The Green Mile Seems So Long

Tonight I watched the movie The Green Mile on TV with my family. That film (and the book that inspired it—it's by Stephen King and I would definitely recommend the print version) is so saturated with emotion and difficult questions, and every time I watch it, something different latches onto my heart like a vise and twists until I hash it out. This time, the image of the guards on E Block tidying up the main room to prepare for an execution stuck with me. Watching them sweep the floors, set out folding chairs, and polish the one chair no one wants to sit in—but in which someone will have to sit—put me in mind of preparations being made for a show to be put on stage. I was appalled to watch the execution scenes as women in big hats and fancy dresses fanned themselves and their generally less well-dressed husbands as they calmly waited to watch another human being die. It was as if I had been transported back not to 1935 but to the 12th century and was watching as curious spectators gathered to witness a hanging.

Going along with that, I was struck by the things the people in the crowd had to say to the man being led to his death—struck not only by the nature of the comments but also by the familiar ring they brought to my ears, so used to being regaled with people's gallant declarations of support for the death penalty. I'll leave the actual issue to discuss another time; what I want to look at now is whatever it is in our human nature that makes the darkest parts of us well up at certain times.

The other day, I watched a video clip of Ann Coulter on a talk show. The day before, she had made a comment about John Edwards, and on this particular education, the audience was surprised to hear none other than Elizabeth Edwards' voice coming in over the line to speak to Coulter. Edwards was well-spoken, kept her composure very admirably, and had a very good point—namely, that Coulter's tendency to use personal attacks, often of a disturbingly cruel nature, on political candidates does nothing but paralyze actual debate over issues. I cheered Edwards on and scowled as Coulter rudely interrupted her (I don't care who you are, interrupting someone who's trying to make a sincere point is rude, and Coulter reigns supreme in that very activity), but I became extremely irked when the talk show host asked why Coulter felt it necessary to make fun of Hillary Clinton's and Monica Lewinsky's chubbiness in her book. Coulter stubbornly refused to answer the question unless he could produce the exact passage and give her the context; his response was that he himself was wondering what on earth the context could be. Certainly comments about Clinton's chubby legs have no place in political debate, but I found myself, someone who is none to comfortable with her own weight, muttering something bitter and terribly unkind about how skinny Ann Coulter is. At this point, I was engaged in a conversation about the subject with my father, who pointed out to me that I had just done the very same thing Coulter had done; I had made a personal attack, and the fact that I am sensitive about slights on people packing a little extra weight gives me no right to disparage those who are thin. Coulter, with her attitude of negativity, had appealed to my dark side and brought it out in full force.

I wonder if that very same thing were not happening at those fictional executions in The Green Mile, if that does not happen at executions today. When confronted with a person who murdered a friend or relative, who could honestly hope to keep the angry, primitive side of them from lashing out, as one character in the movie did, by shouting to "kill him twice, go on and kill him twice"? Darkness, grief, and evil breed their own. Perhaps that is why I was told again and again as I entered college to surround myself with good people. It was not in order to insulate myself from bad influences but to give the good in me a chance to be nurtured and encouraged, so that when I was faced with darkness in all its forms, I could enter into that situation without fear of being consumed by it, with the hope of consuming it with the love in which I had been growing. That is, after all, what Christian community is supposed to do; never to cut us off from the rest of the world, but to give us the strength and love necessary to go into the world and wrestle its demons without having to pretend we can do it alone. Alone, we succumb to the temptations of the world; as a community of people in communion with God, we can shed light even in the darkest places.

The question then becomes how to communicate this conviction, this hope, to the people who would sit on the front row in an execution chamber and shout, "kill him twice!" Oftentimes when I express my views about capital punishment, people respond with utmost confidence that if a member of my family were murdered, I would support the death penalty. But...no, I would not. Again, I'll save that whole discussion for another time, but for now, I will say that I at least would never want to watch anyone die, criminal or no—and aren't we all sinners, aren't we all murderers according to Jesus himself who said that he who is angry with his brother merits the same punishment as one who kills his brother (Matthew 5:21-22)?—and looking in the face of someone who had taken someone I loved and watching them die would bring me nothing resembling satisfaction. I wish I knew a way to communicate to those who believe that such a circumstance would bring them peace that there is a better way, a way of love and forgiveness...even now. To cry out for the death of another human being is to commit the murder, and it will not be an earthly government before which you or I will stand trial for such an act.