Sunday, Sunday

There are many things to think about on a Sunday morning. But this Sunday, not so very many. This Sunday I will not finish my almost annual, always belated new year's greeting.

This Sunday, I can't think back to last year, only to yesterday. Only to yet another use of firearms to stop beating hearts. Only to this country's separate and separating ideologies that erupt all too often in senseless violence. Only to Judge John M. Roll who was and always will be younger than I am today. Only to Gabrielle Giffords, who is more moderate than most conservatives in Europe, and may she continue to be for may years. Only to those unnamed, grief-stricken families.

This Sunday, I'm thinking about the politicians and reporters who whip up a frenzy of fear, exaggerations, and extremist predictions. And who are probably standing with heads bowed today. And who make me wonder if they feel any guilt at all.

When did we let our disagreements carry us so far? Can we find our way from here to a spirited, sane, honest, non-violent debate of ideas? Devoid of accusatory rhetoric? Silent on the private, personal behavior of others? Mute about the motives of anyone but, for each of us, our own selves?

We can never make this right. Should we try to make ourselves a little more right? This year, I resolve to try -- to be a little more accurate and a little less righteous; to be a little less sure that the opposition has less right to speak than I do; maybe even to consider differences instead of attacking them. I might work up to joking about them. But not today.