Reflections on Attending the Memorial Service for Columbine High School Students in Littleton, Colorado

I would like to tell you about a columbine. And then I would like to tell you about Columbine.

That the two are linked is but one of the strange paradoxes which define the worst school shooting in American history. I had taken a group of people high into the mountains of southern Colorado for a retreat. One morning we hiked up from our base camp which was nestled at tree line, (roughly 10,000 feet for those who have not visited these mountains), to greet the sun from a high mountain lake. The purity of Colorado above timberline is one of the great comforts of my life. There is a vibrancy of presence which sings through the stones and echoes from the border of mountain and sky. This particular morning I waited as the shadows slowly melted in a long line before me; proof that our world is spinning its way through each day. As the sun drew near a sudden irregularity in the ridge above dropped a spear of light in front me. That spear pierced a columbine. The blue and white chalice of a gentle petalled elegance was ignited.

Columbines are rare at the altitude we were sitting. The vessel of light which was before me was compelling in its perfection. I was, for a moment, sitting in the presence of a flower which transcended its surroundings.

Littleton is a town with a good view of the front range. The peaks are close enough to still feel, even in the middle modern urban sprawl. This simple truth brings me comfort as I drive down Bowles avenue towards a memorial for the slain students of Columbine High School. It is apparent as I crest a hill and begin to see the crowds forming ahead of me that this event is far larger than anyone expected. I park my car and walk towards the theater parking lot in which the memorial will be held. From all directions there is a streaming river of humanity walking with a measured purpose that is unfamiliar to large groups in our culture. The only other time I have witnessed similar crowds are at rock concerts and football games. This crowd is fundamentally different. This is the first flower of hope in the midst of day of deep grief. There are also growths of a different ilk. On the way into the event I, and many others, where forced to run a gauntlet of hate. A preacher and his flock were stationed by the sidewalk holding signs saying, "God hates Fags" The preacher, with his cowboy hat and stern, burning, face looked vindicated by the unspeakable horror which had just occurred. His triumph was barely moderated by any sense of propriety. The violence of his hatred spills upon the crowd, stirring disgust in most who walked past his appointed pulpit.

I wonder if there was any comprehension in his heart that the blood spilled on Columbine and his own actions were possibly linked. Hearts, when hardened, are incapable of seeing how the actions of the universe are interwoven. The extremity of this position can kill and laugh while doing so.

As I get closer to the event silver and blue ribbons appear everywhere. Silver and Blue balloons are held in numerous hands. And more people are holding flowers than are not. I take up a position next to a barbwire fence overlooking the parking lot in front of the theater. Between me and the row of barricades which have been erected for the event there is a corridor through which thousands will walk.

As I wait for the ceremonies to begin humanity flows past me. Six high school girls, arms linked and each with roses, walk before me. They are bonded beyond linked arms. There is a pool of melted heart which flows tangibly through their friendship. Tears form in my eyes as I witness this blossom of humanity.

Uncommon evil has as its counterpoint the deepest wells of compassion. This truth was to be played out before me the entire day. We are called to the other pole of possibility when destruction is before us and we do not understand.

As the thousands of people walk past me I see that they are moving in subtle waves and wavelets. The bonding of families and friends organizes the flow into coherent pulses which have a beauty of their own. A gathering of humanity when led by the heart can be as beautiful as any tender river making its way to the sea.

The grass before me slowly becomes mud as the feet of the passing people turn the soil over. The measure of sadness and the mud are not significantly different than the images of Kosovo refugees. For a moment I am looking into the faces of refugees within our own country, driven from the comfort of their homes and security by an act which betrays the undercurrent of violence which lives within our culture. We are all made refugees by the presence of violence in whatever school we choose to enter. Simply because many of us have graduated does not mean that we are not still at school, nor does it mean that we are immune from the premeditated and calculated terror which has so recently descended upon Columbine High School.

The wavering voice of a Columbine High School student begins the memorial. He and his brother, survivors of the incident, have written a song which they are about to perform. As the first tentative chords of his brother’s guitar roll out from the remarkably clear loudspeakers he finds his voice. His tenderness is reflected in the welling tears within and around me. Somehow, in the middle of the violence, he has still found a way to express innocence. There is a yearning in his voice which hopefully will carry deeply into the people of our times. Considering that millions of viewers are present with him as he sings he has become a voice of anguished hope for a planet awash in difficulties. A distant roll of thunder answers the poignant power of his gesture. As he sings thousands of silver and blue balloons are released. As they rise they bob and weave as if held by eddies of unseen currents. The balloons begin to radiate out from the center of our grief. As the song ends the balloons have risen far beyond our mud stained feet and are all, each one, dancing in some elegant perfection of dispersal. It is a gentle unfolding harmonic of the self organizing waves of human care which I had seen walking before me.

The speakers, politicians and others gathered upon the all too distant stage begin to try and encapsulate the moment in their words. They fail, except possibly for a couple of student survivors who spoke later in the program. What is unfolding before us is simply too deep for words. As the speeches are given there is an odd rumble to the south. I, and many around me, turn to see what it could be. There is no clear answer, only the unsettling feeling that the rolling thunder we are hearing is not the same clear and distinct answer which nature had bestowed upon the purity of the opening song.

The words continue upon the stage. It is the alchemy of care in the hearts around me which are far more powerful. I have never stood in a crowd of strangers and felt such kinship. If ever there was hope for a planet besieged by difficulties it was there before me. A revealing columbine, a tender vessel of emergent human care, which was being illuminated by a greater light.

One of the lights of this event is not to be found high above us. It is an unsettling light which shines deeply into the subterranean violence which our culture has so vividly enshrined. It was no small accident that this memorial should be in the parking lot of a movie theater. The violence used to sell movies is of such unspeakable depth that we have lost our tongues and refused to mouth what our hearts have been telling us; we cannot continue to ignore the content of imagination which is being delivered to our young. The roots of violence run deeply into the loam of this civilization. The causes are many, but the explicate parading of violence is a misuse of the creative capacities which allow us as humans to transcend the realm of raw animal aggression. This misuse has come chillingly home to Columbine High School. Through the sacrifice of a blue and white beauty the roots of violence are being brought to the hearth of the entire world.

Suddenly to the west I see the source of the distant rumble which had so shaken us from the south. Four airforce jets flying in formation are between us and the mountains of the front range. They will continue to circle us for the next hour. There is a beauty in their flight and a disturbing distant echo of these same machines dropping bombs as we stand in another part of the world.

Towards the end of the memorial a light rain begins. Umbrellas suddenly unfold and the parking lot is paved with circles of color; small shields which provide momentary respite from the elements and dangers which are so patently clear to those gathered.

Doves are released, one for each student killed, and they too fly in relationship to one another. The doves do not take off in different directions. They are held by the hidden map of the heart which has broken through the torment of the days to help guide balloons, birds and humans.

And then the jets appear from the north. It is a flyby; a military honor for ones slain in battle. The precision of their motion, the thunder of their passage, and the deadly efficiency of their flight is a difficult moment for me. Their sister formations are killing half a world a way. The power of force to stop evil is being tested. Reflecting on the actions of the killers there is a male fantasy which emerges in my own mind. If I only could have been there and tackled them then I might have saved the students. In following the feelings associated with this fantasy I was astonished at the violence within my own reaction. I found myself shredding the killers in my mind’s eye. From where springs this violence? This is an important question for myself and for all of us. I fear the heroism of my fantasy is situational. Like the mythical armies of old which spring to life with each head removed the roots of the violence in Littleton cannot be constrained by force. The violence must be reparented by relationship. How do I respond to the hatred of the preacher is a question which I must ask. I chose to walk by him and not challenge the hatred. In retrospect I am suspect of my actions. Have I passed by an opportunity for dialogue which may have had an effect? We are asked to consider all the ways we deny the opportunity for dialogue as a way to heal the divisions which sustain the violence of our world. What do I do with the military presence at the memorial? Not only did Air Force jets flyby, but Colin Powell, past chief of our armed forces, was on the stage. The organized efficiency of our military has fought two wars in recent times, Vietnam and the Gulf War, each of which has left hundreds of thousands social casualties in its wake as the veterans return with physical and psychological imbalances. We need to contain violence, but if in that containment we sow the seeds of our cultures own destruction then have really contained it? Or has it broken out yet again in the middle of Littleton? We must ask hard questions, and answer them, about what true defense is and how our preoccupation with power has possibly engendered this disaster.

The tender heart of this extraordinary afternoon is the best healing we can bring to our schools, our communes and our nation; see if we can walk in crowds linked through the heart in waves of elegance, see if we can stand with strangers and realize we are joined together in this school of life, see if we can end the battlefields within our homes and communities which have made refugees of us all. A spear of light has pierced the columbine. The shadows of its roots are revealed and the precious innocence of its survivors find expression in song and unity. That it took the calculated, systematic and coldly executed actions of a few to release such light is a paradox I cannot assume to understand. That the columbine is illuminated is a great hope and comfort.

May we not turn our backs, out of expediency, to the light of this moment.