Timothy McVeigh and the Rabbit

Yesterday, as I unfortunately frequently do, I got up in the middle of the night. I usually sit at the computer for a while, read a few articles from the NY Times, and check out the increasingly depressing Covid statistics. One announcement moved me deeply. Trump's Justice Department carried out the execution of Brandon Bernard, age 40, who had been on death's row since the age of eighteen. He had been the driver of a getaway car; the planned robbery went awry and two people were brutally murdered. However, Brandon didn't murder or intend to murder anybody. Some disculpatory evidence had been withheld, the surviving jurors who had convicted him were now against his execution, as well as one of the prosecutors. His behavior in prison was exemplary.

The execution was a national shame.

Trump's team is planning to execute five convicts before Biden assumes office--Biden is against the death penalty. Another example of what I call White Spite. The rush to kill is truly unprecedented; it hasn't occurred in the past 130 years. (In Grover Cleveland's time, the death penalty was rarely questioned.)

Bernard was Black and poor. It is well established that Blacks are much more likely to be executed than whites. It also depends on the state in which a murder occurs. But I'm less interested in all that. I think the death penalty should be outlawed, as it is in Europe, in all cases.

This afternoon, my wife was going through some old papers, and came across an old article of mine, entitled Timothy McVeigh and the Rabbit. I wrote it at the end of Timothy McVeigh's trial for his participation in the  Oklahoma Bombing of 1995. (Some of you might be too young to  remember the incident. McVeigh was what we would call a White Supremacist terrorist today; he hated anything to do with government, and bombed a federal building, during which many died.) I am sorry to say that what I wrote a quarter of  century ago is still pertinent today; I will now quote the article in its entirety.

Timothy McVeigh and the Rabbit

There is a familiar Buddhist tale, typical of many, that concerns one of Buddha's incarnations. According to this symbolic story, the Buddha had cone to Earth as a rabbit. After a long life as a model hutchholder, he roamed the countryside performing good deeds. During a time of famine, he came across a Brahmin who was near death from starvation. A pot of boiling water lay over a fire, but there was no food. The rabbit-Buddha did not hesitate. He shook himself vigorously to save any fleas that might be in his fur, then jumped into the boiling water to become the Brahmin's dinner and thus saved his life.

We Westerners cannot help reacting to the extremism of such stories. I remember being repelled by this rabbit who forgets that the one who loves deserves to live, too; then I looked deeper. If we were less radical in our wrongs, we would need less radical examples to help us become more kind. The ancient Buddhists knew human nature; extreme examples of self-sacrifice were used to lift people towards a more morally balanced life. Without such guides, modern humans have sunk very low indeed. Compassion is in very short supply. A good example is how ardently most of us wish that Timothy McVeigh be put to death. Where is that rabbit now? If he could testify at the penalty hearing of Timothy McVeigh, what would this wonderful rabbit say?

First and foremost, the rabbit's sympathy would go out to all those people whose lives have been devastated by McVeigh's crime. He would listen without judgement to their expressions of vengeance. It is understandable; hate can give temporary shape to the shapelessness that McVeigh injected into their lives, forever. However, what is understandable is not always right. The rabbit would be firmly convinced that in the long run hate always proves to be salt not suture; it can never accomplish so-called closure of their terrible wounds.

What about the rest of us whose lives were not immediately affected by the bombing, who are clamoring that McVeigh receive the death penalty in the name of retributive justice? What about the woman on The Today Show who not only said that death was the appropriate punishment for "that animal," but that the death should be slow and painful? In my mind's ear, I hear the rabbit say, "Thousands of years have passed since my birth; how can it be that people are still the same?" In my mind's eye I see him pack a few carrots and, for the benefit of us all, head straight for Denver. (Editor's note: Denver is where the trial took place.) If he had been allowed to speak, would things have turned out differently?

Let us in our imaginations return to the penalty phase of the trial. Under his spell, Judge Matsch lets him speak. The rabbit cites obvious reasons for his opposition to the death penalty: it doesn't act as a deterrent; it is whimsically and inconsistently applied; it doesn't save taxpayers' money, since the expenses of appeals are more than the expenses of a lifetime of incarceration. Then he speaks from the heart.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, you claim that putting this man to death will help alleviate the suffering of his victims and assuage your anger and grief? I am only a rabbit; I cannot judge you. But many generations after my birth, I will become the Buddha. And as the Buddha, I will have said something which you very much need to hear: 'He abused me, he struck me, he overpowered me, he robbed me--those who harbor such thoughts do not still their hatred. He abused me, he struck me, he overpowered me, he robbed me--those who do not harbor such thoughts still their hatred.' Who is right, Buddha or you?" He paused, then looked out to a member of the jury. Her nose had become red. Did she understand? Or was she simply allergic to rabbits? Regardless, the rabbit continued.

"It is clear that hate will get us nowhere. But what about justice? Many of you claim that justice cries out for the death penalty in this case. Is that so? You have this idea, due to the notion of personal responsibility. It is a noble concept; without it none of us can lead a moral life. But I ask you: do we ever know enough about a person to judge him--rather than his behavior? Isn't science teaching us that we are determined in ways we hadn't suspected? Although each of us must hold ourselves accountable for our actions, dare we assume that we know another enough to judge him?"

"Many of you hold a certain historical figure in very high esteem. Did he not say, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged?' Have you forgotten what he said about forgiveness? I am only a rodent, but it seems to me that someone who professes to follow someone without heeding his words is a hypocrite indeed. Humans, are you not ashamed?" A few more noses had become red.

"You may ask, where is justice if we forgive? We must first of all be just to the rest of society. We must assure that McVeigh never commits such  a crime again. the one who did it is much more capable than the average person of doing it again; therefore there should be no possibility of parole.  In my opinion, laws should be there to protect society, rather than to punish or to seek vengeance. As far as higher justice is concerned, remember that McVeigh is still human. Is it possible that, after years of confinement, he will realize the enormity of his crime? What better punishment than that? It also entails the possibility of redemption. God works in strange ways, you say; is it up to you to straighten Him out?"

"In conclusion," said the rabbit, "did not a very famous rabbi, Rabbi Hillel say, 'What you wouldn't want done to yourself, do not do that to others?' Doesn't 'others' include everyone, criminals not excepted? Would you like to be executed by lethal injection?"

By the end of his testimony, every nose had become red. Red with shame, red with emotion, red with joy, for they had gained in wisdom. Only one nose remained unchanged: it lay on the expressionless face of Timothy McVeigh. He was still convinced that the government was evil. He knew that you couldn't make an omelet without breaking eggs. He knew many things. He was a real man. He wasn't about to learn wisdom from a rabbit, especially from a brown one. What about you?

In this photo, the kind personality of Brandon Bernard shines through. He looks more than a little like my son, who is also Black, approximately the same age, and, thank God! still very much alive. R.I.P. Brandon Bernard.