Just hand me a pen!

 

Borrowed from free, internet images; definitely AI generated

“The hand that signed the paper

 felled a city ...”

This opening line of Welsh poet Dylan Thomas’ lament about war should be a wake-up call today. Written in 1938, the poem preceded World War II, but Thomas would live to see the most horrifying truth in his poem manifest when in 1945, President Harry Truman “signed the paper” that “felled” Hiroshima and Nagasaki, killing somewhere between 200,000 and 300,000 civilians.

The exercise of power by "a few over many" takes on the colour of the human(s) who hold it in their hands. Would Jimmy Carter have signed off on the nuclear option to force the end of the war with Japan? Probably not. Would the current president be capable of signing it? Both had/have it in their power to sign papers that could “fell cities.”

But “felling cities” by “the few holding power over the many” scenario isn’t the only manifestation of the consequences. My church has mobilized behind the desperate need of the hungry of Gaza; many of “the many” have sacrificed in support of this cause, only to see the Prime Minister of Israel “sign a paper” to shut off humanitarian aid.

We say that “the pen is mightier than the sword;” heaven help us when the pen and the sword march together, when brutality and propaganda link arms.

Literally, many a city has been felled in Gaza and Ukraine by the abuse of power by the few.

The preservation of democratically elected governance is a must; the world, meanwhile, seems to have become enamoured with watching the exercise of unstoppable power, most probably under the delusion that that power will rub off on them. Persons with a social conscience—whether Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu or none of these—who believe that its efficacious to include both neighbours and strangers in efforts to make a better world, must act. Power easily becomes ruthless and abusive if unchecked; it doesn’t cater for public welfare but uses public assets to bolster its hold on privilege and power.

But what can I do? So many are asking. In a functioning and fair democracy, you use your vote, of course, and campaign for the candidate with integrity and a sense of public service. Even elected governance takes the shape and colour of the people chosen. 

Vote for people, not parties.

Dictatorships, Oligarchies, Kingdoms have historically been dismantled by bloody revolutions. Best case is a democracy that recognizes the signs of approaching demagoguery and nips it in the bud, as we say. Failing that, a strike would be better than armed revolution; if many lay down their tools and refuse to work until change happens, bloodless revolution has a chance. 

A boss who isn’t obeyed ceases to be boss.

The rallying of the many is difficult; rallying of the many, many is almost always beholden to extraordinary leadership.

And where will such leadership be found?

Crossing the Bridge of Sighs

Bridge of Sighs

Everything about the friends who have left us was miraculous; we salute the way they lived the gift they were given and the grace with which they walked boldly across their own Bridge of Sighs.

             

Recently, two friends were diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and in a very few months were gone from us. In both cases, the medical profession was able to do what is possible to relieve suffering, but no more. 

               I thought about that this week when I photo-shopped, enlarged and printed a view of the Bridge of Sighs for framing. That bridge spans the canal between the ancient courthouse and the prison in Venice and has small windows through which the condemned get their last glimpse of the world before being thrown into the dungeon’s darkness . . . sometimes for forever.

               A few weeks ago, a Canadian woman ended her struggle with Lou Gehrig’s disease voluntarily . . . in Switzerland, choosing to cross her Bridge of Sighs on her own terms.

               In Jonas Jonason’s novel, The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out The Window And Disappeared, a character muses at the stupidity of fighting wars when with a little patience, the combatants could all die naturally and without all that expense, fuss and discomfort. Only half true.

               All my friends know that I suffer emotionally and psychologically whenever it becomes necessary to board an airplane. I’ve been smiled at a lot over this, and reminded that flying is probably the safest way to travel . . . statistically. Statistics be damned, I say. It’s not about statistical safety or danger. It’s about the queasiness brought about by knowing that when airliners fall from the sky, there must be anywhere from a few seconds to minutes of knowing that the bridge you’re crossing is a Bridge of Sighs, your last glimpse through the window very definitely your last. (Please note that I still board airplanes when necessary; some would call that courage.)

               An Easter Reflection by Jack Dueck in the Canadian Mennonite, April 29, 2013 quotes Albert Einstein: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. I have chosen to live my life as though everything is a miracle.” (If you can find it, read Jack’s essay; it’s amazing.) It’s not surprising that Einstein’s exploration of the vastness of the universe against the minuteness of a quantum would lead him to say this; there are those for whom incidents of recovery, a reprieve at the gates of the Bridge of Sighs constitutes a miracle. The very fact that in this cold and vast universe, life and human consciousness exist on one of billions and billions of stars and planets, is miracle enough for me.

         Everything about the friends who have left us was miraculous; we salute the way they lived the gift they were given and the grace with which they walked boldly across their own Bridge of Sighs.  

       

A bridge we will all cross, hopefully with the courage they showed us is possible.

Dueck also quotes Gerard Manly Hopkins: “The world is charged with the grandeur of God./ It will flame out like shining from shook foil;/ It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil/Crushed.” And the Psalmist wrote long, long ago: “the heavens are telling the glory of God . . . Day to day pours forth speech.”

Meanwhile, there are Dylan Thomas’ words written at the death bed of his father: “Do not go gentle into that good night; old age should burn and rave at close of day./Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Not to “burn and rave at close of day” would, after all, be selling the miracle of our existence cheap. 

Not to fear the Bridge of Sighs, however, is a blessing devoutly to be wished.