Violence and the Manger

I tried to not write this. Not in December, anyway. Not when we’re all supposed to be thinking about angels and presents and joy and peace.

I’m sorry, but it can’t wait. It’s too important.

And, in a way, it’s what Christmas is all about.

Yesterday, again, students huddled in fear as police searched for a shooter on a school campus in Las Vegas.

Again.

Only a few days earlier, on Sunday, the U.S. marked its 37th and 38th mass shootings of the year, more than in any year since at least 2006. Mass shootings ― defined by the FBI as any incident in which at least four people are murdered with a gun ― have killed nearly 200 people and injured another 100 this year alone.

Less-publicized, non-mass murders end the lives of 20-some-thousand people a year in our country. In Michigan, where I live, at least 685 people, including nearly 50 children, died by murder in 2022. Another nearly 35,000 were the victims of violent assault. 

National data paints an imprecise picture of crime trends. By some measures, violent crime has actually decreased markedly for the past three decades, while other stats show recent surges in violence, especially murder.

Numbers and trends matter. Frankly, though, I don’t care if violence is going up or down. It exists, and it’s killing our kids, and it’s not OK.

In November, The Washington Post broke my heart when it published a collection of photos taken in the aftermath of several of our nation’s horrific mass shootings.

The pictures don’t show identifiable bodies or overt gruesomeness. They are not horror-movie graphic.

They’re worse.

Worse because they’re real.

As the Post explained in statements from its editors, the decision to publish those photos was made carefully and after much internal debate over what to show, and why. Many photos obtained by The Post didn’t make the cut because they would be too upsetting, especially to the families of those killed.

It’s all upsetting. I stood in my kitchen and sobbed when I finally worked up the courage to look at the photos and read the accompanying quotes from people who were there, words full of pain and confusion and loss. It all hurt like a gut punch. I wanted to swipe the scenes away and scroll Facebook or surf for animal memes, instead.

I imagine The Post heard from more than a few angry readers aghast at the outlet’s decision to share the images, just like I imagine some people reading this may find themselves upset with me for talking about this, especially now, with Christmas all around us.

But I’m writing about it for the same reason I made myself stand in my kitchen and look, the same reason The Post chose to publish. Because we need to see the bad. Or nothing ever gets better.

When our kids have to practice active shooter drills, when we can’t go anywhere ― not a concert, not a bowling alley, not church ― and know we are safe, it’s time to do something. It’s past time.

Doing nothing is not an option.

And waiting for someone else to do something is not an option, either.

All over the country, legislators and politicians are arguing about the best way to reduce crime. That’s great. Safety should absolutely be a top-priority discussion, and that discussion should lead to action. Now.

Policymakers alone can’t keep us safe, though. New rules, by themselves, won’t stop the hands or change the minds of people driven to hurt other people.

"Mass shootings don’t happen in my town," you may be thinking. I hope you’re right. I hope it never happens to you, to your town. And maybe you live in a place where even single murders are rare or unheard of. Give thanks for that. 

But murder is not the only measure of violence. Even in the safest hamlets, the quietest villages, people are assaulting other people. Kids are being neglected and abused. People are ending their own lives. And the contributors to violent behavior ― inadequate resources, insurmountable barriers, loneliness, desperation ― are everywhere. Around the corner. In your neighbor’s home. At your front doorstep. 

These are our communities. We can and should demand that those with power over us do everything in their power to keep us safe. But safety is in our hands, too.

I just got home from the courthouse, where a judge sentenced a 20-year-old to spend the next 23 years in prison for firing one bullet that ended the life of another young man. As the victim’s mother poured out her pain to the sentencing judge, I couldn’t help wondering what points along the shooter’s path could have kept his finger off of the trigger.

A teacher’s words. A neighbor’s kind gesture. An affirming text message, a passerby’s smile, a toy and warm pair of mittens from the local church’s Christmas gift drive. A hot meal. Could any such seemingly insignificant gesture have done enough good to save a life?

No one action, any more than any one law or policy or program, can stop violence. But one action could impact one decision at one critical juncture in someone's life. It could be the last whap of an ax before a tree is ready to fall, the final push someone needed for them to choose Path A instead of Path B.

When I think about the complexity of the problems around me, I get overwhelmed and want to look the other way. I can’t fix it. I can’t make people put down their guns and lower their fists.

But I can do one thing. And maybe, though I’ll never know it, my one thing is the thing that makes the difference.

The hay-filled manger with its precious cargo is joy and sweetness and angels and heavenly peace. But if that’s where it stops, Christmas is meaningless.

That baby in a box did not come to coo at shepherds. He came to do battle.

Christmas is a rallying cry. What we celebrate each year amid the tinsel and bows is the forward-march cry of the Christ child who led the charge out into an aching world, out where he knocked over tables and riled up leaders and stood on a hill where he stretched out his arms, looked at the people around Him, and loved the hell out of them.

Soak up that precious Christmas peace as much as you can. It’s rare and beautiful. Then take a good look at the world around you, with all its pain and ugliness, and follow the lead of our warrior Savior for whom doing nothing was not an option.

Volunteer at the food bank. Donate to the thrift store. Look an intimidating stranger in the eye and smile at them. Give a homeless person a jar of peanut butter. Do something.

It might be the thing that saves a life.

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Although I address violent behavior in my writing, I want to clarify that the person in the photo at the top of this post does not represent violence. Her name is Cassie. Last night, she slept in an abandoned building. Her last meal was yesterday, when a man gave her some leftover pancakes. Despite her obvious mental illness, she is not dangerous.

I suspect the three dollars I gave her won’t help her that much, nor the ten minutes I sat on the sidewalk and listened to her. But we just don’t know what difference our actions might make. 

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