks of all stripe from all over the
country and the world, drawn by an economy that boomed like no other
until the economic crisis of the early 21st century robbed even
Florida of her previously unbridled growth and prosperity.
In
the midst of all of
this dizzying growth, and as a side effect of all the seemingly easy
money that came with it, crime of all kinds and at all levels grew in
proportion. From land fraud created by the greedy and unscrupulous
speculators and developers, to con games and swindles aimed at the
gullible and trusting elderly, to drugs flowing in freely from points
south and the ensuing breathtaking rise in street crime, to crimes of
passion and perversion, to the more recent rise of a new poverty that
has spawned a sharp increase in domestic instability and crimes of
desperation, Florida has seen it all.
Yet
in the midst of this,
Florida has demonstrated a tremendous resilience and an ability to
adapt and change with the times while somehow maintaining an identity
based on the best of her "Old Florida" past. A large part
of this identity is due to what most of the rest of the country views
with a certain disdain as the "phenomenon" of the southern
Bible Belt. Sanford is in that more central part of Florida where
this melds into a strong Hispanic Catholic heritage that can be
traced back to the Spanish conquistadors, and which has been enlarged
and strengthened by an influx of Latinos from Cuba, Mexico and other
Latin American countries, and by Italian and Irish Americans from the
northeast, as well as Catholics of various ethnic and social
backgrounds who have migrated from the mid-west and other parts of
the United States, Canada, and the world. You yourself are of a
multi-ethnic and multi-racial background and a transplant to Florida
from the state of Virginia. I know from my own experience, when you
pass the peace at Mass in a central Florida city like Sanford, you
are doing so with Catholic brothers and sisters who are racially and
ethnically diverse, and in an atmosphere where the truth of the
equality of all as God's children is routinely taught as eternal
truth.
Those
who eschew the
conservative Protestant Christianity that has such deep roots in the
south do so while failing to see that, as the civil rights movement
of Dr. King and the other black leaders of the 1960's was fostered
and fomented in the black churches and through the Southern Christian
Leadership Conference, so the meaningful response to it which truly
transformed southern culture came from within the white churches. And
the more the evil of racism was denounced from pulpits both black and
white, the more the perception of race changed in the south until
late in his life, even such an ardent segregationist as George
Wallace would publicly renounce his ways and embrace the truth of
racial equality, and encourage a society of equal opportunity for
all. And while the south is not perfect by any means, the days when
the likes of Bull
Connor would loose the dogs and turn the fires
hoses on black protestors are gone forever, and the vast majority of
white southern folk think this is truly a good and just thing. Like
the rest of us, they look back at the injustices of Jim Crow times in
disgust, and with an even greater sense of shame that such things
existed in their own backyard.
My
point is that those in
the mainstream media who are spinning this situation out of control
as an example of a racially motivated hate crime, and who are using
the verdict in your case as an example of the reality of a racist
mentality that no longer exists in the south in general, and is
laughable in central Florida in particular, are brewing a polarizing
tempest in our national teapot that is disturbing and which is cause
for no little grave concern. And those protesters who are demanding
the United States Department of Justice get involved by filing a
civil rights suit are essentially demanding your lynching in a higher
court in a way that denies the sovereign right of the Florida
criminal justice system to make the final determination in your case,
and this harkens back not to the civil rights issues of the 1960's,
but to the states' rights issues of the 1860's.
The
grand hypocrisy in
this sense of regional superiority directed towards the modern south
can be seen in the fact that, having lived in both regions of the
country, the racism encountered in troubled Michigan cities like
Detroit, Flint and Saginaw is much more virulent than anything I ever
encountered living in Florida. In the courts here, black defendants
are routinely handed stiffer sentences for the same offenses than
what whites receive. And when Saginaw police shot to death a mentally
ill and homeless black man named Milton
Hall, on July 1, 2012, the
story barely gained its 15 minutes of fame nationally, while the
officers involved were restored to duty with minimal disciplinary
action that one prominent black Saginaw pastor referred to as a
"wrist
slap." All of this is a far cry from the ceaseless
media attention your case received. And if it may be said that
Trayvon's death would have been less likely to have occurred at your
hands here, it is only because it is more likely that he would have
been incarcerated in Saginaw for his past behavior, rather than
receiving a certain measure of grace in the courts in Florida.
To
finish dispensing with
the much trumpeted racial motivations in your actions, you certainly
do not fit the stereotypical profile of a "Florida cracker."
Anyone who probes into your biography in any depth at all notes
quickly that you are of a mixed racial background yourself, you have
a history of working in a positive way with black youth, and that
this term was used in the conversation between Rachel Jeantel and
Trayvon shortly before you shot him is indicative of their ignorance
of you personally, and shows that Trayvon's perception of you was
based not upon who you really are, but on the way he interpreted your
behavior. You acted in a way that a young black man would easily
interpret as cop-like and, since you were not a police officer, his
perception defaulted to that of white racist. And because the truth
of your self identity is that you were at that time a "cop
wannabe" studying for a future career in police work, and
practicing this as a Neighborhood Watch Coordinator, it is perhaps
safe to assume that you would have been just as suspicious and just
as arrogant and obnoxious observing a young white or Hispanic man
dressed in a hoodie and cutting between the buildings at Twin Lakes
as Trayvon was doing. And this is where this gets all muddied up.
Let
me share a story with
you:
When
my young family and
I lived in San Carlos Park (a few miles south of Fort Myers) back in
the early and mid 1980's, I participated in the Neighborhood Watch
program, but my experience was certainly much different and more
positive than yours turned out.
We
lived in the
Sheltering Pines Mobile Home Park, which began it's existence as a 55
and over community, but had, by the time we moved in, become open to
a collection of younger and more varied residents, including young
couples with small children like my wife and I were at that time in
our life. Sheltering Pines consisted of a one mile oval with both
single and double wide mobile homes, and when my Uncle Bill and Aunt
Helen moved in here in the days when it was a retirement community,
they convinced my mom and dad to buy a mobile home here. And when the
economy in Michigan soured in the early 1980's, my dad convinced my
wife and I to seek greener economic pastures in the growth boom that
southwest Florida was enjoying at that time. So we rented a mobile
home in Sheltering Pines down the way from where my folks lived.
Other newer residents included a biker guy with long white hair who
looked like a cross between Edgar Winter and Hulk Hogan, a lesbian
couple (a real novelty in those days), my sister, Robin, and her
husband, and some various Florida redneck types who added diversity
to the population to be sure, but who also created a certain
uneasiness among some of the older residents.
In
what must have been
the summer of 1984, Sheltering Pines experienced a series of
incidents in which the mobile homes of some of the winter residents
were broken into and property stolen. This created no undue concern
throughout the park, and no little tension, as some of the senior
residents suspected that this might be the work of some of the
newcomers.
While
playing
shuffleboard and drinking beer with his neighbor across the street,
Al Poupart, Uncle Bill came up with what he and Al were certain was
the solution to the burgeoning crime problem -- elect my dad Park
Association President and give him a "law and order mandate."
Seeing great humor in the fact that this would be the last item on my
dad's agenda of things he wanted to do, Al and Uncle Bill loaded Al's
golf cart with a cooler full of beer and made a whirlwind campaign
trip around the Sheltering Pines oval, gaining a groundswell of
support from the "good old boy" network of older residents,
and essentially securing my dad's election before he was even aware
that he was a candidate.
Once
elected, my dad knew
that his best option was to rise to the occasion and actually try to
solve the crime problem. He called the Lee County Sheriff Department,
explained the situation, and was connected with the deputy who was in
charge of a new program called "Neighborhood Watch." The
deputy explained that the Sheriff's Department would put a sign at
the entrance to Sheltering Pines that would read, "This
Neighborhood Protected by Neighborhood Watch." A deputy brought
my dad a stack of handouts with the rules and regulations to be
followed, and the basic procedures of how Neighborhood Watch worked
were explained: Volunteers from within the park community would make
regular patrols and keep their eyes open for any suspicious persons
or activities, and when such persons or activities were spotted, they
were to call the Sheriff's Department and report it, at which time a
patrol car would be dispatched and an officer would be sent to
investigate. Very simple, really. The first two items on the
relatively short list of rules were: "Never engage or confront
anyone yourself" and, "Never carry a weapon when on
patrol." The deputy told my dad that he could assume the
responsibilities of Neighborhood Watch Coordinator or assign it to
someone on the Park Board, hold an election, etc.. The Coordinator's
job was essentially to obtain and train volunteers and make sure
everyone understood the purpose and procedures of the program, and
serve as liaison to the
Sheriff 's Department.
Several
trailers down
from my folks' place there lived an older lady whose name was Mary.
She lived with and cared for her grandson, who was a mentally
challenged young man in his late teens who everyone called Butch.
Butch was a big guy. He stood all of six foot five, had eyes that
pointed in different directions, talked with a stutter, and while his
mentality was that of a much younger child, he was a kind, loving and
gentle soul who was both goodhearted and good natured, and everyone
who bothered to get to know him, loved him and respected his solid
character and sincere desire to do good. My dad especially admired
Butch, and Butch thought the world of him.
So it
was a natural that
my dad, upon his election, would ask Butch to be Special Assistant to
the Park Association President, an honor Butch greatly cherished.
Butch delivered a flyer around the park stating that there would be a
meeting on the following Sunday afternoon on the sun porch at my
folk's trailer for anyone interested in participating in the
Neighborhood Watch program. And the concern in the Park was such that
a large crowd filled the sun porch at the appointed time and the
Neighborhood Watch program began.
When
one of the newest
residents mentioned that she was concerned about some big man who she
had seen riding a bike around the park and talking to the young
children, most of the rest of us realized she meant Butch, as did
Mary, who was sitting next to Butch at the back of the crowd. To
defuse what had the potential to turn into an ugly confrontation, my
dad took the opportunity to ask Butch to stand up, and he proceeded
to introduce him as our new Neighborhood Watch Coordinator. Uncle
Bill and Al snickered as he informed the somewhat stunned gathering
that he and Butch would work closely together, and he laid out the
program he had in mind.
Since
the main
recreational activity in Sheltering Pines was a daily walk or bike
ride around the oval, my dad asked everyone to follow their usual
routine and pay particular attention to the mobile homes that were
unoccupied and look for anything out of the ordinary. He also asked
everyone to wave to any neighbors they saw out in their yards,
exchange greetings with any that were encountered while walking or
riding, and if anyone did notice someone in the park who didn't
belong and who was acting suspiciously, they should call the
Sheriff's Office and report it. Butch's role as coordinator was to
make a daily patrol of the park on his bike, and the residents were
instructed to flag Butch down when he went by if they had observed
anything suspicious or had any concerns, and Butch, in turn, would
report to my dad everyday when his patrol was done.
After
the meeting, the
woman who had expressed her concern about Butch at the beginning,
approached my dad and accused him of making a joke and mockery of the
Neighborhood Watch program by naming Butch coordinator. My dad
reassured her that he had selected Butch because he was the least
confrontational person in the park and, therefore, the best man for
the job. He further told her, "Don't underestimate Butch. He's
just retarded, he isn't stupid."
This
actually worked
remarkably well, and Butch did serve admirably as my dad's eyes and
ears around the park. Everyday promptly at 5 pm, Butch would stop his
bike in the street and report in to my dad, who was always sitting
out on the sun porch waiting for him. "Everything is f-f-fine,
Irv!" he would call out. My dad would wave and call back,
"Thanks, Butch! Have a good night!"
This
went on for a few
weeks, and one of the unexpected benefits of the Neighborhood Watch
program was that the residents learned to recognize and appreciate
each other, and it was soon determined that though maybe we were all
different, Sheltering Pines contained some pretty good folks who also
turned out to be good neighbors. And the biker guy, who was pretty
intimidating in his black t-shirts with the skulls on them and his
studded leather and sleeveless denim look, and whose name I now
recall was Bob, ended up being the unlikely park hero.
Where
the oval came up
nearest the highway on the northeast side of the park, there was a
path that went through a stand of pines and then forked left to the
parking lot of the ratty little motel that was still there in those
days, or to the right where it ran along the highway up to the
stoplight, where it was possible to cross the road to go to the Stop
'N Go or the Winn Dixie. Bob's trailer was near the curve where the
path was, and he rightly figured that this would be the place where
thieves would enter the park, and so his contribution to Neighborhood
Watch was to sit in the dark late at night and watch this path.
Sure
enough, a few nights
into this, Bob noticed two young black men make their way down the
path and, rather than walk down the oval, they went around the back
side of the trailers and disappeared into the dark. Bob called the
Sheriff's Department and, as luck would have it, they had a patrol
car in the Winn Dixie parking lot, and when these young men returned
to the car they had parked in front of one of the motel units, they
were apprehended red handed with a TV set and some power tools they
had pilfered from an unoccupied mobile home.
To
celebrate, my dad
re-instituted the by then neglected tradition of the Sheltering Pines
Annual Park Picnic, and these well attended festivities centered
around Neighborhood Watch Coordinator Butch presenting Biker Bob with
a Certificate of Appreciation from the Sheltering Pines Park
Association. With everyone's attention focused on this, my dad had
the unobserved satisfaction of leaning around the back of my mother's
chair so as to give Uncle Bill and Al the finger. And Butch was more
excited than I'd ever seen him, and we were all proud, when this story
and a picture of Butch and Biker Bob made the front page of the
Bonita Banner, our local weekly published down the road at Bonita
Springs.
So
what happened that
made your situation turn out so tragically different, George?
Once
we pull back the
media driven race card, it becomes obvious that you didn't commit a
racially motivated hate crime, but a crime motivated by an egoism and
arrogance fueled by an amateur cop mentality that made you believe
that you could turn the position of Neighborhood Watch Coordinator
into your own private vigilante power trip. Whereas my dad had the
wisdom to realize that the sensible thing was to put the gentlest and
least confrontational person he knew in the position of coordinator,
someone in your experience decided to go the opposite route and put
you in charge. And tragedy was found in the fact that you weren't
retarded, just stupid.
The
only two rules I
remember from the Neighborhood Watch guidelines are the two that you
most flagrantly violated the night Trayvon was killed: Never confront
anyone and never carry a weapon. Had you simply followed these two
instructions this tragedy never would have occurred. Had you simply
done as instructed by the police dispatcher and left the situation
alone, an officer would have been on scene shortly and he could asked
Trayvon what he was doing there, which was his job and not yours.
If
Butch had been
Neighborhood Watch Coordinator that night instead of you, he would
have said to Trayvon, "Hi! My name's B-B-Butch. What's yours?"
and Trayvon might have said, "Trayvon. I'm staying over there
with my mother's boyfriend." And Butch could have reported to my
dad, "I met somebody I didn't know in the park tonight, Irv, but
it's okay, he's staying here!" That's exactly how stupid this
all is, George. And I will guarantee you that Biker Bob was way more
intimidating than you are, and I'd be willing to bet that he was
armed to the teeth. But he knew enough to call the cops as instructed
and not confront the two young men he saw enter Sheltering Pines that
night -- and he knew they
didn't belong there. So he was a hero as
much for what he didn't do as for what he did.
One
of the reasons I
don't minister in a county jail anymore is because until the verdict
is read in court, everyone's main concern is, "My case, my case,
my case." As chaplain, my job was to pose the more important
question, "Yes, but what about your soul?" Most inmates in
jail are taken aback when informed that the chaplain doesn't give a
damn about their crimes and their cases, but rather "only" cares
about their sins and their souls.
So
what I learned to do
was to wait until a man was convicted and on his way off to prison
before getting seriously involved in my ministry to him. I would hand
him my card as he waited to ride out and tell him, "When you get
to quarantine, write to me and my promise to you is that I will
answer every letter I get from you." I have never broken that
promise, and I have received some deep and profound letters from
killers who suddenly found themselves confronted with time and
themselves, and
the stark realization of just how serious a thing it is to take the
life of another human being. In fact, the longer I do this, the more
God leads me in the direction towards working more exclusively with
killers, and I have learned some great spiritual truths doing this,
George.
When
a person takes the
life of another, whether it be accidental or deliberate, whether it
is through a premeditated act or an act born spontaneously out of
passion and opportunity, the end result is that the souls of the
killer and the killed become inextricably linked, and the eternal
well being of the one is contingent upon that of the other. I don't
know exactly the how or the why of this, but I do know that the more
I work with and counsel those in situations similar to yours, the
more the truth of this is revealed. And I do know that those in such
circumstances only come to health and spiritual restoration when they
approach the soul of the victim with a heart broken in contrition and
a deep and sincere desire to seek forgiveness and reconciliation.
We
hear much these days
of "restorative justice." The Diocese of Lansing, where I
serve as an outreach volunteer, goes so far as to administer its
prison and jail ministry program from what it calls the "Office
of Restorative Justice." Sometimes I think restorative justice
is a phenomenon akin to Bigfoot or UFO's: You hear a lot about it but
rarely see it, and, when it is observed, no one seems to know what it
truly is or what it means. What I can tell you is that it begins by
coming to peace with the soul of your victim and finding this initial
and all important reconciliation. Our Catholic faith is particularly
effective in this regard, as we know that the consciousness of the
departed continues after death, whereas so many of the Protestants
believe that we are merely dust in the ground until consciousness
miraculously returns at the Last Judgment.
At
the beginning I told
you that you face dangers both hidden and not so hidden. Here's what
I meant:
You
have been told, and
you have been telling yourself, that your actions were justifiable
and that you acted in self defense. A jury has ruled in your favor
and you have been freed from the charge of second degree homicide.
What I have stressed here is that this isn't a civil rights issue
based upon your own racist attitudes and those of the region where
you live. It isn't a political issue that breaks down so clearly that
conservatives side with you and liberals with Trayvon. That's a
simplistic and emotional reaction, and the media, in fueling this
kind of hatred to boost the slow summer ratings season, are assisting
in presenting you with what is the less hidden danger: that some
other vigilante with the same kind of attitude you took towards
Trayvon will seek "justice" through the same kind of
violent action. This is cause for concern.
However,
my deeper
concern for you is that you will confuse acquittal with exoneration.
That in "beating your case" you will believe that you are
also relieved of all responsibility. Acquittal may remove the fault
but it does not remove the responsibility. When you were informed by
the police that Trayvon was dead, your initial reaction was remorse
and your comment was, "In
the Catholic religion it’s always
wrong to kill somebody." Some months later, after the media
circus had erected its tents, you told Sean Hannity, "I
feel it
was all God's plan..." Without getting overly theological,
suffice it to say that you were certainly more right in your first
remark, and that the obvious flaw in the second is that it is never
in God's plan for us to sin. To the contrary, sin is precisely the
point at which we deviate from God's plan. Removal of the criminal
penalty in your killing of Trayvon Martin does nothing to remove the
more serious, and more eternal, penalty of sin. Believing that it
does is the more hidden danger.
When
a person is injured
at our hands, through our fault or by accident, it inflicts deep
spiritual and emotional wounds not only upon the lives of loved ones
and family -- theirs and ours -- but upon our own soul as well. As
with a physical injury, the only way to true healing is to open these
wounds and cleanse them, though this process can be excruciatingly
painful. However, to wrap such deep spiritual injury in the dirty rag
of denial leads to a deep infection of the soul and a separation from
God that becomes our own personal hell.
But
God has given us a
remedy in the Great Physician, Jesus Christ, who has gone to the
Cross for us so as to reconcile us to God by healing the self
inflicted injury to our own soul that is the result of the injury we
have inflicted upon others. He has done this for us by receiving the
wounds that are rightfully ours, and the grace that he extends to us
in this way is such that we seek our own healing when we seek the
healing of those we have damaged by our actions, and this healing is
truly restorative for all.
What
the world recognizes
as "restorative justice" has its roots planted deeply
within this spiritual realm, and the more healthy and well cared for
these roots, the more abundant the more visible fruits of
psychological and emotional health will be to the world. And while
the world may be blind to this deeper truth, we know in our Catholic
faith that the truest and deepest blessings are eternal and heavenly
and not merely earthly and temporal. And that place where the eternal
and heavenly meets the earthly and temporal is the Cross.
To
help you more fully
realize this, I am going to suggest a deeper devotional experience
based upon opening the wounds you have inflicted upon yourself to
Christ at the Cross so that you might approach him for the true and
complete healing he wishes you to have. In this process, and as an
integral part of it, you must pray for those you have injured and
seek justice for them as well as yourself. This begins first and
foremost by praying for the repose of the soul of Trayvon Martin and
in seeking his forgiveness for the way in which your actions have cut
short his ability to work out with God his own salvation on earth.
Because of this, your salvation now depends upon his, and it is in
this way that your souls have become inextricably linked. My
suggestion to you is that you approach Christ in his suffering for us
through this Novena to
the Holy Face of Jesus. Along with this,
meditate deeply upon The Holy
Wounds of Christ and pray the Sorrowful
Mysteries of the Holy Rosary as part of your daily prayer routine.
In
the midst of this, answer Jesus' invitation to St. Thomas in the
upper room and, "Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put
out your hand, and place it in my side; do not be faithless, but
believing." And when you can answer as did Thomas, "My Lord
and my God!" then you will know that your faith has placed you
where God can work the miracle of recovery He wants in your life.
In
your mind, place
yourself back in that night and see what you have done. Do not
believe that you can turn away and run, because to do so will brand
you with the mark of Cain
and this will banish you from God forever.
Instead, pick up the lifeless body of Trayvon and know that more than
your brother he is also your cross. Carry him up the hill of Calvary
and place him at the feet of Jesus at the Cross and call out from the
anguish that racks you from the bottom of your soul, "Lord, look
what I have done!" See now that a tear rolls down the cheek of
Christ and falls upon you and baptizes you along with Trayvon, as you
die to the sin that has united you in death -- his physical, yours
spiritual. See now the blood that falls upon you from Christ's brow
and brings life to both of you. See now beyond the Cross and watch as
Trayvon walks into the dazzling light of eternal glory.
And
know that one day the
two of you will meet again, and that meeting will be much different
than the first.
Yours
in Christ,
Chaplain
Phil
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