When they struck down Alex Pretti my own life flashed before my eyes and how easily that could have been me

I was newly ordained, and our church ran a small outreach program that provided food to folks living on the streets. Every week, we would provide a hot meal at a local park where those without homes often gathered. The city came after us pretty hard, and the media coverage surrounding it all polarized the community. Some folks called us saintly, while others believed we were contributing to the problem of blight in the downtown area. I was trying to do what I believed Jesus wanted me to.

One day, I received an email with a death threat in it. The person was explicit in their intent: if I chose to show up at our next gathering to share food with our friends, it would be my last day on earth.

I had recently started seeing a young single mother, and our courtship had been complicated. We were both in our early twenties and had a whole life ahead of us. I had been struggling with whether this life I was living would be compatible with marriage and children. Even though our denomination did not require celibacy of its clergy, it was a personal vow I heavily considered taking for this reason.

As I stared at those words threatening my life on the computer screen, I texted this woman to let her know we needed to talk. For hours, she listened as I debated the ethics of my showing up or not out loud. Would my going put others in danger? Would yielding mean I could never stand my ground again on anything else? What was the moral thing to do in this situation? In my heart, I already knew the answer; I had to go. Jesus would go, and martyrdom is a potential reality of living out the gospel.

Having consigned myself to my potential fate, we sat there quietly on a pier at a park overlooking the bayou of our small coastal town. With a bit of trembling in my voice, I finally broke the silence, “If I don’t survive tomorrow, just know I had every intention to marry you someday.”

I lived.

We got married in that same park near that pier.

Her name is Tashina, and we’ve survived decades together raising our children, but every day when I would leave the house, I know she’s wondered if that would be the day she gets the call from my phone, but it isn’t my voice, “You are the emergency contact listed for Nathan Monk.”

She has had reason to fear.

Whatever it is that makes others run for safety when they hear a crash or gunfire, I didn’t get that. Without thinking, I always run in the direction of the danger. I have run into burning buildings because I knew some of my homeless friends slept in the stairwell or jumped into traffic when a young child was standing there crying after their mother had been struck by a car. I have placed my body in between cops trying to arrest a homeless man more than once, and I knelt in the streets with my fellow activist during a Black Lives Matter protest long after threats of running us all over had been widely circulated.

Whenever a tragedy happens that has any proximity to me, my phone instantly fills up with texts and calls, making sure I wasn’t there.

I’ve had knives pulled on me.

Officers placed me in handcuffs.

More than once had a gun pointed at my head.

Folks attacked me during mental breakdowns at the shelters.

I’ve had my body slammed to the ground when I’ve stood up for others.

Somehow, I am still here, but there have certainly been times when I’ve not retold the story quite as scary as it really was, just for the sake of my family and their own anxiety. I’ve wondered plenty of times when it’s finally my ninth life and my card will be pulled, and I’ll be standing there at the pearly gates with the first thing Saint Peter hears out of me is the “fuck” I am still yelling when I departed.

And I would do it all again.

When I saw Alex Pretti lying there on the ground, I didn’t have to imagine putting myself in his shoes; I could feel the sweat in them. I could feel his body going cold, and that moment of knowing this was really it: the final act (of mercy).

Should I die in my bed peacefully, surrounded by those I love, at some ripe old age, it will be the greatest shock not only to me but also to those who know me. As I read the statement from the family of Alex, it didn’t sound like they were too surprised either. I imagine that he has gotten the same warnings I have every time he went to work or marched in the streets to defend others who might be hurt during protests. I can hear those words of warning ringing in my ears. As I have gotten older, I have learned to listen better than when I was that young man full of piss and vinegar sitting on that pier all those years ago. There have been times Tashina has told me, “This is one that it’s better that you write instead of march about.” I think there is some wisdom in those moments.

But I still march.

I still run toward the wound of danger.

I still stand between those in power and the ones they wish to harm.

Why some of us flee to safety, and others rush to be the helpers, is beyond me. I don’t think there is any sin in trying to stay alive. Those people who got away because Renee Good was there to warn them, I don’t think they did something wrong; they did exactly what they should. Those folks that Alex Pretti laid his life down for are alive today because of him, and I am glad that they are here. Of course, I wish that they all were. I would have rather never know that Alex or Renee existed. I wish they had remained in the national anonymity of the local helpers in their respective communities.

But we now know their names, and with that comes a responsibility.

New helpers must rise up to take their place, and someday we might know those names too. Unless Congress and local officials choose to finally stand up beyond platitudes on social media, there will be more names. If we aren’t careful, this will also become our new normal. Much like school shootings, we could adapt to the news that another nurse, mother, brother, pastor, activist, is being gunned down in our neighborhoods. But it doesn’t have to be that way.

A day will come when those streets they bled on will be named after them. The official who let them die will write other platitudes known as proclamations declaring days in their memory. Others will become one with the river of blood of the martyrs from King all the way to Good.

One day it might be me.

Maybe you.

Perhaps it’s someone you love.

The nurse who helped your kid during your scariest day.

The mom who blew the whistle so your neighbor could get away.

Then again, we could put an end to all of this if our representatives chose to listen, or our comedians stopped suddenly being cowards so they don’t mess up their next Netflix special. People are marching in the streets, but our media is still playing both sides’ narratives for fear that they will be the next ones sued by an administration that is using the Constitution as toilet paper flushed down the golden throne of a President who would much rather have the title of Tsar.

This is the moment where we lose it all or win it back.

Our helpers are falling, and it’s time to stand up and fill the line where they fell, pour one out in their memory at the end of each day we survive, and then do it all again.

I am here to tell you, without a doubt, that you will be in danger. Your life is at risk. It is not a popular thing to say, but it is simply the reality we are now in. During one of my tours, during question-and-answer time, someone asked me, “What can we do to survive all this?” I paused to reflect on the very unfunny question I was now about to answer at the end of a comedy show.

“I can’t promise you survival. They want us gone. But what I can tell you is that you can die on a picket line or standing in line to the camps they want to send us to.”

As for me, I will take the picket line. I will continue to put up one more good fight and, should that day be my last, the only vengeance I wish for anyone to take in my name is to fill the space that is empty by my falling.

I saw someone say online, “We have no idea what he was thinking in those final moments.” And, I suppose that is true, we truly don’t. But as someone who also runs into the line of fire, I think I have a pretty educated guess.

I imagine Alex would want the same thing: for this moment not to cause us to fear and run away, but to be those who run directly into the spot where he fell and fill the gap where his body once was. There is now one less nurse out there holding the line and helping those who are being sprayed with chemical agents and pepper spray or shot with rubber bullets. You can be that nurse. You can be whoever you are, doing what you can to make a difference. If you can’t march in the streets, write your words online, make videos, call your congressperson, host meetings at your home, or purchase whistles to donate to your local organizations for distribution.

Let our voices not be silent until freedom and justice flow like water.

“The Lord said, ‘What have you done? The voice of your brother’s blood is crying out to Me from the ground for justice.” - Genesis 4:10