As the Christian church sings the ancient song of the promised child this season, how hard must be the work of words in Newtown, Connecticut. There, for hundreds—or shall we say thousands? shall we say all who are paying attention?—some promised child is no longer in promise.
It is hard to speak in the aftermath of great harm. In Newtown, Conn., where the dead are not yet buried, songs, silence, embraces, candles— these matter. Lots of words don’t. Politicians are mostly awkward with real speech and real feeling, yet they are given the microphones. Over and over, they stutter the word awful tragedy, as if saying it could soothe the ravening beast. It does not.
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