For a lot of years we were seemingly schizophrenic between being lemmings and each being a unique soul with God-given "gifts".  We had Parish debates about gray area and definitely a sin.  And, stuff like, Is being a group a communism?  

  There were good people on all sides of the debating.  And some of us needed each other to make a point.  We brainstormed metaphor and poetry.  We were trying to understand how God's Word could be both-- literal and poetic.  It was taking great effort to keep explaining ourselves....

  It's not political, I don't want to mess up my sobriety.  You're party will be Gggggrrrreat.

  We need more people in this workgroup so we don't turn the work into a marriage.

  It's not that I don't want to be you, I CAN'T BE YOU. 

  By positing tough stuff to be worked through as "art" and "therapy" we created a space that wasn't the real world of business deals and driving where we could say, feel, know....I'm not perfect since the tree thing, but

  I'm not a piece of shit.

  Other kids started to say it too.  It  was a morning cup of coffee, a little mantra of determined people crammed into uniforms and rows of school children. 

  For a couple weeks, he'd say it before he opened his notebook and doodle a new thing.  So others of us did the same.  Even though it's not "good art".  The teacher though got insistent that nobody was allowed to swear in her classroom.  He shut the notebook.  Stood up.  And stated, I am not a terd.  A girl stood up and said the same thing.  Some of the guys giggled.  Somebody complained, Can't we just get to work. 

  One day the Monsignor sent a younger, almost cool, priest to find out....Why are they saying that? 

  It was like a nerfball game in regards real reasons.  But one kid who'd joined the growing movement of not being terds, with dark circles under his eyes, finally "snapped".  He stood up tall and the sun made a shadow of him that crossed the room.  The priest seemed to note that as poetry.  He'd been part of understanding better how Our God gave us beauty and scary as poetry in motion while we're on this spiritual journey.  The boy threw his arms up and out then shook his palms at us and crossed his arms. 

  "Did you know Father?" 

  The red-headed and bearded priest crossed himself for God's help and bowed his head quickly saying a silent prayer and just as quickly asked, "Know?" 

  "Us Altar Boys, we found out." 

  People got dumbfaced, ashen, red, horrified-looking. 

  "That priest that came up from South America," someone gasped, "The list went on for hours." 

  "What list child?" 

  The boy shook his head and dropped the tears starting to pour onto his sweatered folded arms. 

  "All the Christians they've killed." 

  People sighed and what?'d

  "For doing good." 

  "Doing the right thing?" Another boy still in a joke-about-everything phase to not commit asked.

  "Let me go get the Monsignor.  I'll be right back." He looked at each person, "I promise," he said.