Today we grieve.
No recriminations, no finger pointing, no politics.
Today, we just sit here numb, awash in the sorrow of loss.
Tomorrow we will ask questions. About the suspect. About the law. About the protests and the politicians and the pastors. About the cowardice and depravity the mayor spoke of, about the war on his streets, about the battle in our society, about the divisions in our hearts.
Tomorrow we will talk about taking back the streets, and about the credo of the warrior – that if you bleed into the soil you must own the soil, you must claim it and defend it. Tomorrow we will talk about making Rochester safe again, for its citizens and its protectors.
But today we are one, united in loss.
Grateful for the deliverance of a young father, devastated by the loss of an old friend. Moved by the sacrifice of service and reminder that there is no greater love than to die for another.
Though this officer did not die for one, he died for all. For all who live here and all who work here and all who carry this place dear in their hearts. He died for the Young Lion of the West, the Flour City and the Flower City, for the blacks and the whites and the blue-and-whites and everybody who has ever drawn a breath of Rochester air and found their fate and their dream here. For every mother and the child at her breast, the old and the young, for strangers and anyone who flags down an officer or punches in 9-1-1. For those who shed tears and feel pain and struggle with loss.
That’s who he died for, and that’s who he lived for.
For almost 30 years – near 10 past the time he could have cashed in – he stayed and he served, because he loved, because he could, because he was born to. Because it’s not a job, it’s a calling, you don’t work for City Hall, you work for God, and he needs you to protect his children, and he’s got your back.
And sometimes, before your shift is done, he welcomes you home.
Like he welcomed his Son.
That’s what they do. The two who fell, and all who wear their uniform and badge, here or anywhere. Guardians of the night, protectors of the fold.
And today we pray for them, and their families, and for the young mayor who must now lead us all forward. Yesterday in the morning he declared a state of emergency; yesterday in the evening his declaration was proved prescient. And today we turn to him for leadership and guidance, in the expression of our sorrow and in the processing of our rage, and ultimately for the redemption of our community.
Depravity and cowardice are at the root, he said yesterday, and before the day was truly done he was shown prophetic, as a coward ambushed two police officers tracking down a killer, and with depravity – a surfeit of wickedness and immorality – he dismissed their humanity, lives and loves with the squeeze of a trigger.
And as the bright sun dawns on another Rochester day, one family clings to a father saved, and another family mourns a father lost.
There will be statements and pronouncements, the governor will come and the funeral will be held. Bagpipes and muffled drums and rank upon rank of respectful salutes. We will sit in silent respect as they preach and eulogize and flash pictures on a screen. Denny Wright will be there, and Tony DiPonzio, and Amy Pierson, and the heart of every man and woman who has borne the banner of the Rochester Police Department.
But today we are stunned. Broken by the hard reality known to so many but ignored by most. The hard reality of violence and loss and blood on the ground. Of knocks at doors and wailing at the police tape. The sounds of the Rochester night – gunfire and screaming sirens and the sobs of loved ones bereft.
Today the Rochester Police Department is not the protector, it is the victim. It is the mother, heartbroken on the couch, not comprehending what she is being told.
The Rochester Police Department, and we all.
Tomorrow we will take this battle up. We will ask why and how and hold contributors accountable.
But not today.
Today we grieve.