He Has Seen Monsters

At breakfast this morning our three year old foster son and I had a conversation in which I attempted to convince him that monsters are not real. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he did not believe me, and considering his life experiences, how could I expect him to?

He knows there are monsters; he has seen them.

We don’t know all the details of what our two boys went through prior to being taken into care. We probably never will. But we do know some things.

We know that the four year old flinches almost every time I walk by him, even if I am not approaching him directly.

We know that the three year old’s temper tantrums come out of nowhere and are uncontrollable; last week in the middle of one he said, “I can’t hold it!”

We know that they have somehow learned words and phrases that we never taught them, that they never heard in our home, and they repeat them at times designed to create mass reaction.

We know that they are happiest when we are angry. Angry adults are “normal” in their world.

So even without knowing the details, we know enough. We’ve been parents for twenty years, foster parents for twelve, so we’ve been at this for a while. We know enough.

Yes, there are monsters, and our boys have seen them.

“There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than how it treats its children.” That’s how Nelson Mandela began his remarks at the launch of the Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund in May of 1995.

He continued, “We come from a past in which the lives of our children were assaulted and devastated in countless ways. It would be no exaggeration to speak of a national abuse of a generation by a society which it should have been able to trust.”

I fear that we are living in such a time in our nation. In my work I have seen children being “assaulted and devastated in countless ways,” and my spirit is burdened with a call to heal the brokenness I see within and among so, so many. To let them know that they matter, they have inherent sacred worth, just for being who they are, a beloved child of God.

Fred Rogers wrote, “One of the universal fears of childhood is the fear of not having value in the eyes of the people whom we admire so much.” The overwhelming majority of child abuse is perpetrated by people that kids admire, that they love, that they trust. And neglect by definition happens when a grown-up who is expected to be caring for a child, doesn’t.

If we as individuals, as families, as churches, as communities, as a nation, as a global village … if we do not take into consideration the long-term consequences of our words and actions on the children around us, we are failing. Children will listen.

Because our three year old believes that monsters are real, and I really can’t say he’s wrong.

"The Pick Up" - Thoughts on Removing Kids from Parents

I drove up to the house that New Year’s Day morning, not knowing what to expect. I had been given the address by the caseworker, and was told they would be waiting for me. It had all been arranged. But still, this was the first time I had done anything like this, and I don’t mind saying, I was scared.

We had gotten the call the day before: two boys, ages five and two, dad was unable to care for them any more because of his developmental disability. Could we take them?

Yes. We have room, we’ll be more than happy to take them.

There were no workers available to get them. Could we do the pick up?

Wait. “Do the pick up?” You mean go over and remove them from their dad’s home? Us? Sure, we had plenty of experience receiving kids into our home who had been removed, but no one had ever asked us to be the actual ones to go and get them.

Yes please, if you could. It would be very helpful.

So we said we would. We’re foster parents; it’s what we do. We take care of kids who need taken care of for a little while. This was a part of the deal. So we said we would.

I drove up to the house, pulled into the driveway, and turned off the engine. I saw a face at the front window, small, pale, eyes wide. With a flick, it vanished, and the curtain swayed shut.

I got out of the van and zipped up my coat against the cold before I walked to the porch. The door opened as I approached. A woman, about 30 years old, eyes red from crying, trying bravely to smile. “Hello,” she said.

“Hello. I’m Andy.”

“Come on in,” she replied.

There was a pile of boxes, suitcases, and backpacks just inside the door. “Here’s their stuff,” she said.

From the back of the house, I heard a child’s voice. “No!”

A man walked into the room, carrying a boy. He didn’t look at me. The boy was struggling in his arms, pushing against his dad’s chest, trying to get down. The man had him in that firm yet gentle grip that one only learns from plenty of experience with wiggly boys.

Another, smaller boy trailed behind.

“Let’s get your stuff, boys,” he said.

The woman started picking up bags, I grabbed a couple of suitcases, and we went outside. The man held on to the squirming boy, and followed. The little one was a shadow.

We put our load of luggage in the back, and then the woman said to the man, “Why don’t you go ahead and put the boys in the car?” This was a really good idea, and I opened the side doors for him. He began to buckle the boys into the car seats while we went back into the house to get the rest of the stuff.

When we got back out to the van, he had calmed the bigger boy down enough to buckle him in, and he was working on the little one, who was quite a bit easier to manage. When he had him secured, he walked back around to the other side of the van.

I watched as he put his hand gently on the boy’s small head, bent over close, and rested his forehead against his son’s. I did not hear what he said; his voice was low and it wasn’t my place to invade that moment. When he stood up, his son again offered a weak, confused, “No!” and began a litany, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” that was spoken slowly, through the tears that were streaming down his face.

When he heard his big brother start up, the two year old joined him, but with less intensity, more like he was sad that his brother was sad than the bitter grief of being separated from his home. He knew, yet he didn’t know.

The man closed the van door and walked quickly back into the house, head down, never once meeting my eyes.

I looked at the woman, who had fresh tears overflowing her eyes. I tried to smile, and said, “I promise you we will take good care of them.” I closed the two year old’s door.

She just nodded at me, unable to say anything.

So I got into the van, started the engine, and drove home.

They cried the entire trip.

Granted, just because I have physically removed children from their parent does not make me an expert on immigration policy. But in light of our work as foster parents, the stories coming from our nation’s southern border are particularly disturbing.

Families seeking refuge in our country are, by many accounts, being forcibly separated from one another and the children are being placed in the care of the state. A high-ranking member of the current administration has referred to this policy as “a tough deterrent.” Another said that if parents don’t want their children taken away, they shouldn’t bring them along.

I find that the arguments in favor of the policy are not even slightly compelling, and in fact are abhorrent to me. To argue that a parent has violated a law and therefore anything that happens to them or to their family is justified is not only a profound oversimplification of the situation, it is flat-out evil. Official U.S. immigration policy now feels like the kind of thing the “bad guy” would do in a movie, and not a very good movie at that.

And yet …  how can I think this when I myself have been the “bad guy?” I am a part of a system that removes children from their homes when it is deemed necessary. In fact, I have been the one doing the actual separating! Can I with clean conscience say that what’s happening is wrong unless it’s happening within the system I’m a part of? What is the distinction?

Whatever is happening at the policy level, real people have been given the task of taking real kids from real parents. Whatever is said at a press conference in front of an audience, a person goes up to another person and takes their child away from them. Whatever may be true at the “macro” level in terms of law or economics or politics, someone has to “do the pick up.”

And it is awful. It hurts. Trust me, I know.

For me, the most important questions to ask have to do with the children. Are they safe? Do they have food, clothing, and shelter? Are they being cared for? Is someone there with them, telling them not to be afraid? Do they know that they matter to someone? Do they realize they are somebody who is worth something?

And is everything being done, with as much urgency as possible, to get them back home again?

Blue Is Just a Color

Blue Is Just a Color - by David Cornelison

They don't deserve this aching numbness, limping through this world
With heartache all around them that kills their very soul,
And hands that should bring healing sometimes bring them pain,
And words that should bring comfort just beat them down again.

Blue is just a color if our hands stay by our sides,
If our words don't lead to actions, if we just leave them to die,
If the teachings of our master, of the one whom we call king,
Just lie in dust when uttered and don't really mean a thing.

And a child looks up to heaven and cries out to you, Lord,
But instead of love the bombs fall down and announce the start of war,
And we here in our castles never see the ways that we,
From actions tied to greed and hate, fill the land with misery.

Blue is just a color if our deeds don't match our words,
If the things of life that call to us can make us take the sword,
If the teaching of our master, from his words that spoke of peace,
Are somehow twisted into words that praise atrocities.

And looking at the TV to see the sights that call us all
To watch each other and laugh at those who fall.
And holding up for mocking all the ones who don't fit in,
We like to know that we could throw the rock that doesn't sin.

And blue is just a color if we only stand and stare,
If we say that we can't get involved, it's too hard, we just don't dare,
If the teachings of our master, of the one who comforts all
Are parsed through until all of us have some we get to gall.

How can those who know such anguish find a way to get to you,
Praying up to heaven when they don't know what to do?
But you still have a message of hope amidst the gloom
And tell them all these words of love that come to them from you.

"Child, I know your sadness; I felt it once before -
When those I loved betrayed me and sold me for their score.
The spat on me, they knocked me down, they nailed me to a tree,
And then I paid a heavy price and called it Calvary."

Love should be the color we mean when we say "blue;"
The words we choose and use so well that help us be like you,
And the teachings of our master, of the one whom we call Lord,
Can shape our lives and help us all be his hands while in the world.

Stopping Bible Abuse

A woman in Indianapolis beat her seven year old son with a coat hanger, severely enough to leave thirty-six dark purple bruises striped across his back and a hook-shaped bruise on his cheek. The abuse happened in February 2016. Her kids are safe now. (Story here.)

Legal documents filed in her defense quote Scripture to justify her actions.

Yes, please go back and read that again …

Her lawyer is arguing that something called the “Religious Freedom Restoration Act” gives this child abuser permission to abuse children. The child abuser said, “I was worried for my son's salvation with God after he dies,” and “I decided to punish my son to prevent him from hurting my daughter and to help him learn how to behave as God would want him to.” Even leaving aside the completely illogical and ignorant statement that hurting a child will teach them not to hurt another child, the horribly twisted theology ought to appall and anger every person of faith everywhere in the world.

And then, the second layer of the defense plan is to argue that cultural differences caused her to misunderstand the law, since harsh physical abuse is common in the woman’s culture of origin. Which is bullshit. Child abuse is child abuse in Myanmar as well as Indiana. C.S. Lewis wrote, “The moment you say that one set of moral ideas can be better than another, you are, in fact, measuring them both by a standard,” and that standard is “something above and beyond the ordinary facts of men’s behavior, and yet quite definitely real.”

And so, I will confess that a whole lot of emotion came to the surface for me when I read this story this morning. I’ve been working through a lot of that emotion in the back of my head all day as I’ve been working on other stuff. As both a foster dad and also a pastor, this story has kind of captured my attention.

Look, I know that interpreting Scripture to justify horrible things isn’t anything new. It is as old as Scripture itself, actually. As long as the Bible has been around, people have misused it to wage war, keep slaves, oppress women, commit genocide, discriminate against entire categories of people, and on and on.

So if it’s all the same to you, I’d really, really like us to stop doing that. In fact, here’s a list of simple steps that I think we ought to take, that will hopefully help us stop abusing the Bible.

1) If it is hurts another person, don’t do it, even if you believe the Bible says it’s okay.

2) Admit that you do not know everything there is to know about the Bible, much less about God.

3) Stop saying “The Bible says…” and start saying “I understand the Bible to say…”

4) Interpret difficult, ambiguous, or obscure passages in the light of the Bible’s central themes, like love, grace, justice, and peace.

5) And finally, if it hurts another person, even if you believe the Bible says it’s okay, don’t do it.

Just don’t.

The divinely inspired authors of the Holy Book of the church, the scribes who copied their words, the interpreters who took it from Hebrew and Greek and brought it to the world, the editors who so diligently pulled everything together – I’m pretty sure they weren’t doing what they did so that Indiana mom could do what she did.

And by the way, nor so that invading armies could eradicate native populations. Nor so that governments could deny equal rights for people of color. Nor so that husbands could consider wives to be personal property.

And while we're at it, nor so that bakers of cakes could discriminate against gay people. Nor so that a town in Midwestern America could call their event a Christmas parade. Nor so an employer could refuse to pay for healthcare for women employees. And so on.

Let's call it what it is. It is Bible abuse masquerading as religious freedom. It is incompatible with the Gospel. It's wrong, and it needs to stop.

So can we just stop please? It’s hurting people. And so we need to stop.