People gather at Lynhurst Park where a candle light vigil was being held for the victims of the Annunciation Catholic School shooting in Minneapolis that left at least 2 dead and 17 others injured, in Minnesota, United States on August 27, 2025.
Our Journey Beyond the God of Violence
The consciousness of fear won’t go away, but our sense of what constitutes power over it—what constitutes God—must, and will, continue to evolve.
Who am I (now)? I’m still trying to figure this out. It’s a harder job, I fear, even than putting all my dishes, all my clothes, all my books and miscellany away. I have moved, as I’ve noted, from my house of 40 years—from the city of Chicago, where I lived for almost half a century—to a retirement community in Appleton, Wisconsin, to be near my family.
Yeah, it’s called a retirement community, not an old folks’ home or some other cynically realistic name, which is fine with me, even though, dadgummit, I ain’t retired. But as I sit at my computer today—my primary writing day—I feel the urge to retire, aka, give up, shrug, and do nothing except kill time. At the same time, a terrifying cry rips through me. I’ve gotta keep writing! Never has this cry felt more urgent.
My life is totally different now, but my journey, to face the soul of the unknown, to carve understanding from it and put it into words, continues. Yes, things are different. The unknown is larger and more profound for me than it’s ever been. and I feel, in a way, more lost than I’ve felt since childhood. So my writing has to confront a paradox. How can I presume to write with certainty if I don’t know what I’m talking about? I see only one way forward: Intensify the honesty I bring to my words—personalize it—and in the process turn certainty into complexity.
I say this as I try to transition beyond the sheerly personal columns I’ve written in the last two months, as my life has changed, and look again at the world at large, which, oh Lord, continues to run amok... from the school shooting last week in Minneapolis to the bombing and starvation and endless horror in Gaza and around the world, which “world leaders” continue to inflict on those dubbed the enemy, or children of the enemy (and thus the future enemy).
This is my world. I feel, ever more deeply, the dehumanization that is inextricably a part of the global boundaries—national and personal, political and spiritual—we have created, and which we sustain with an us-vs.-them militarism that puts the whole planet in danger. Even as I age, I cannot let myself grow dull to this. I can only scream: No-o-o-o!
And I quote part of a poem I wrote in the wake of the 1999 Columbine massacre, about a vigil gun-rights advocates held in defiance of President Bill Clinton’s visit to the site of the horror. They held signs that said “Gun Control Kills Kids” and “We Will Never Give Up Our Guns.” The poem is called “Vigil.”
...I am in awe
of the deadeye imperturbability
of the armed righteous,
who look upon the world’s suffering
and see targets.
They stand in potent prayer
with hands clasped
and arms extended,
judgment on a hairtrigger,
God in the recoil.
I believe them.
I believe they believe
in their own innocence
and the innocence of guns,
to clean, to cradle,
to cherish and employ.
What you have to understand
is the good they do,
picking off home invaders,
the furtive dark-clad,
the malevolent, the incomprehensible,
the hungry.
More innocent still
is the worship of guns
and the worship of the gods
they allow us to become...
The consciousness of fear won’t go away, but our sense of what constitutes power over it—what constitutes God—must, and will, continue to evolve. This is the hope I pray and bleed for. This is the hope I carry in my heart as I hobble through my new apartment, reminding myself that our journey isn’t over.
Urgent. It's never been this bad.
Dear Common Dreams reader, It’s been nearly 30 years since I co-founded Common Dreams with my late wife, Lina Newhouser. We had the radical notion that journalism should serve the public good, not corporate profits. It was clear to us from the outset what it would take to build such a project. No paid advertisements. No corporate sponsors. No millionaire publisher telling us what to think or do. Many people said we wouldn't last a year, but we proved those doubters wrong. Together with a tremendous team of journalists and dedicated staff, we built an independent media outlet free from the constraints of profits and corporate control. Our mission from the outset was simple. To inform. To inspire. To ignite change for the common good. Building Common Dreams was not easy. Our survival was never guaranteed. When you take on the most powerful forces—Wall Street greed, fossil fuel industry destruction, Big Tech lobbyists, and uber-rich oligarchs who have spent billions upon billions rigging the economy and democracy in their favor—the only bulwark you have is supporters who believe in your work. But here’s the urgent message from me today. It’s never been this bad out there. And it’s never been this hard to keep us going. At the very moment Common Dreams is most needed and doing some of its best and most important work, the threats we face are intensifying. Right now, with just two days to go in our Spring Campaign, we're falling short of our make-or-break goal. When everyone does the little they can afford, we are strong. But if that support retreats or dries up, so do we. Can you make a gift right now to make sure Common Dreams not only survives but thrives? There is no backup plan or rainy day fund. There is only you. —Craig Brown, Co-founder |
Who am I (now)? I’m still trying to figure this out. It’s a harder job, I fear, even than putting all my dishes, all my clothes, all my books and miscellany away. I have moved, as I’ve noted, from my house of 40 years—from the city of Chicago, where I lived for almost half a century—to a retirement community in Appleton, Wisconsin, to be near my family.
Yeah, it’s called a retirement community, not an old folks’ home or some other cynically realistic name, which is fine with me, even though, dadgummit, I ain’t retired. But as I sit at my computer today—my primary writing day—I feel the urge to retire, aka, give up, shrug, and do nothing except kill time. At the same time, a terrifying cry rips through me. I’ve gotta keep writing! Never has this cry felt more urgent.
My life is totally different now, but my journey, to face the soul of the unknown, to carve understanding from it and put it into words, continues. Yes, things are different. The unknown is larger and more profound for me than it’s ever been. and I feel, in a way, more lost than I’ve felt since childhood. So my writing has to confront a paradox. How can I presume to write with certainty if I don’t know what I’m talking about? I see only one way forward: Intensify the honesty I bring to my words—personalize it—and in the process turn certainty into complexity.
I say this as I try to transition beyond the sheerly personal columns I’ve written in the last two months, as my life has changed, and look again at the world at large, which, oh Lord, continues to run amok... from the school shooting last week in Minneapolis to the bombing and starvation and endless horror in Gaza and around the world, which “world leaders” continue to inflict on those dubbed the enemy, or children of the enemy (and thus the future enemy).
This is my world. I feel, ever more deeply, the dehumanization that is inextricably a part of the global boundaries—national and personal, political and spiritual—we have created, and which we sustain with an us-vs.-them militarism that puts the whole planet in danger. Even as I age, I cannot let myself grow dull to this. I can only scream: No-o-o-o!
And I quote part of a poem I wrote in the wake of the 1999 Columbine massacre, about a vigil gun-rights advocates held in defiance of President Bill Clinton’s visit to the site of the horror. They held signs that said “Gun Control Kills Kids” and “We Will Never Give Up Our Guns.” The poem is called “Vigil.”
...I am in awe
of the deadeye imperturbability
of the armed righteous,
who look upon the world’s suffering
and see targets.
They stand in potent prayer
with hands clasped
and arms extended,
judgment on a hairtrigger,
God in the recoil.
I believe them.
I believe they believe
in their own innocence
and the innocence of guns,
to clean, to cradle,
to cherish and employ.
What you have to understand
is the good they do,
picking off home invaders,
the furtive dark-clad,
the malevolent, the incomprehensible,
the hungry.
More innocent still
is the worship of guns
and the worship of the gods
they allow us to become...
The consciousness of fear won’t go away, but our sense of what constitutes power over it—what constitutes God—must, and will, continue to evolve. This is the hope I pray and bleed for. This is the hope I carry in my heart as I hobble through my new apartment, reminding myself that our journey isn’t over.
- The Nation Must Have the Moral Courage To Carry on the Work of Martin Luther King Jr. ›
- The US Can End the Gaza Genocide Now ›
- For Mainstream Media, the Extreme Gore in Gaza Isn’t ‘Brutal’ ›
- Can Humanity Grow Up Into a World Beyond Foes? ›
- Opinion | Taking Stock of America's Violent Century | Common Dreams ›
- Opinion | Violence Is the USA's True God and Pete Hegseth Is High Priest | Common Dreams ›
Who am I (now)? I’m still trying to figure this out. It’s a harder job, I fear, even than putting all my dishes, all my clothes, all my books and miscellany away. I have moved, as I’ve noted, from my house of 40 years—from the city of Chicago, where I lived for almost half a century—to a retirement community in Appleton, Wisconsin, to be near my family.
Yeah, it’s called a retirement community, not an old folks’ home or some other cynically realistic name, which is fine with me, even though, dadgummit, I ain’t retired. But as I sit at my computer today—my primary writing day—I feel the urge to retire, aka, give up, shrug, and do nothing except kill time. At the same time, a terrifying cry rips through me. I’ve gotta keep writing! Never has this cry felt more urgent.
My life is totally different now, but my journey, to face the soul of the unknown, to carve understanding from it and put it into words, continues. Yes, things are different. The unknown is larger and more profound for me than it’s ever been. and I feel, in a way, more lost than I’ve felt since childhood. So my writing has to confront a paradox. How can I presume to write with certainty if I don’t know what I’m talking about? I see only one way forward: Intensify the honesty I bring to my words—personalize it—and in the process turn certainty into complexity.
I say this as I try to transition beyond the sheerly personal columns I’ve written in the last two months, as my life has changed, and look again at the world at large, which, oh Lord, continues to run amok... from the school shooting last week in Minneapolis to the bombing and starvation and endless horror in Gaza and around the world, which “world leaders” continue to inflict on those dubbed the enemy, or children of the enemy (and thus the future enemy).
This is my world. I feel, ever more deeply, the dehumanization that is inextricably a part of the global boundaries—national and personal, political and spiritual—we have created, and which we sustain with an us-vs.-them militarism that puts the whole planet in danger. Even as I age, I cannot let myself grow dull to this. I can only scream: No-o-o-o!
And I quote part of a poem I wrote in the wake of the 1999 Columbine massacre, about a vigil gun-rights advocates held in defiance of President Bill Clinton’s visit to the site of the horror. They held signs that said “Gun Control Kills Kids” and “We Will Never Give Up Our Guns.” The poem is called “Vigil.”
...I am in awe
of the deadeye imperturbability
of the armed righteous,
who look upon the world’s suffering
and see targets.
They stand in potent prayer
with hands clasped
and arms extended,
judgment on a hairtrigger,
God in the recoil.
I believe them.
I believe they believe
in their own innocence
and the innocence of guns,
to clean, to cradle,
to cherish and employ.
What you have to understand
is the good they do,
picking off home invaders,
the furtive dark-clad,
the malevolent, the incomprehensible,
the hungry.
More innocent still
is the worship of guns
and the worship of the gods
they allow us to become...
The consciousness of fear won’t go away, but our sense of what constitutes power over it—what constitutes God—must, and will, continue to evolve. This is the hope I pray and bleed for. This is the hope I carry in my heart as I hobble through my new apartment, reminding myself that our journey isn’t over.
- The Nation Must Have the Moral Courage To Carry on the Work of Martin Luther King Jr. ›
- The US Can End the Gaza Genocide Now ›
- For Mainstream Media, the Extreme Gore in Gaza Isn’t ‘Brutal’ ›
- Can Humanity Grow Up Into a World Beyond Foes? ›
- Opinion | Taking Stock of America's Violent Century | Common Dreams ›
- Opinion | Violence Is the USA's True God and Pete Hegseth Is High Priest | Common Dreams ›