SO LONG, OFFICER MIDNIGHTS

As Rabbi Wolf and I left the crematorium on 7 July after accompanying the hearse bearing the remains of our murdered police officer, I paused  and cleaned out the junk from my pockets, mostly candy wrappers from his candy gifts, and threw it all in the garbage can along with my sermon from the funeral Mass. In the next few days a number of folks called and asked for a copy of my talk. I was surprised, so the best I can do is try to reconstruct it from the pages of scribbled notes that were still next to my chair at home. It appears with deep respect for Officer Rick Francis #5276 and all the working real police:

"Mr. Richard Francis would not approve of what we're doing in church this morning. Everyone who knew him knows he didn't like to be in the spotlight, but he's in it today, citywide. Recently,when his family and friends wanted to have a 60th birthday party for him, he said, 'Absolutely not. I hate being the center of attention.' And Rick's wishes were respected---no party.

Officer Richard Francis would understand, though. As a Chicago police officer, who wore our Star#5276, he belonged to anyone in the city with enough energy to poke 9-1-1 on a phone pad or to catch his attention with a hand wave. He died doing just that, responding to a bus driver who waved him down for help. He died as a working police officer, on the midnights by himself, doing exactly what it says on the side of our cars: Serving and Protecting. He was murdered while going about his noble duties on the midnights, and Deb, Amanda, and Bianca, we are all so sorry for the empty chair in your house and the empty spot in your hearts this morning.

Words are very important in life; they can heal or hurt, enlighten or confuse, soothe or irritate. So let us make one point very clear about the words we use surrounding this atrocity. Officer Francis didn't give his life. It was taken from him. It's the difference between an armed robbery and a charitable donation: It was taken, not given. Try not to forget that when talking about our good policeman. His life was taken, not given.

The man behind Star#5276 had one of the last exciting, meaningful jobs left in America, that of a big city police officer. But it is a strange, surreal job, full of unusual contradictions. It is the only profession where it is a realistic risk to die at the hand of another human being, and it is the only profession where being murdered is considered "in the line of duty."

Officer Rick Francis was a part of our Chicago Police Department, the one city department that Chicago literally cannot exist without for even 24 hours lest violence, chaos, and horror take over. Officers, you alone are the barbed wire between the sheep and the wolves. Yet you are the most unappreciated, misunderstood, beat-up and politicized of all, and it's commonplace to have the very worst of human motives ascribed to your actions. But the beat goes on; every day and every night, the three watches of police officers stand roll call, then hit the streets, and the beat goes on.You, the real police, are the last group of people in America toward whom the ignorant and the intelligent can be prejudiced and allowed to go unchallenged. I don't know a thing about police administration, but I'm told there's a saying among criminal justice people that says, 'Cities get the police they deserve.' I hope to God that's not true, because the city of Chicago has a debt to you that gets heavier by the hour. I have little hope that the scale will ever be balanced.  

Our great Chicago Police Department owes apologies to no one, because it is made up of thousand upon thousands of police officers cut from the same rich, strong bolt of cloth as Rick Francis was. He was used to working good, working hard, and working unappreciated. Rick was a Viet Nam veteran in a high-risk, high-performance unit of the U.S. Navy. When he came home from Viet Nam, he told his friends, 'All I want is a hot shower and a glass of cold milk.' Not your average returning veteran, but Rick was not your average copper, either. Twenty seven years ago, Rick became a part of the Chicago Police Department. You'll see a lot of slogans on trucks and billboards every day, but none is truer than what is on the side of our blue and white squad cars: We Serve and Protect. Rick did just that for almost 30 years, which is why that bus driver had every right to flag him down for help. Ten years ago, Rick found what the human heart hungers for---mutual love and respect in Deb, along with daughters Bianca and Amanda. For the past ten years, this little family was Rick's whole world, and he was able to balance his family on Neenah Avenue with his police family citywide. Rick chose to work the midnights, the first watch of the police day, so that he could give Bianca the extra time and special attention she needed. He drove her to work, and he took Bianca to the Special Olympics, where she won a gold medal! Best of all, he taught Bianca to be as independent as possible as she moves through life. What a great gift for a parent to give a beloved child!

And Amanda got an awful lot of help with her homework, and so did her friends. Rick was a very gifted writer and he helped Amanda and her friends write letters of application to various grad schools, and every one of them got accepted. Rick taught Amanda one of the great police bits of street wisdom: Don't take like too seriously. Fortunately, we will hear from Amanda at the very end of this Mass.

And Deb. You and Rick loved each other, and you created a good home in the house on Neenah Avenue. Rick gave you his heart to hold, and you gave him yours, and neither of you ever dropped them. You two had what our souls hunger for: someone to live for. You gave him reason to speak his trademark phrase: "Isn't life great?" And he meant it. Thanks to you, Deb, life really was great for Rick.

My brothers and sisters, the most eloquent words about Rick Francis won't come from this pulpit this morning. Rather the very best words will come from each one of you over the next year, over a beer, a cupp of coffee, in the locker rooms of 018 and 019, in the blue and white cars, especially on the midnight watch, on the front porches or over the back fences on Neenah, as you remember fondly, humorously, and respectfully the good life and the line-of-duty death of Police Officer Richard Francis. The good God gave Rick Francis the gift of life, and it was a life lived well…very, very well. And it was a life that ended at the hands of another human being, in the messy, sacred and noble arena we call 'police work.' Star# 5276 will never see the moonlight of midnights on the streets of Chicago again; it will be in a place of permanent honor, as is the man who wore it.

Deb, Bianca, Amanda, men and women of the great Chicago Police Department, family and friends of Rick…the gospels tell us that Rick Francis now lives with his Creator, far beyond the horror, the sin, the unfairness and violence that is part of life here. And Jesus tells us in these same gospels that some day we will hold him again, when the good God brings all of creation to perfection.

There are many ways of talking about the last few days. We could use the language of psychology or criminal justice, theology or the legal profession. But allow me to close by using the romantic language of poetry, and I ask you to close your eyes and let this beautiful imaginary scene come to life in the empty spot in our souls: Among all the white robes of heaven, the 521st star with the words Chicago Police on it appeared in their midst, and at the bearer's arrival, the angels themselves bowed in profound respect. And God smiled."

 

Respectfully,

Fr. Thomas Nangle, CPD Chaplain

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