I’d be willing to bet that not many of us have watched a man die. Those of us who don’t go to war or work in intensive care units are not often witnesses to the last breath of another human being. We don’t see a lifeless body rolled over onto a stretcher, head dangling limply.
Fr. John C. Bloomenstein, O.S.C., was a character, to say the least. The first time I met him he had a cigar in one hand, a glass of gin in the other, a smile on his face, and a twinkle in his eye. He was fun, abuzz with energy, the life of the party. He had the gift of gab, and he helped others gab more. And the laughter. Smart quips. Jokes. Teasing. He was joy personified. Everyone called him “Father Bloom” and affectionately nicknamed him “The old goat.”
The most apt description I can think of to describe what many people experienced upon first seeing the killing of George Floyd was that it shocked our conscience.