I don’t feel sad when random strangers die. They do it all the time, and thousands do it every day. So who cares? Well, their immediate families and friends, maybe a business colleague or two. But basically none of us care very much for the lady who died in Iceland, or the guy who died in the village in the Amazon, or the kid who died in Darfur. Why should we? We don’t know them, and although their passing is a loss in the academic sense, really, who, apart from their nearest and dearest, cares?
Apparently God does, between being concerned about sparrows falling…
A guy called Richard died yesterday. And I care. Now this is strange because he’s an utterly random stranger. Never met him. Never spoken on the phone. But he’s a media guy, seen him on the telly, and suddenly his passing is important and sad. Aussie politicians who previously thought Richard was not too special now like to think of themselves as a mate. How vile.
One of Richard’s mates, Peter, had this to say of him: “Whatever Richard was, he was not a shade of grey. He was a primary colour.”
Wow. What an accolade.