A million tiny pieces

The state of California executed Clarence Ray Allen at midnight last night. At midnight--the cusp between the anniversary of Martin Luther King's birthday and Allen's own 76th birthday--the state of California made an irreversible decision about the value of his life, about the possibility of redemption, about the righteousness of vengeance.

Last night, at the vigil marking his execution, I witnessed and mourned the death of one more tiny piece of our country's collective humanity. Humanity: the shapeless, intangible thing that distinguishes us from animals. Our soul, our spirit, our distinct light. I have always thought of humanity as essentially our ability to relate to one another, to empathize, to see ourselves in others and others in ourselves.

I had assumed that our humanity was a given. A definite, permanent state. Now I am not so sure. Can it be lost? Can it erode? Can it be chipped away by the everyday wear and tear of moral decisions? Perhaps humanity is a more fragile state than I had thought. How many tiny pieces of humanity can we lose before we've lost its basic essence? Before all we're left with are pieces that add up to nothing?

People will argue that Clarence Ray Allen was a murderer. They will argue that he put no value on the lives he took. They will argue that he long ago lost his humanity. They will use this as a justification for why he should have been executed. It seems to me, though, that the discussion should not really be about him. It is about the rest of us, and how many more pieces of our humanity we are willing to sacrifice in the name of "justice" or "moral authority" or "vengeance" or whatever other euphemism we choose to use. I just pray that we never lose too many.