“Oftentimes I have heard you speak of one who commits a wrong as though he were not one of you, but a stranger unto you and an intruder upon your world.
But I say that even as the holy and the righteous cannot rise beyond the highest which is in each of you, so the wicked and the weak cannot fall lower than the lowest which is in you also.
And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree, so the wrong-doer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all.
Like a procession you walk together towards your god-self.”
– Kahlil Gibran, excerpt from The Prophet
Imagine a concrete box called home for years, 23 hours a day, shuffling in chains when you do get out for that 60 minutes per day. Try to feel what it would be like to be seen and treated daily as a monster, evil, someone labeled as deserving to be killed. Let’s face it: most of us couldn’t make it one day in solitary confinement, enduring the brutality of prison conditions, let-alone what life on death row in a super-max prison would do to our psyche. We have nine men living in such conditions in the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla. How do we as people of faith and proclaimed values allow this? Even if you personally believe some crimes deserve to receive a death sentence, who among us can claim certainty that our human justice system is perfect and doesn’t make mistakes?
Andrea Lyon, a criminal defense attorney and author of “Angel of Death Row“, saw each client as a human being, as loveable; beyond their situation, beyond their injuries, poor choices, and even in some cases their violence. She has more of a heart for people than most anyone — she seems more like a devout religious leader than the generalized view of attorneys. Those she represented with a capital punishment charge were tossed into a class she called the “despised” ones. Not one to shy away from explicit language, Lyons didn’t mess around with the term used by us abolitionists as we work to spread awareness, the less offensive phra for this population of society; “the marginalized.” To whom is this terminology less offensive? I would propose it was not coined in consideration of the accused, but rather in consideration of the society which sits back in righteous judgment.
My spiritual life began as far back as I have conscious memory, always asking God how? Why? And please save me. Because I was born to an Italian/French family in the suburbs of California, I was drawn towards Christianity, first Catholicism, then transitioned into evangelical Christianity, and eventually on to Calvinist Reformed Christianity. Now-a-days I call myself a seeker because I do not abide by any one religion, creed, scriptures, philosophy, or doctrine. I take the blessings from all religious sources promoting love, peace, honoring the world around us, and human growth — and I allow anything else to slip away. Why this notable change? I could say it was a result of hard work and spiritual practice — to which I put in countless hours over many years. But in reality the critical influences on my spiritual life have been two trials; first my sister’s trial in 1995 which ended with her receiving the death sentence. Then my own trial held by my seven church elders in 2001, in which I was fully excommunicated (essentially, sentenced to spiritual death). Both were extreme eye-openers.
My sister’s offense was becoming a dysfunctional drug addict, one of the so-called “despised”, and so her life was deemed worthless and the crime she was accused of made her a monster. My offense was to disobey the elders by divorcing my abusive husband without their consent. Both sentences left me and my sister devastated, totally lost and alone.
My sister’s sentence has exposed me to the criminal justice system on a personal level, imparting on me intimate knowledge of the courts and the penitentiaries. Not only exposing a broken justice system, which I helplessly watched pronounce death on my innocent sister, but with those experiences came the opportunity to interact with other residents of facilities, and to learn first-hand people are people; loveable, just like you and me. Even those locked away in our prisons, sometimes especially those.
“For those about to take my life, may God have mercy on all of your souls. God bless you all.” No, I’m not quoting the amazing final words Jesus the Nazareth, these are the last words spoken by Troy Davis, a man strapped down and executed in Georgia, after 20 years living in a cage on death row.
Does a retributive system serve us or is it just a quick and easy way to sweep the mess away from our sight? Who is responsible for a heinous crime — is it only the offender, or did we fail them somewhere along the way?
Instead of inundating you with arguments, statistics, and facts from numerous cases, I’d rather challenge you to ponder these questions at the end of this article, one at a time. We may have opposite answers on some, or all, but it’s a good way to begin an honest conversation on the death penalty.
When has retributive action ever changed your heart? How often has a loving gesture created more love within you? Do you see hope for growth in your children through loving guidance and forgiveness within safe boundaries, or through harsh and severe punishment? Do you believe life is a gift? Do you believe all people are of equal value? Who should decide when a life no longer holds any value, is no longer fit to live?
Does a peaceful, loving society solve its problems with violence?
”Crime & Punishment?” is the topic of our next Coffee Talk, which will take place at 10 a.m., Dec. 7 at Indaba Coffee. Thorpe is a guest panelist.
