Listen to Andrew Taylor-Troutman read his poem.
I get what my friend meant: these vigils can be performance theater, which — if we recall the etymology of hypocrisy as pertaining to actors — is a red-light warning. No self-righteousness. So, let’s begin by remembering we gather on land stolen from victims of genocide. Let’s realize we are not innocent, and live in a young country whose time of existence is but a drop in the bucket compared to the places in our prayers. Humility is the final frontier. Humility shares a root with humus, that is, dirt; dust from which we all come and shall return. Remember that. Let us come tonight with no sermons or declarations, no proud oratory or grand language. We are like sheep, the prophet said, all gone astray. Except today we have tanks and suicide bombs. Whether we attack with unmanned drones or by our own hand, the straightforward command Thou Shall Not Murder has been footnoted so many times that we do whatever we will. In a haunted world that says, “Kill or be killed,” let us be still. And know the voices of lament, their recorded words of old. Let us listen. Hear the hiss of the match, the kiss of the candle. See our tears reflecting the light.
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