A booming voice, even in silence
Silence. Hear the silence, the sound of nothingness, crashing like waves upon this star-kissed city’s shore in the face of injustice and poverty that roar.
Silence deafening amid burgeoning malevolence, merciless greed that leaves Black lives scattered, Black lives shattered. Listless in the bitter night cold. Frozen in drifting now. Souls frostbitten by hatred so cold, so bold.
Old schemes in “The White City,” where Black dreams remain elusive, privilege exclusive. And voices that challenge the status quo, so few and far between that silence now screams!
But I can still hear Pfleger, Father Pfleger, cryin’ in the wilderness of dreams. Defyin’ cataclysmic schemes. No matter how silent Chicago now seems — without him.
Silence. Feel the void, a familiar oppressive noise, rising violently. Capsizing, sinking beneath relentless stormy seas. Fragile new hopes, old dreams. Gasping amid Silence that drowns cries that abound.
Of those who die with the mucus of poverty dripping from their lonely eyes. The deafening sound of piercing lies that soar miles high toward forbidden, powder blue skies with invisible glass ceilings. Repressed feelings and PTSD in this American city of Du Sable — where the Negro still is not free.
Who is unafraid to speak for me? To fight for we? For us, in frequencies decipherable by even the least of these. But reviled by powers that be.
A voice unrelenting. Uncompromised. And yet despised. “The Enemy” to them who lie. But Champion in our brown eyes for decades now, unto this hour:
Pfleger. Father Pfleger. No. 1 Instigator. No. 1 Agitator. Chief Drum Major for Justice both here and beyond. A city I find most fond of silence.
Silence. O, great city now absent of that rolling thunder that cries aloud, “Justice!” even when it just is just us for whom justice is still denied. O, city that does not hear our cries:
“16 shots!” Crooked cops. Hopelessness running like deep rivers of snot. And the whole hood realizing, “We’re all we got.”
Amid woeful neglect. Cast aside and disrespect. Promises made. But not promises kept.
Liars on the right, haters on the left, Pfleger in the middle. Except now we’re left with silence ...
Silence. As cold winds blow through this city on the verge of losing her soul — Chicago. Stone cold emptiness — Chicago. Icy old hollowness — Chicago. From the Gold Coast to the Cold Coast — Chicago.
Where your twinkling skyscrapers and Ferris wheel, and your shimmering midnight shore shield the truths that lie just beyond your front door. Of how you absolutely abhor those who would shine the light upon your cancerous sores. Upon your history of those whom your bullets have claimed. Or of accusations that — like hollow points — murder a name. Is not a man “presumed innocent?” Let truth and justice reign.
This much is plain: Pfleger, Father Pfleger, has marched into the fiery hell of city streets. Waged a holy war for the least of these. Did not abandon ship in stormy seas. Sought not politicians or preachers to please. Cried aloud and spared not in the face of hate. That he might help alter this city’s fate. Declaring with crystal clear clarity in the key of Charity, the way things are, but the way things ought to be.
His light shining. Redefining “church.” Bringing healing to hurt. Not a savior. But a man who has lifted his voice for a righteous plan. Stood as a good shepherd in defense of lambs when so many so-called leaders didn’t give a damn.
Silence!
Except I still hear Pfleger, Father Pfleger. And the witness of his light, after all these years, compels me now and here, loud and clear, to say something:
To hell with Silence!