Tender
I met Sister Helen Prejean when I was an impressionable college freshman. The books she had written at the time, Dead Man Walking and The Death of Innocents, had sparked national attention to the morality of the death penalty.
“Where is the dignity in the death of a human being that we render completely defenseless and then deliberately kill?”
Until we heard her speak in front of us, I imagined her to be a fiery, bold, no-nonsense nun. She had, at that point, been a staunch death penalty abolitionist for 25 years. I thought that in order to walk that road – to be spiritual companion to those on death row, to fight a grueling moral fight against the carceral system – one would have developed a needed rough exterior that pulled no punches. I thought that in order to be such a committed a justice mover, one’s voice had to be loud, words cutting, and disposition uncompromising.
To my great amazement, Sister Helen was tender. She was joyful. In the most bold and powerful way, the softness of her presence made her advocacy against the death penalty even more formidable. She was as compelling as I had imagined her to be, but she didn’t need a bullhorn to be so.
I realized, as many of us know now, that the either/or I had imagined (bold or gentle, fierce or soft) was a false dichotomy. I learned that it was not only possible to be tender while standing up against the pressing moral ills of our day; it is necessary. So today, in tenderness, we stand.
In our tenderness, we walk toward a justice rooted in mercy. In our tenderness, we uphold the sacred worth of every person: including those who have done unspeakable harm.
My colleagues in Texas – where Nidal Hasan is scheduled to be killed by firing squad on December 3 – remind us that it is this justice rooted tenderness that compels our Social Principles of The United Methodist Church to cry out for the abolition of capital punishment.
“[Our Social Principles] also call us to minister to those who have lost loved ones to violent crimes and to support families without judgement as they navigate grief, justice, and healing. Holding these commitments together can be difficult, especially when the harm is profound.”
In tenderness, we can hold both things: the accountability of our actions and care for those who have suffered harm, as well as the dignity and sacred worth of every person.
Today we stand, tenderness and all. As a people of faith who find liberation in Christ who was crucified, we stand once again against capital punishment in all its forms. We hold hope that the Christ of resurrection leads us in the redemption of all things and all people, even those that our limited human imaginations find beyond such redemption. We treasure assurance in the mercy of God that claims every person as holy – every person – for each one of us is more than the worst thing we have ever done.
These indeed are tender times.
My own heart is tender in these days. Many beloved ones are at the sacred entrance of death. There is unimaginable pain and loss in the shadows of most corners. Even the little, gentle griefs seem to pile upon us. And that road to justice seems so very foggy.
In certain moments, our tenderness can feel like helplessness; a gloom of anger, exhaustion, and sorrow that covers us like a cloak.
Then we remember Sister Helen, whose tenderness is the foundation of her dogged, powerful witness toward the dignity of all.
So it is in our tenderness that we hold those who are passing on.
In tenderness, we hold the light up high so the pain and loss lurking in the shadows would come with warmth and companionship.
In tenderness, we acknowledge and care for the little, gentle griefs that come day by day.
In tenderness, with bold witness and gentle hearts, we speak firmly against the death penalty, genocide, or any killing, and firmly for the dignity of all.
Even when we don’t have the energy or the strength to be the loudest or to have the exact right words or to have a disposition that is uncompromising, we can be tender – and justice can take root there.
Thanks be to God!
With love,
Pastor Karyn