Penalty & Innocents

Peter Marty, publisher of Christian Century magazine, recently wrote:

"On November 5, 1983, Isadore Roze­man, a respected jeweler in Shreve­port, Louisiana, was killed by a single gunshot to the head. Glenn Ford, who had done some yard work for Rozeman, was apprehended along with three other suspects accused of robbing the store. Ford was the only one to stand trial. 

"The prosecution secured a first-degree murder conviction and a sentence of death by capitalizing on two inexperienced defense attorneys appointed by the state, an all-white jury, and a presentation of dubious evidence to the jury. Despite his claims of innocence, Ford spent the next 30 years on death row in Louisiana’s notorious Angola prison, often in solitary confinement. Not until the Innocence Project intervened on Ford’s behalf in 2007 did the wheels of justice begin to turn. With credible evidence suggesting that Ford was not a participant in the murder, a state district judge voided the conviction and ordered Ford released in March 2014.

"Penniless and suffering from stage IV lung cancer, Ford sought restitution. Louisiana law provides up to $330,000 in compensation to wrongly imprisoned people. But state courts managed to repeatedly deny Ford any funds, arguing that he could not prove his innocence in the robbery associated with Rozeman’s murder.

"The original prosecuting attorney, A. M. “Marty” Stroud III, took to the editorial page of the Times of Shreveport to urge that compensation be paid and to apologize to Ford and his family for his role.

“ 'I was 33 years old . . . arrogant, judgmental, narcissistic and very full of myself. I was not as interested in justice as I was in winning,' wrote Stroud. 'Glenn Ford deserves every penny owed to him under the compensation statute. This case is another example of the arbitrariness of the death penalty. I now realize, all too painfully, that as a young 33-year-old prosecutor, I was not capable of making a decision that could have led to the killing of another human being.' 

"Stroud closed his commentary with some reflective shame: 'I end with the hope that providence will have more mercy for me than I showed Glenn Ford. But I am also sobered by the realization that I certainly am not deserving of it.'

"Compensation laws for the wrongly imprisoned are badly flawed. In many states, including Louisiana, the burden to prove one’s innocence falls on the wrongly convicted, if there is to be restitution at all.

[Washington State passed a compensation for the wrongfully convicted law in 2013. Washington State Governor Jay Inslee announced a capital punishment moratorium February 11, 2014,]

"Given this troubling state of affairs, . . . that when seven people [professors, writers, and policy makers] were asked to name a book they wish their elected officials would read, three of the seven independently chose Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption. We’ll never know if Glenn Ford would recommend this same book to his elected officials in Louisiana. He died 15 months after his release."(1)

At its most recent national convention in 2015, the Episcopal Church reaffirmed its opposition to the death penalty, citing in part that "the death penalty is disproportionately applied to the poor and to minorities and is in direct opposition to the witness of Jesus." The convention also encouraged local dioceses (regional jurisdictions) to appoint task forces to develop a witness to eliminate the death penalty. The Diocese of Olympia (the Episcopal Church in Western Washington) has such a task force, of which I'm a member.

For more information contact task force chair Dave Avolio, the Innocents Project Northwest (University of Washington School of Law, the Washington State Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty, or the National Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty.

(1)Reprinted with permission

Confessions of an Immigrant

For many years I never thought twice, nor did any of my friends,

that I was what was known as an Alien Resident, a "Green Card" carrier. All through elementary and later high school, I was simply a kid (perhaps with a slight Brit accent). My folks came to the States (we always referred to, "The States") from Canada via five years in Ceylon, now known as Sri Lanka. I have a sister born there, but not sure if she's a Ceylonese or a Sri Lankan. Anyway, we emigrated to the States in 1940.

Fast forward to 1949. High school graduate, a summer job up in the Sierra Nevada mountains with the US Forrest Service and learning what real tough work was working in the mountains eradicating disease causing shrubbery, later doing fire suppression. Then a feeble start at junior college (while working nights for the San Mateo County Fire Department - - hey, I was an expert in fighting fires by digging fire breaks, no water hosing we).

And then Korea surfaced. Eligible for the draft, but no thank you; I'd like to chose my own destiny. Not quite ready for college, so why not join up, get the draft behind me, and then perhaps get back to school.

Being an enthusiastic Sea Scout the Navy was a logical choice.

Sorry, you're not a citizen. Marines (after all, they are a branch of the Navy and do things with boats). Nope, same story. Faulty eyesight meant not even trying the Air Force. So, what about the Coast Guard? After all, I knew something about small boats and the USCG are certainly into small boats. So, fibbing about my alien status I enlisted as a Coast Guardsman recruit.

The tempo of manpowering for Korea was in full swing and most

anything went. I was sent to a temporary training depot in San Diego, and it was great. Got my navy blue uniform - - the USCG lighter blue was yet to be introduced. We mixed with USN types ashore in what was then strictly a sailers' town. I quickly gained a level of respect knowing something about small boat handling (thanks, Sea Scouts), not hard to do with most every other recruit coming from the Midwest.

Then, called into the commandant's office.

"Jackson, your finger prints are not American."
"Yes, sir."
"In fact, not only aren't they AMERICAN, they're CANADIAN!"
"You're right, sir."

So, busted, but even after only four weeks, an honorable discharge, no less. Still have the certificate and lapel pin!

But, the draft was still looming. Yep, they could draft you even as an alien. But as an alien you couldn't join anything.

So, why not join my own army, in Canada? I'd read about them in National Geographic and they looked pretty cool. Up to Vancouver BC went I to join, only to discover that in spite of the Korean rush (yes, Canada was heavily involved) there was a three week waiting list. Finally enlisted and assigned to one of Canada's youngest regiments, The Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry, stationed in Calgary, Alberta. We jumped out of planes - - actually jumped 64 times, did over 25 before I ever actually landed in a plane. We waited to be rotated with our regiment's first battalion's return from Korea.

Then just before the rotation I was judged a lousy rifle shot so was sent to Officer Candidate School in Ontario, and then commissioned and assigned to my new regiment, one that would be my home for the rest of my service, the Black Watch (Royal Highland Regiment) of Canada. Aye, laddie, wore a kilt for many a year. I did make it to Korea though, just before the truce and then for some months after.

Fifteen years later I emigrated back to "The States". And some years later, gave up my second "Green Card" and became a naturalized citizen of the United States of America, no longer an alien or an immigrant.

On reflection, I don't think I ever felt not being a part of this 

country, even as a kid, nor when I returned as an adult. My

community was always where I was at the moment. And it was to my community that I found myself, and to which I gave my energy and support.



However,

I was a white (caucasian) immigrant.
I looked like and dressed like a local. 
I immigrated from the north, not from the south or east or west.
I wasn't fleeing from anything (well, cold weather, perhaps); I wasn't a refugee.
I spoke English - - well, a sort of a morphed Canadian/American accent.
I belong to a religious minority (active mainline Christians are only 13% of Washington State's population).
I wasn't branded as something suspicious even before stepping foot here.
I was welcomed as a new resident. 
I was pretty indistinguishable.
I was never aware of being profiled.

Yet I was an immigrant. So what about today's immigrants?

Go figure.

Reflections on 9/11/2001

A Different View: Reflections on 9/11

[First posting September 2011, an extraction from a sermon preached on September 23, 2011 at Saint Mark's Episcopal Cathedral, Seattle WA  now re-posted with some updating as a remembrance of September 11, 2001.]

We were returning from the Canadian Gulf Islands were we had been cruising for a couple of weeks. On the last day of vacation we were docked at LaConner, sitting out on the aft deck of the Lady Mick, enjoying a cup of coffee. The cell phone rang and there was my stepdaughter, Lindsay:

"Are you listening to the news?"

"No"

"You better. The world is falling apart!"

It was Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001. Everything was falling apart. And we joined with the whole world as the horror unfolded. As we cast off and eventually entered the Sound, in the near distance an  ominous grey shape appeared as a USN vessel steamed south, almost at flank speed, going where? The Locks were deserted but open; the lock crew wondering and waiting to hear if the locks would be closed. Everything, everywhere, had a pall of frightened uncertainty.

That evening, secured at Thunderbird Marina in Lake Union, watching TV I saw for the first time the horrible sight of someone jumping from one of the towers. I chokingly pointed this out to to my step-daughter, who had joined us aboard. She replied "And some of them were holding hands." (USA Today reported as many as 200 jumped that day.) Horrific!

The next days and weeks were filled with unimaginable images, with uncontrollable feelings and emotions, with confusion, and at the same time, like a drowning man, the struggle to try to make sense out of this non-sense. I found that I simply could not go to church (a somewhat normal practise in times of stress or need) for the rest of that week. I found myself quite withdrawn as I sifted and sorted what I was trying to fathom. I caught glimpses of prayer services taking place around the country, including Seattle. I watched the service at the National Cathedral in Washington, DC.

I did get to St. Mark's Cathedral that Sunday. It was good to have been there. As I looked around I saw many familiar faces (comforting). I also saw many new faces, young faces, many not church folk. The mood was one of need, of hoping, of a desire to find some sort of meaning in the midst of non-meaning. We were simply a collection of refugees.

Following the service I discovered an old friend visiting Seattle. Bob is a retired priest. He is also a retired USAF officer having flown with the Strategic Air Command before going to seminary. Bob told me that he had somehow managed to get through to his congressman, asking him if he had the guts to vote against the pending legislation empowering the president to use all military force necessary in response to the terrorist attack. He had responded that he simply could not vote that way at this time. (Only one congresswoman, from Oakland, CA, so voted against that sweeping legislation.) Bob went on suggesting to his congressman that only real response we could make was - - to forgive.

(Lieutenant Colonel, the Rev. Robert Beveridge died September 2, 2016, a strong advocate of nuclear disarmament   and a member of the Fellowship of Reconciliation)

Today, 2011, sifting and sorting through a plethora of editorials, blogs, where are we, really, a decade and a day later? Even Sunday's comics, from Baby Blues, Sally Forth, Blondie, to Doonesbury make their own comment. Where are we?

Jon Talon, in yesterday's (September 22, 2001) Seattle Times, wrote, "In attacking the U.S. . . . one of Osama bin Laden's major goals was to provoke a hysterical American overreaction that would begin bleeding the nation into economic ruin. Mission accomplished?"

Tony Karon, NY Times, helps with some perspective, describing a murderous crime scene in New York, Washington, and Pennsylvania becoming a spiritual staging ground for an international war against "a tiny network of transnational extremists, founded on the remnants of the Arab volunteers who'd fought in the U.S. backed Afghan jihad against the Soviet Union."

And the cost? Let alone the trillion dollars spent, more critically the immoral cost of lives, with almost 50% of returning troops eligible to receive disability payments, with more than 600,000 treated so far in veterans' medical facilities, with veteran suicides topping 18 (now 20-22) per day in recent years, and family breakups, are simply too incalculable to understand. 

For many other Americans the decade has been one of growing prejudice as Muslims have been cruelly subjected to Islamophobia, reminiscent, if perhaps not surpassing, that experienced by the Japanese-Americans during WWII.

Jim Wallis writes in Sojourners, "For a moment the world's last remaining superpower was vulnerable, and we all felt it. . . . in our sudden sense of vulnerability we were now, and perhaps for the first time, like most of the world, where vulnerability is an accepted part of being human. And in those first days, following 9/11, America, not the terrorists, had the high ground. The world did not identify with those who cruelly and murderously decided to take innocent lives in response to their grievances - - both real and imagined. Instead the world identified with a suffering America - -  even the front of the French newspaper Le Monde ran the headline, 'We are all America'."

Is this still the case today?

Ten years later, on our local ABC affiliate, a young woman interviewed said we need to move, we need to remember, we need to forgive. One can only hope. The toll on us, let alone this whole world, this last decade has been unprecedented. To heal is perhaps the new mission to be accomplished.

Eric Darton, author of Divided We Stand: A Biography on New York City's World Trade Center, was being interviewed by NPR's Robert Seigel on "All Things Considered" just three days after the attack. Towards the end of the interview, Darton recounted that the night after the towers were destroyed, his 9-year old daughter climbed up on the kitchen ladder to look out of their Manhattan apartment window at the scene of the destruction. Night was falling, and she said to her father: "I think I'm beginning to see the new view."

We need to recall 9/11/2001, not as just the horrific event it truly was, but now as a means, a hope, a deep sense of resolve to heal - - in all areas of our national and interrelated world's life. For we are, and we can perhaps again be, a people that can "see the new view."

[And this timely posting from United Methodist pastor Steve Garnaas-Holmes' blog Unfolding Light.]

Fifteen years after 9/11
what is worth remembering?


How fragile we are.

How deeply we need each other.

How little our differences matter.

That in our vulnerability
we are most human.

That we can always respond to violence
with violence or with peace.

That violence begets violence.

That in danger, chaos and trauma
we can choose to come together.

That you always have a choice
to contribute to the world's hurt
or its healing.

That we are one.

That entering into the world's suffering
is divine.

That the world is not ending yet.

How beautiful it is
when we care for each other.