Most mornings I thumb through the electronic edition of The
Philadelphia Inquirer. The paper is a connecting link to the city Pat
and I love. The paper documents the grizzly fact that a young man was murdered
minutes into the new year less than 75 yards from the Spring Garden Academy
playground. To see “North 17th and Venango” in print yesterday
stirred our pulse and created a sharper image than usual. I still am wondering
if the man was one of those who walked by the building and with whom we spoke a
few months ago. Is he one of those who asked for a job? Did we treat him as
respectfully as he deserved?
This morning’s edition of The
Inquirer reported the death of a major league franchise owner’s
32-year-old son by a drug overdose. The last lines of the story read, “The
death at a beachfront apartment building on the Pacific Coast Highway was
discovered after a friend of Scott Sterling’s called police after not hearing
from him for several days, according to a statement from the Los Angeles County
Sheriff’s Department. Deputies found the body and paramedics pronounced him
dead.” The news was tucked away on page “D4"
of the sports section and was less than 100 words.
The man in our old
neighborhood was poorer. He lived near the economic margins of society. The son
of the multimillionaire sports franchise owner died in luxury. Both poor parents
and wealthy parents will grieve and agonize. Neither man made the midpoint of
life expectancy. Neither fulfilled his potential. But one was more privileged
than the other. Most likely, neighbors will collect money for our neighbor’s
burial. The other will be buried in the best coffin available. The pall bearers
in Philadelphia will likely wear sweatshirts, baggy jeans and tan boots.
California bearers will likely wear handmade suits fashioned from imported
wools. I looked for our neighbor’s death notice but couldn’t find it. It may be
because survivors don’t have enough money. He is simply, gone. I haven’t been
there yet, but at the corner of 17th and Venango a sign,
graffiti-like, made with spray paint and a weathered gray piece of plywood will
urge “R. I. P.”
The electronic copy’s next
line, the one ending with, “paramedics pronounced him dead,” reads, “Celtics
lose fourth straight!” Someone dressed in Celtic green scored 23 points and had
nine assists. A team named “Grizzlies” beat them. A man died, but we need to
move on, unless you are a parent, a sibling, a son or daughter . . . unless you
care. I care and am asking, “Did he play basketball in the Resurrection Life
Church gym? Did he really understand the message?’ I am wondering, “Was he one
of those who broke into the building to steal tools and materials?” Did I label
him, “a nuisance” or could I see his potential? Did my neighbor hear the Gospel
Choir from Eastern Michigan University one summer evening and eat the free hot
dogs? Did he carry home bags of food from the Convoys of Hope outreaches? Could
we have done more?
The world moves on quickly,
almost stepping over the newly slain, en route to the next game. But families
are grieving. Neighbors are afraid, startled every time a gunshot echoes. Down
the street another son or daughter with a needle is poised to puncture their
skin. Money doesn’t take-away pain. Death is not an economic issue.
I am pondering the sobering
truth introduced into my memory long ago, “Just as man is destined to die once,
and after that to face judgment, so Christ was sacrificed once to take away the
sins of many people; and he will appear a second time, not to bear sin, but to
bring salvation to those who are waiting for him.” (Hebrews 9:27) I must
discover how to be more effective in making this life-changing truth known.
