…is clearly not a virus, but rot in the soul of a whole country. Today’s images of the president clutching a Bible against his big belly while tear gas and screaming continue beyond the frame must sicken us even further.

This past week, taking a cue from the pastor of my church, I engaged in a “media fast”—that is, I avoided reading newspapers, watching on-screen news reports (we do not do television at our house, but there’s plenty pouring out of the computer), and checking Facebook. I used email to keep up with friends and to note headlines. But mostly I did not torture myself with the relentless repetition of political evil-doings and clashing opinions.

But looking away is not a solution for the longer term. Figuring out how I am complicit in the systemic oppression of other people is JOB ONE. “Am I blinded by white privilege?” I ask. “What is water?” asks the fish.

My little outburst of emotion in response to the most recent murder of a black citizen by brutal police produced a poem, which I will post here. Statistics say that more than 1000 brown-skinned people die every year at the hands of law enforcement. Incarceration, economic inequity, lack of medical care….you know the symptoms of the sickness as well as I do. I might add that uncontrolled gun ownership makes killing a first and not a last resort for people more interested in their “rights” than their responsibilities to the community we call America. I want America to be good again, truly the land of the free. But not free to kill whoever looks or believes differently than “us” here or anywhere in the world.

DEAR DR. KING

It didn’t work, did it, that non-violence thing.
You’ve become the white people’s saint, aiming
to keep the brown-skinned people quiet in their churches.

Now the planet’s meanest thug cowers and rules, golfs
while the whole world burns, turns revenge
into a new kind of war.

But he’s not the problem. He’s just the pimple
on a deep and festering sore. Patience
never made an infection go away.
We can no longer meekly kneel to protest and pray.

I hear the sound of ploughshares being beaten into swords,
like the one blindfolded Justice
holds in her other hand.

Incidentally, in composing this, I happened to look online for images of Lady Justice—you know, the Greek-garbed figure holding the scales in one hand and a sword in the other. As a consequence, all week, I’ve been receiving unsolicited advertising from a discount home décor outfit offering little statues of Justice to decorate my mantel. The answer to the kind of people we are meant to be isn’t in the quantity of stuff we can buy, economic recovery notwithstanding. I don’t need a little statue. We all need the real thing: Justice.