Author: frankisemptiness

October 24th, 2024

A while back a friend sent me a link to a video about the dangers of empathy. I watched the video until the presenter got redundant, which didn’t take long. The point of his entire spiel was that empathy is a risky business. A person can get hurt by being empathetic.

As I listened to the man, I thought to myself, “Yeah, and… your point is what?”

I am not naturally empathetic. There are plenty of people (especially at my former workplace) who would testify that I am a heartless bastard. However, once in a while I feel and understand the pain of another person, and then act on that feeling. It is not necessarily a comfortable sensation. There is often the nagging question of “What am I getting myself into?” It is sometimes a leap into the unknown. I don’t usually enjoy that. I have already been burnt by standing too close to somebody whose life is an emotional dumpster fire.

Empathy, or let’s call it compassion, is heavily promoted in the world’s great religions. Both Jesus and Buddha were deeply compassionate, as were many of their followers. The Gospels give numerous examples of Jesus’ deep concern for those who were suffering. Images of the Buddha often show him with unusually large ears, apparently so that he could better hear the cries of a wounded world.

The speaker in the video remarked that many professional caregivers (nurses, therapists, etc.) burn out because they empathize too much with their patients. That’s true. A person’s resources are finite, and you can only give from what you have. I have learned the hard way that if I don’t care for myself, I can’t care for others. There are times when a person has to pull back and recharge. The stories of Christ and the Buddha describe how they did that. If a person who is divine, or nearly so, has to take break, then mere mortals definitely need to do so.

It should be noted that being a caregiver brings joy as well as pain. I am not a professional caregiver. I don’t get paid for watching over my toddler grandson, Asher, 24/7. I still retain my amateur status. Sometimes, caring for the little boy gets overwhelming, but there is also a loving bond between us. There are rewards for empathy that are nonmonetary, but nonetheless real.

The presenter also made a point that empathetic people are often manipulated and used by others. That’s true too. However, I go back to my question,

“Yeah, and what’s your point?”

I’ve been manipulated by the U.S. military and by corporate America. I’ve been played by the best. We are always being used by somebody, and we are always manipulating others, whether we are empathetic or not. I would rather get hustled by a homeless person or by my three-year-old grandson than by a slick salesman or a politician.

In Zen Buddhism there are koans, or unanswerable questions, that practitioners of the tradition use for meditation. One of the most familiar of these koans is, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”. I used to sit on a cushion and practice Zen meditation. Since I started caring for Asher, I have concluded that he is my koan, my riddle without an answer. Being with him all the time leads me to another common Zen question:

“How can I help?”

Actually, this question is probably the most pertinent to my life, and also the most difficult to answer because the situation changes constantly. His needs are different every day. Asher is growing and developing as I watch him. He is a moving target, and my decisions on how best to help him move along with him.

The question of how I can help relates directly to empathy, and not just empathy toward the little boy. There is always an opportunity each and every day for me to empathize with someone and help them. The dilemma comes with deciding how best to do that. Sometimes, the answer requires a great deal of thought. Other times, especially in an emergency, the answer comes in a flash. Meditation of any kind can help a person see a situation clearly. Zen meditation makes the decision of how best to help intuitive. If I meditate on how to help often enough, then I can decide what to do quickly, almost automatically. In some instances, I don’t have to think about how to help, I just know.

I can still get hurt. As the maker of the video stated, empathy is scary and uncertain. For empathy to be useful and effective, a person needs to be perceptive. The person also needs to have courage. It’s easy to recognize suffering and then still turn away. I’ve done that, and I’m not proud of it.

Sometimes, I have stepped up and turned my feelings into actions. Those are the things that have made my life worthwhile.

October 13th, 2024

There is a relatively large Muslim population in our local area. When I take my grandson, Asher, to the playground, I often meet a parent or caregiver who is originally from an Arab country: Iraq, Jordan, Qatar. A week ago, I had a conversation with a young mom from Palestine. She was at the park with her two little daughters. Asher played with them. While they were occupied with that, the mother of the girls spoke with me. It was interesting for both of us.

As we talked, she became aware that I have friends who are Palestinian and friends who are Jewish. This prompted her to ask me my opinion about the crisis in Gaza. She told me,

“I just want to know what you think. No judgment.”

Well, maybe a little bit of judgment. As she had already used the word, “genocide” with regards to the violence in Gaza, I decided to choose my words carefully. I stated the obvious fact that the Israelis and the Palestinians need to stop killing each other before anything can be resolved. A ceasefire is necessary and overdue. She talked about how it was impossible to make peace while the Israelis were stealing Palestinian land. We did not come to any agreement on the situation, but we never expected to do so. She gave me some things to think about, and that is what I have been doing since I met her at the playground.

I have been thinking about the Nakba (“catastrophe” in Arabic) that occurred in 1948 when Israel fought for its independence. Thousands of Palestinians were uprooted from their towns and villages by the war. The vast majority of them never went back to their homes. They became refugees and many of them did not assimilate into their host countries. It truly was a humanitarian disaster.

Then I thought about my wife’s family. Her relatives on her father’s side suffered a fate like the Nakba at the end of WWII. Her father’s family lived in Silesia, which now part of Poland. They, along with thousands of other ethnic Germans, fled from the advancing Soviet armies. They had heard of the atrocities that happened to Germans living further to the east. With the sounds of Soviet artillery in the background, they marched westward, leaving their homes and property behind. They took almost nothing with them besides the clothes on their backs.

I had the opportunity to talk with Karin’s father and her other relatives when I was dating Karin. I was stationed with the Army in West Germany at the time. During the early 1980’s, I heard some of their stories from the war years and their aftermath. Karin’s family members settled in the west among strangers. Her father worked the night shift at a health spa and married a local girl. Karin’s Onkel Kurt found a job as a salesman. Their lives were difficult at first, but they eventually adapted to their new surroundings. They sometimes missed Silesia, but they seemed to be at home in West Germany. Silesia was part of their past, and that past was nearly forgotten.

Are there actually similarities between the Palestinian experience and what Karins’ elders went through, or am I comparing apples to oranges? Why did Karin’s family succeed in starting new lives, but many Palestinians could not?

Karin’s relatives suffered much, but they also had some advantages over the Palestinian refugees. They were displaced within Germany, so they didn’t need visas, and they did not need to worry about being deported. They were relocated from one place to another where people spoke the same language and had the same culture. The German economy recovered rapidly, partly due to money from the Marshall Plan. It took time, but they found jobs and homes, and they raised families in an environment where their children had access to higher education.

Karin’s relatives had no illusions about having “a right to return”. For over forty years, the Soviet Union held a tight grip on the lands east of the Oder River, and most of those territories were occupied by Poles and Russians. Some Germans in the West carried hopes that Germany would eventually be restored to its 1937 borders. That was always a fantasy. When the Berlin Wall finally fell, Karin’s aunt and uncle made a trip back to their hometown, and quickly regretted do that. They were shocked and disappointed that the town they remembered was no more. The physical structures were still there, but it was no longer German, and it never would be again.

Are there any lessons here? Maybe.

In a just world, Karin’s family and the Palestinians who have suffered since 1948 would get some kind of compensation for their losses. Perhaps they would not be able to return home, but they would receive something in exchange.

We don’t live in a just world, so these people get nothing.

Karin’s relatives knew they would get nothing. Some Palestinians still hope to get back their olive groves and farm fields. Karin’s family had a bright future in their new land and so they could let go of the past. Many Palestinians do not a future full of hope, and that makes it nearly impossible for them to escape from the past.

For Karin’s family, what’s done is done. For the Palestinians the Nakba continues to this very day. The Palestinians are still being robbed of their land, and they are still suffering brutal violence. As Faulkner wrote,

“The past is never dead, It’s not even past.”

October 13th, 2024

As we descend into the depths this current election cycle, it is easy for me to wish that this nightmare was over. November 5th is not far away, but it is likely that our collective agony won’t end there. If the recent past is any indication, the results of the presidential election won’t be known for a long time as there will probably be recounts and lawsuits to follow the actual casting of votes. The conclusion to this strange and twisted political campaign promises to be ugly as sin.

Somehow, this all makes me think of when I was teaching the citizenship class at Voces de la Frontera in Milwaukee. I did that for several years and only stopped when I became the fulltime caregiver for our grandson, Asher. Prior to being constantly busy with a little boy, I would go to Voces once a week to help qualified immigrants prepare for their interview with USCIS. On Wednesday evenings, I would sit with several green card holders, usually from Mexico, and we would go over what they needed to know to become naturalized citizens. This was a long and arduous process, often nerve-wracking for the people who wanted to become full-fledged Americans.

One portion of our s concerned civics. We talked extensively about how the U.S. government works or fails to do so. I told them about the variety of ways they could become involved in America’s version of democracy. They could contact their elected officials, write letters to newspapers or other media outlets, publicly protest government policies, put up a yard sign, join a political party, or act in a number of other ways. I would always make one request to each group of students:

“Do one thing for me. Vote. I don’t care who you vote for. It’s none of my business. But vote. Voting is the absolute least you can do as a citizen of this country. Do that.”

Democracy is a living thing. It is also fragile. Like a plant in a garden, it needs to be tended and nurtured. Lately, we haven’t been very good at that. Democracy can easily be killed off by apathy. When I say, “My vote doesn’t matter”, I am destroying our political system in a small yet tangible way. When thousands or millions of citizens shrug their shoulders and say, “Who cares?”, then we are well on our way to anarchy or tyranny.

Likewise, fanaticism is fatal to our democracy. I am allergic to zealots of all stripes. I admire people who are passionate and enthusiastic about a cause. However, that fervor has to be tempered. I have to be aware that my side might lose the argument and be willing accept that result. I also need to accept that, God forbid, my opinion is wrong. That’s hard. Centuries ago, Oliver Cromwell said to his political opponents,

“I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you might be mistaken.”

Elections in our country tended to be sordid affairs, full of lies and corruption. However, they are also an essential marketplace for ideas. The candidates, when they are not busy slandering each other, have to describe their goals and policies. Some of their ideas are silly, some are monstrous, and a few are brilliant. An election allows each citizen to shop for ideas, and by extension to choose a possible future for themselves and their country.

I will be so glad when this election is over. However, I am also grateful that we are able to have one.

October 13th, 2024

Almost every morning, I take my grandson to a playground. Asher is nearly four years old, and he likes to play with other children. He doesn’t differentiate between genders. He is oblivious to race and ethnicity. He doesn’t even ask the other children their names. He is only interested in finding somebody who wants to be with him.

The nearby playgrounds have an eclectic mix of people. I sometimes talk with the other caregivers. They come from all over the world: Qatar, Norway, Mexico, India, Iraq, Japan, you name it. These adults all have different backgrounds and different histories, and yet their kids are all in the same place running and around and laughing like crazy people.

It wasn’t like that when I was young, or even when my children were little. The population then was much more homogenous. People looked the same and sounded alike. Things have changed. Our world is more diverse, and in some ways more divided. We interact with individuals who may not speak our language or share all of our values. Yet, we need to get along with one another.

I look at the kids and I see what the future holds. These little ones don’t share my prejudices. They don’t have my experiences. When they play together, they’re just kids. They laugh and cry and make up games. They may fight bitterly about a toy, but after a couple minutes they are best friends. They haven’t learned to hate. God willing, they never will.

All the children I see at the playground share at least one thing. Each of them is there with an adult who cares for them and protects them. Every child I see is loved, and they know it. That is what these kids have in common.

October 9th, 2024

I had a long conversation with a friend who thinks deeply. We were discussing diversity in the United States. He maintained that America is far too diverse to qualify as a nation. He sees our country as having too many religions, too many ethnicities, and too many cultures to be unified in any real sense. In particular, he noted the absence of communal values among the U.S. population. He mentioned that if you bring up any major political issue, be it abortion, 2nd Amendment rights, LGBTQ, religion in public schools, et cetera, you find starkly contrasting viewpoints. There seems to be no common ground.

It made me remember something I did many years ago. I used to be involved as a volunteer with a program that tried to help families with troubled teenagers to function better. Once a week for twelve weeks, a group of us would discuss an issue that affects how family members interact with each other. One week we always talked about family values. As part of the discussion, we had an activity to get people moving and thinking.

The activity was called “Values Voting”. It was rather simple. On one end of the room, we placed a sign that said “Agree”, and on the opposite side of the room we put up a sign that said, “Disagree”. We instructed the family members to listen to a statement and then decide if they agreed or disagreed with it. If they agreed, they moved to side of the room with the “Agree” sign, if not, they walked over to the side with the “Disagree” sign. If they couldn’t decide, they stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

We, the facilitators, actively sought out controversial or inflammatory statements to give to the participants in the exercise. We said things like “gays are bad” or “abortion is a human right”. We did not necessarily believe any of these statements ourselves. We just wanted to see where each family member wound up.

After the family members chose a position, one thing became apparent. To the shock of many participants, they found that some of their loved ones had very different opinions on certain topics. That was the first learning moment. It is often assumed, especially by parents, that the members of the family all agree on most things. Not.

We then asked each participant why they were standing where they were. We asked each of them what core value lies beneath their position. There was often a long pause while the individual thought about these questions. The person sometimes had never even considered why they held a certain opinion. Many of them had to dig deep to explain their viewpoint. We did not judge any expressed value as being good or bad. We just wanted each person to reflect on why they were standing in a particular place. More than one individual was surprised with what they discovered about themselves.

So, what does any of this have to do with our country’s values? Well, what do we actually believe in? Freedom? Everybody in America loves freedom. Find me two people that have the same definition of the word. People in America say they want a strong defense. What does that mean? What is a strong economy? Is there any consensus as to what that looks like?

What we need is a room the size of the United States where everybody can state their views and then explain why they hold them. Then maybe we can sort this out.

This may take a while.

October 6th, 2024

I often go to Qdoba when Karin or I are too tired or lazy to cook supper. The restaurant advertises itself as a place that serves “Mexican eats”. I’m not sure about that. The people there use a lot of tortillas, salsa, and guacamole, but that does not necessarily qualify their product as being authentic Mexican food. The employees are friendly. Their service is fast, and the food is plentiful. They operate an efficient assembly line. Qdoba provides an industrial version of Mexican cuisine. They always ask the customer to select a “protein”, and that is a term that somehow reminds me of the old sci-fu movie, “Soylent Green”.

I generally order grilled quesadillas for my wife and myself. I go through the line and have the server load up the tortillas to overflowing. The quesadillas usually suffice to more than two meals. The prices are inexpensive, so getting takeout at Qdoba is cost effective. As I mentioned, the assembly line is efficient, and people get their orders quickly. It takes a bit longer with quesadillas because they have to grill them for a few minutes. I’m not in a rush, so I don’t mind the wait. It gives me a chance to observe the clientele.

Most customers are like me. They are there to grab some takeout, and the restaurant is designed accordingly. It’s not a place where I would want to sit and relax. It’s too noisy and too busy for my tastes. The only people who hang out there are the students from the high school across the street. They get a soft drink and some taco chips and talk smack with their friends.

As I waited for my order, I saw eight young guys sitting together at a table. I’m guessing that they were about sixteen years old. If they had driver’s licenses and cars, they would probably have been somewhere else. In any case, they were talking and joking and basically being teenagers, everything age appropriate. They all looked happy and innocent. I felt a surge of melancholy as I watched them. I have half a century more life experience than they do, and I thought to myself,

“These boys have no idea what they are in for.”

That’s probably a good thing. They seemed to be living in the moment, and more power to them for that. I’m sure that they have their worries, but probably not the existential adult-sized versions. They are still protected to some degree. I remember my youngest son, Stefan, telling me,

“When I was a kid, I thought that adults knew what they were doing.”

It’s a cruel realization to find out that those whom you thought to be older and wiser were just older. There is no operator’s manual for life. Everybody ad libs the whole thing. We fake it as best we can, but sometimes that’s not good enough.

What will these young men grow up to be? The possibilities are endless. One of them might fall under the spell of a smooth-talking military recruiter and wind up fighting a war in a country he has never heard of before. One might become a rich entrepreneur. One might end up as a homeless addict. Most of them will settle into a “normal” life: find a job, find a partner, find a home, raise a family, retire, and die. High schools are designed to train worker bees and most of these guys will be just that. They will be cogs in the corporate machine. I was one for a long time.

Perhaps one of them will step onto the roller coaster of adulthood and embark on a grand and terrifying adventure. I don’t think many boys do that anymore. I did that. I’m still on that ride. I can’t get off until it comes to complete stop.

Do I envy these young men?

No.

I take comfort in knowing that I have already made most of the big decisions. Now, I just live with the results. I would never want to do it all again.

September 28th, 2024

Someone once said that the new immigrants to the United States were “beaten men from beaten races, representing the worst failures in the struggle for existence.”

Who said that? Was it Trump? Or was it Vance? No, it was Francis Walker, the president of MIT, who wrote those words in an article in 1896.

The bigotry and hate we see in today’s society were evident back at the end of the 19th century. My ancestors came from Austria-Hungary around that time, and the American public in those days railed against the Poles, Jews and Italians who were coming to this country. Today, some of our national political leaders slander Haitians or Palestinians, causing the same sort of fear and rage that existed over a century ago.

Nothing has changed. Despising the immigrant is an American tradition.

The essay above was published yesterday as a letter to the editor in the Capital Times (Madison, Wisconsin) under the title “Immigrant Bashing a Tragic American Tradition”. It was also published in the Chicago Tribune as “Hating Immigrants is an American Tradition”.

September 26th, 2024

We got home from church just before noon. As I pulled up to the driveway, I noticed that something was missing in the front yard. I couldn’t immediately think of what it was, and then it hit me,

“The yard sign is gone.”

Once we got out of the car, I walked to the front yard and looked around. It rained hard earlier in the day, and I thought that maybe the wind had caught hold of the sign, even though I had the stakes buried pretty deep in the ground. Nope, it wasn’t lying in the ditch, and I didn’t see it anywhere along the street. I concluded that somebody with an opposing political viewpoint decided to remove it.

I told my wife and my daughter that the sign was gone. My daughter asked me eagerly,

“Do you want me to order another one?”

“Uh yeah, sure.”

“How about a flag too?”

“Sure.”

A couple minutes later, she said, “The flag will be here tomorrow. You could put it on the door or hang it on the house above the garage door.”

“Let me think about it.”

I called the police to report the theft. I knew that they probably couldn’t do anything for me, but I couldn’t let it slide either.

The cop showed up a few minutes later. It was Sunday afternoon during a Packer game, so he probably wasn’t very busy. He asked what happened.

I replied, “I had a yard sign in front of the house and now I don’t.”

“Somebody stole it?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you last see it?”

“It was there when I went to bed last night, but it was gone when I came home from church this morning.”

“What kind of sign was it? Biden/Harris?”

“No, Biden isn’t running anymore. It was Harris/Walz.”

The officer nodded, “Yeah. you’re right. How much did you pay for it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe seventeen dollars. It’s not much to report.”

The policeman said, “A theft is a theft. Anything else you can tell me?”

“Not really.”

“Do have a camera on your house?”

“No, sorry.”

“Do you have any issues or conflicts with your neighbors?”

“Oddly enough, no I don’t.”

“If we catch the guy, do just want your sign back, or do you want him arrested?”

I chuckled. “I don’t think you’ll find the guy. If you do, you don’t need to arrest him. Just put the fear of God in the guy.”

“Got it.”

I told him, “The main reason I am reporting this is because whoever stole the sign probably is stealing other signs. I’m probably not the only person missing a sign.”

The cop nodded. “Here’s my card. This is the case number. If you need to do so, call my number and mention the case number.”

The officer left. I thought to myself,

“This is so chickenshit.”

What kind of person sneaks into somebody’s yard to take a political yard sign? It’s just totally gutless. This is what a coward would do.

This is democracy in America in 2024.

New improved sign

September 25th, 2024

Asher likes monster trucks. I think most little boys like them. Asher has several model trucks. He has the “Gravedigger” and the “Northern Nightmare”. He loves to take them to the playground. He rolls them down the slide and looks to see if they land in an upright position. He will do that over and over. He can only launch them down the slide when there aren’t many other kids around, because they want to actually slide down the slide. Asher and I tend to go to Kayla’s Place early in the morning. It’s less crowded and he has more time opportunity to toss his monster truck from up high.

Yesterday, there was another little boy at the playground. He too had a monster truck. He looked to be Asher’s age, maybe three or four years old. Asher saw him and wanted to play with the boy, and probably his truck. The boy’s father encouraged his son to play with Asher. Asher waited expectantly for the little guy to do that. The young man had no interest in playing with Asher. He turned away from him, and despite his father’s urgings, refused to have anything to do with Asher.

The dad got irritated by his boy’s behavior. He told,

“If you won’t play with the other boy, then we will just go home.”

His son refused to interact with Asher, so the dad said,

“Okay. We’re going home.”

The little guy didn’t like that, but his father picked him up and headed to the parking lot.

Asher stood there and watched his potential playmate get carried off. Asher looked utterly defeated.

He asked me, “Where did the boy go?”

I answered him, “He and his daddy went home.”

“What will I do?”

“There is another little boy here. You could play with him.”

“I don’t want to play with another boy. I want to play with that boy.”

He started crying quietly.

Then he asked me, “What can I do?”

I felt a twinge in my heart. Maybe it was from a half-remembered event like this one. Maybe it was because of something I felt at some playground six decades ago when some other little boy refused to play with me. I felt empathy for Asher. He wanted to play with a particular person, and that person for reasons unknown rejected him. There was no explanation for it. Asher did not understand why the other boy wouldn’t play with him. I didn’t understand it either.

I was sitting on a bench. Asher came up to me and dried his tears on my t-shirt. He looked up at me and asked,

“What can I do?”

“Do you want to go to the library for story time?”

He perked up. “Yeah.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

“You have to carry me to the car.”

“Why do I have to carry you? Are you a lazy butt?”

Asher smiled and said, “Yeah. Carry me.”

I did.

September 18th, 2024

Hallelujah (/ˌhæləˈluːjə/ HAL-ə-LOO-yə; Biblical Hebrew: הַלְלוּ־יָהּ‎, romanized: hallū-Yāh, Modern Hebrew: הַלְּלוּ־יָהּ‎, romanized: halləlū-Yāh, lit. ‘praise Yah‘) is an interjection from the Hebrew language, used as an expression of gratitude to God. – from Wikipedia

Jeff Buckley only recorded one album, Grace. One of the songs on the album was written and originally sung by Leonard Cohen. The song is titled Hallelujah, and it has been covered by other artists besides Buckley. However, Buckley’s version is, at least for me, by far the most poignant.

Buckley uses only his guitar and his voice for the song. That’s enough, more than enough. The austere arrangement creates an intense mood that draws in the listener. He starts quietly and then suddenly his voice grows strong. This happens again and again with each verse.

Buckley begins by singing about King David, a warrior king who composed the psalms:

“Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor falls, the major lifts
The baffled king composing Hallelujah”

“Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah”

Buckley pauses briefly and then sings again about David. He sings about David’s love for Bathsheba, the wife of his general, Uriah. David committed adultery with her and then had Uriah killed in battle. David’s love almost destroyed him and all that he had built.

“Your faith was strong, but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah”

“Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah”

Buckley changes Cohen’s lyrics at this point to make a more personal statement.

“Baby, I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room, and I’ve walked this floor

You know, I used to live alone before I knew you
And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
And Love is not a victory march”

“It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah”

To me, Buckley is saying that love, be it his love or that of a king, is a terrible thing. It’s a reason to grieve and yet still a reason to praise God. He goes on:

“Well, there was a time when you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show that to me, do you?
But remember, when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath, we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah”

Buckley is remembering something about love. It is glorious, and it is also in the past. He sings the last verse with pain in his voice.

“Maybe there’s a God above
But, all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you?
And it’s not a cry, that you hear at night
It’s not somebody, who’s seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah”

Buckley has a voice that is full of both joy and anguish. I understand what he means by “It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah”.

When I listened to this last verse, I remembered the times I have been wounded by life. I remembered when my eldest son told me that he killed a man in Iraq. I remembered when my grandson’s father abandoned his little boy and left us to raise him. I remember when our youngest son sobbed as he talked about his wife leaving him.

I looked at my hands and imagined holding my beating heart in them. I knew that all my tears would never wash the blood away.

All I could say was, “Hallelujah”, a cold and broken hallelujah.

Buckley sings the word over and over, until he fades out.

“Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah”