Kris Kristofferson and Sinead O'Connor

and The Uncertain Power of "Brokenness"

Such a gorgeous song. It emerges from brokenness. It emerges from the agony of being brutally attacked as a helpless child by the personage most of us associate with their own child’s fiercest protector—and callously ignored by the same personage we treasure to imagine as an immediate source of unconditional love. It emerges from a sense of betrayal and abandonment someone has unwillingly incorporated, unstably held, and then painfully transformed into an aching expression of faith. It emerges into a new longing, not simply to heal oneself, but to invest in the future of everyone by paying forward attention, affection, and nurturance that we hope will matter, that we hope will be accepted, that we hope will heal, that we hope will not provoke only rage and rejection lashing out from the violence of the wounded.

Unfortunately, the video images here push her voice and lyrics too far into the background. But perhaps that’s understandable since this combination of voice and lyrics are almost too powerful even if one is not aware of her story with her own mother. And, the images here may help preserve and propel her story with Kristofferson into a future where we might be inspired by it to learn ways of supporting and respecting each other in the face of jeers, hostility, and misunderstanding as we also seek ways to prevent ourselves and others from abusing the vulnerable.

The image of that tiny girl facing down a mob cannot help but provoke an urge to protect and defend her. It is wonderful to see Kristofferson offer help, allow her to stand for herself, and then accompany her off stage. She claims her first thought was, “I don’t need a man to protect me,” which is right and true. But it’s also so touching to know how she appreciated his concern and how they maintained a respectful friendship for the rest of her life. When I heard Kristofferson had died, I of course, thought of the musical legacy he has gifted us with, but the way he supported O’Conner without disempowering her will probably remain my strongest impression of him: a good man.

“the violence in your soul”

When the power of her song is not muffled, we can feel how the singer reanimates a more traditional version of faith that, because of my upbringing, I associate with Roman Catholicism. It is a notion of faith that reaches deep into the brokenness of all of us: the idea of some guiding presence that sees us even if we do not see it, Him, or (in this version) Her. From the little I know of Sinead O’Connor’s life, it appears she never fully turned away from this version of faith even if she renounced fealty to the church hierarchy. Neither did my own mother who would have loved this song and her stories, perhaps more than she admired those of Kristofferson who learned to use his voice to appeal to our brokenness on a distinctly different life path.

That evening, in the way he offered support, let her stand on her own, and then received her in an embrace, he fathered her. He fathered her fierceness. He fathered her vulnerability. He fathered her courage. And that brings to mind a different version of faith.

The word “faith” comes from the Latin word for “fidelity” which, in ancient Roman terms, meant loyalty and obedience. But today we also use the word “fidelity” to refer to a copy that has not been distorted or blanched in the process of reproduction. A copy, of course, is an “imitation” of some “original” or “model” whether it be Jesus, Hitler, Trump, or Martin Luther King. The stories of O’Connor and Kristofferson perhaps deserve to be held up as models too and may, perhaps, serve to comfort and inspire others on those nights when our brokenness seems almost too overwhelming.