Two young men are dead. Who cares?

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 17^th 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 17^th 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.