Joining the March

Joining the March

            A few weeks ago, women who have suffered the worst heartache imaginable – the death of their children got together in Washington DC (http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/2015/05/09/million-moms-march-demands-end-to-police-brutality-and-racial-injustice/27038289/).  These are African-American women whose sons have been killed by the police.  The trend is terrible and obvious – unarmed young black males are killed by law enforcement when the situation could have been deescalated without injury or loss of life.  This is systemic racism. 

            These moms, wrapped in grief, gathered to lean on each other’s shoulder, to cry and pray together, and to march up Pennsylvania Avenue to the department of justice (http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/million-mom-march-in-dc-draws-hundreds-demanding-police-reforms/2015/05/09/4f5fa952-f501-11e4-bcc4-e8141e5eb0c9_story.html).

            Joining this effort was a first of a kind experience for me.  Part of white privilege is the reality that when you live in the middle class, you have education and a good job, and you have no need to fear how the police will treat you, you can just ignore the systemic racism in America.  You don’t feel it.  So, I have spent time turning a blind eye.  But the increase of violence and the climbing number of unarmed black kids killed by police is something I can no longer avoid.  I never should have in the first place.  I have an adopted son who is black and it horrifies me that I will have to teach him how to act around cops in a way my dad never had to teach me.

            I want my son to know I care.  I thank God that my boy has awakened me to something I should have cared about all along.  I went on May 9, and I marched.  I intend to do more.  And as a pastor, I intend to bring my church along.  But for me, May 9 was to time to add my own feet to the walk and it was a time to observe and learn.  I saw a lot.

            First, I saw what happens when an event is not well organized.  One of my friends who is black and who usually informs me about protest movements did not even know this was happening.  Nor did most of Washington DC know.  If you were not on Pennsylvania Avenue between 4^th and 9^th streets, you would have missed this entirely.  As we walked by the Newseum, I saw far more people on the streets as tourists doing what they might do any Saturday in DC.  That this event was happening and that Michael Brown and Tamir Rice and the rest have died appeared to mean nothing.  People of all races went about their normal lives, mildly inconvenienced by the commotion on Pennsylvania Ave. 

            Second, I looked around the crowd of marchers (a few thousand people, not a million), and I saw a group of people whose lives are in many ways unlike mine.  Obviously I am not a woman, I am not black, I am not the mother of young black men, and my children are all alive.  I lacked shared life experiences with those leading the march. I felt like the outlier in the crowd.  There were people from the Nation of Islam.  I don’t fit that group and they wouldn’t want me.  There was a group of Episcopalian clergy.  I most closely identified with them, but they are DC Episcopalians.  I am a Baptist from North Carolina.  One of the speakers was a woman from the Green Party.

            I have no affiliation with any of these groups.  There were groups holding up banners for the Unitarian Church.  I am neither Unitarian nor Universalist.  There were groups of Lesbians.  I am straight and male.  There were people filtering through the crowd selling Socialist newspapers.  I did not bump into any Southern Evangelicals.

            In a crowd where I was in the extreme minority, I had the opportunity to experience up close how others experience and think about the world.    I did not mind being unlike those around me.  What bothered me is that no one like me cared enough to come.  Where were my peers?  Where are the white, evangelical Christians?  Our cause is Christ and He identifies with the ‘least’ in society.  In the word ‘least’ think least advantaged or least recognized.  The ‘least’ are not lower in value than anyone else, but they have been devalued by those in society who hold power.  Jesus locates himself with those at the bottom of society’s ladder. 

If we evangelicals want to see where God is at work and join Him then we need to go where the hurt is greatest.  Is any hurt greater than losing a child and knowing it is the police who took the child’s life?  This ought to matter to people who do what I do, who live where I live, and whose lives look like mine.  Why did my peers, people like me, completely ignore this event?  That really bothered me and continues to bother me.  Evangelicals want to follow in Jesus’ footsteps, but we stop short if it feels different from what we think we know.  That is not good.

            After my observation about the lack of organization and my observation about how most people did not care about this event, a third observation is about myself.  As the crowd marched along, they shouted over and over “I believe that we will win.”  And they chanted other slogans.  I figured out that I am not a stand-in-the-crowd-and-chant type of guy.  I half-heatedly tried to join the chanting, but I found it weird.  I began analyzing the slogan.  Who is “we?”  And what does it mean to “win?”  I found it noisy and unproductive. 

I allow that I could be way off base.  But I just do not see what it accomplished by walking and chanting.  I don’t want to be a voice in the crowd mindlessly repeating a slogan.  My position on this may be critiqued and I invite that.  Here I am simply sharing an observation about my own make-up as a person.

            I learned and observed other things that Saturday, but here I describe a moment in the walk that I think epitomized this particular problem as it exists in America.  The marchers walked to the department of justice at the corner of Pennsylvania and 9^th and began shouting demands for justice.  I supported this.  It is why I walked.

            Across Pennsylvania Avenue and back toward the Capital there was an outdoor ceremony going on.  There were probably as many people involved with it as there were involved with the march.  I think it was a navy retirement ceremony.  A lot of naval officers were there in their dress uniforms and the chairs in rows were filled.  I stepped out of the march and sat on a wall to take it all in. 

I thought, is this happening?  Over one shoulder, sailors were seated in uniform in orderly fashion to honor someone who had given a life of service.  Across the way, another group of people, a riotous crowd, shouted because young men have lost their lives, killed by people in uniform.  Pennsylvania Avenue is wide enough that the two events could happen simultaneously in view of each other without disrupting either. 

            However, after a while, the marchers decided it was time to head back down Pennsylvania to the starting point, John Marshal Place Park at Pennsylvania and 4^th Street.  As wide as Pennsylvania Avenue is it is not wide enough for marchers to walk down the middle of the street yelling without attracting the attention of those on the sidewalks.  One the walk resumed, the retirement ceremony would be affected.  I rejoined the crowd and walked and saw something I could not believe.

            As we walked by the ceremony, a small, gray-haired white woman ran into the crowd of marchers.  She had on a lanyard.  I believe she was one of the organizers of the retirement ceremony.  She started running up to people in crowd who were shouting through bullhorns.  She was shushing them.  She pointed toward the dais where the ceremony was happening and pleaded with the protestors to be quiet.  I have never seen anything so absurd.  These people were protesting because men in uniform had killed their kids.  She was asking them to stop their protesting and quietly respect men in uniform (albeit different uniforms).  A group of angry marchers being chastised and shushed by a little old lady; you cannot make this up.

            As an aside, I want to at least offer a best guess as to the perspective of this woman.  From her point of view, I believe she (and so many I know who share her mindset) loves America.  How does she show this love?  She weeps when she hears the Star - Spangled Banner.  She respects the flag.   And she honors soldiers and sailors, men and women in the armed forces.  I am sure it was an offense to her that these marchers would interrupt something as solemn as a military ceremony.

            But this is the point of disconnect in our country.  That woman cannot connect at a head or heart level to the moms who sons have died in Baltimore, Ferguson, Milwaukee, Cleveland, and other places.  That navy-loving woman thinks she is America, but this crowd of marchers is an America she does not know.  She is completely out of touch with them and does not want to learn.  She does not think this crowd has anything to offer. 

            For their part, those in the crowd are as a distant from her as she is from them.  She cannot understand their pain.  They don’t understand her love of military (which she would call love of country).  Neither group – protestors or the military retirement ceremony – gets the other group.  And neither comes close to representing the majority.  Who are the majority?  It is the crowds of people walking the streets of DC trying to decide if they should visit the Capital or the Lincoln Memorial or if they have time, both. 

            The majority are the tourists and the DC residents who say, “Oh, a navy retirement ceremony.”  And they shrug their shoulders.  “Oh, a protest of some kind.”  And they shrug their shoulders.  The majority of Americans do not want to get their hands dirty or have their lives inconvenienced in the work of fighting for justice and brotherhood and peace. 

            I hope a prophet will arise.  My prayer is someone will stand up, someone who speaks with the power and authority of Moses, of Paul, of Luther, of King.  A lot of people admire Mother Theresa.  Few join her.  Many speak glowingly of Martin Luther King Jr.  Few recognize that he is gone and we need someone who will champion the cause of the marginalized people in society as effectively as he did. 

            The only person I can imagine who might call the world’s attention to the need for justice (and the need for change) is Pope Francis.  I don’t know if he is the prophet God is raising for our day.  I don’t know if God is raising anyone to speak with such authority that people will hear and listen and heed.  I pray that person will arise.  Humanity needs it. 

            For my part, I will preach to the 115 or so people who come to my church each week.  I will announce the gospel and include themes of justice.  I will name society’s evils and call upon the church to pray.  I will continue to march and invite my church to join me.  And I will pray.  I don’t want there to be any more Michael Browns or Freddie Grays.  I pray America will enter a new season, one of uplift, one in which poverty declines dramatically.  I pray this will come about.  I pray God will show me my part in bringing this about.  

From An Adoptive Father of a Russian Boy

I am completely aware of my own bias.  I am a father of three children whom I love deeply.  I do not play golf because it would mean time away from my kids.  My wife and I have decided not to have cable TV because we want to engage our children, not park them in front of the TV.  Sometimes my little lovelies get on my last nerve.  When my favorite football team is on and I can't see it because we don't have ESPN, I get pretty cranky.  But, we have happily chosen this life because we love, love, love our children.

All our children are adopted.  The oldest, a Russian boy, is now 10 and will be 11 soon.  The middle, a 6-year-old Ethiopian boy and the youngest a 3-year-old Ethiopian girl.  My wife and I are white Americans.  We are a pretty colorful family.  

When we got into adoption, I am sure there was some "savior-complex," if not for my wife, then definitely in me (just a little bit).  We read Matthew 25:40, and we are ready to do for "the least of these."  We're going to "rescue" an orphan and give him a good life.  I am sure those thoughts exist in the mind of many adoptive parents.  But, those thoughts dissipate quickly as it becomes the work of parenting.  Take away the lack of genetic connection, and parenting adopted kids is not different than parenting children that are yours naturally.  And parenting is one of the hardest jobs there is.

What cannot be taken away is the experiences adopted children had before they came into the families that adopt them.  In the case of my son from Russia, something happened that put in him anger - raging anger.  I won't go into details for several reasons.  He's made great strides.  We have had all kinds of professional help and he has overcome a lot.  I'd rather focus on his successes.  More importantly, it is his story to tell.  He is now at an age where he should have the right to determine what others know about him.

One indicator of his progress is that life is now easier with him and two other kids than it was when in the first two years he was with us.  I don't think that is because he's Russian.  I think in Russia there are people who are some of the best parents in the world.  I think that is true in most countries.  I think there are also some people who are awful to their children.  That also is true in most countries.  What I do think happens in situations where poverty is wide spread, like in Russia, is the social systems in place to take care of orphans are overworked.

The reason Russia allows affluent foreigners to come and adopt their children is they have more orphans than they can handle.  In the case of my son, he had 4 workers in the orphanage in his age group.  Those 4 worked in shifts, not all there at the same time.  And there were 16 children.  The workers did not have time to cuddle and coo and hold the babies and take the time needed to teach walking and talking.  What's even sadder is those workers did not have the time to teach the children how to be held.

When we adopted our son at 3 1/2, his body was as ridged as a board when he was picked up.  A child used to being held wraps his arms around you and his legs too.  The position of being held is natural because he's experienced it from birth.  Our boy had to learn that at 42 months of age.  He spent three years learning that when you cry in bed at night, no one comes, and you get punished if you get out of your bed before it is permitted.  He was perfectly comfortable sleeping in urine-soaked sheets.  He was scared to death to leave his bed once placed in it at night.  

This is but a sampling of what was in him: pain, confusion, rage.  And the people who were trying to love him out of this (my wife and me) were strangers who spoke a language he had never heard and took him to a place he did not know.  His case is pretty typical of kids adopted from Russia, Moldova, Romania, and Kazakhstan.  These kids come with a lot of baggage and it adds to the challenge of parenting them.  Again, without going into too much detail, the first two years with our boy were the hardest two years of my life.  And it has not been a cakewalk since then either.     

Please don't misinterpret what I am saying.  I do not condone the awful things that have happened to some of the Russian children who have been adopted.  When I read about that woman a few years ago who put her adopted child on a plane and sent him back to Russia, I was furious.  I am sure life was impossibly hard for her.  It was probably 10 times harder than what we experienced with our son.  But that's parenting.  If she had given birth to a child with a bipolar disorder or a child with schizophrenia, she couldn't send him back!  Parenting is hard and much harder for some parents than others.  When she sent that kid back, I was furious because she made it that much harder for others who want to adopt from Russia.  

Stories like ours don't make the paper.  Our son has graduated out of speech therapy and out of occupational therapy.  He no longer qualifies for an I.E.P. in school.  His reading and math skills are too good to qualify for special help.  He's right in the mainstream.  And that's true on his soccer team.  And it is true in his dance class.  When it comes to art (sketching) and construction (Legos) he is way beyond his peers.  Other kids in the neighborhood call him over when they have Lego emergencies and he gets them through it, finishing the construction for them if need be.  

Recently in Gardendale, Texas, an boy died, a boy adopted from Russia by an American family.  Konstantin Dolgov, the Russian foreign ministry's special representative for human rights said, "I would like to call your attention to another case of inhuman abuse of a Russian child by U.S. adoptive parents" (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-21503299).  If the investigation proves that this child died because of abuse from his adoptive parents, then they should be punished to the fullest extent of the law.  That's murder and they should spend the rest of their lives in prison.  

But please, Mr. Dolgov, if you are going to speak to the press about this and other abuse stories, could you grant this adoptive father a small request.  Could you spend the next 10 years of your life telling the stories of American families who have loved their Russian children?  Would you please come to my house and take a long look at the huge picture of St. Basil's cathedral we have over our son's bed.  Maybe as you visit you could enjoy some Russian tea which my wife occasionally makes.  You and I could sit and discuss Russian authors - Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Solzhenitsyn are my favorites.  My wife and just tonight began reading Father Sergius together.  Maybe, Mr. Dolgov, you prefer Turgenev or Asimov or Chekov.  While you are here, ask my son how we portray Russia to him.  He will tell you, I hope, that we encourage him to be proud of his heritage.  We want him to love the fact that he is Russian.  

Is that not a good thing, Mr. Dolgov?  Mr. Putin?  The Duma's action in late 2012 of cutting off adoptions of Russian children by American families is pathetically political.  What could be more hideous than using children as fodder in a propaganda war?  Most families I know that have adopted Russian children are like us.  They dearly love their children and they teach their children to love being Russian.  So, if 1000's of families take that approach, then, you have 1000's of young kids growing up in America who have pride about being Russian and love for that country.  

Cut that off as was done and is the current state of things, and what do you have?  First, you, Russia, have an orphan problem that is not getting solved.  Your homeless population will rise once this generation of orphans age out of the system and end up on the streets, addicted to drugs, and victims of the sex-slave industry.  Second, you have a nation, America, which instead of developing a deep love for Russia instead sees the Russian government as petty.  Where there was the potential for deepening of positive relationships, there is now growing distrust and childish rivalries.  O, you criticized us for human rights violations.  We'll show you!  You can't adopt our kids any more.  Are the people elected to the Duma a bunch of 10-year-olds?  Can't they see that the ones being hurt are the children in the orphanages?  

Of course they know that.  They just don't care at all.  If those kids can be used to strike a humiliating blow at America, then they'll be used in that way.  The value of those children is in what they can do for Russian national pride.  The lives of children already forsaken by their birth parents are now devalued even more.  The leaders in the Duma will without conscience use the children to save face.  

You know who does care?  The orphanage workers in Russia care.  Their hearts and backs are broken.  Some of those workers, mostly women, deeply love the children.  I know one did when we brought out boy home.  We showed him the pictures of the ladies we took before we left.  He always looked at one and touched it slowly.  "Vaya."  This was back when he was barely talking at all.  He didn't know many words in English or Russian, but he knew her name.  "Vaya."  It was obvious in how he said and how he looked at her.  Vaya loved my son before I did.  Vaya cares about these children and she knows they need homes.  And she knows her own country just cut off an enormous source of potential parents.

And those American parents who want to adopt, what about them?  They'll be fine.  The ones who can afford it will go to Kazakhstan or Ukraine.  The ones who can take off from work will go to Kenya or Malawi or Uganda.  The ones willing to risk the process will go to Honduras or Guatemala.  The ones willing to wait will go to China.  And the rest, the (now) majority will go to Ethiopia.  If now, there are plenty of children right here in America who need to be adopted.  One of my best friends in the U.S. has three adopted children from America.  My brother is in the process of adopting two from right here.

Of all the political actions I know of, the decision by the Russians to cut off Americans from adopting Russian orphans is the stupidest.  I love Russia.  I love the art.  I love the literature.  I love the pride and strength of that great nation.  I love the food.  The best fish dish I have ever had in my life I had at the hotel in Pskov on our two trips there.  I am sad for a country so great to be ruled by leaders who are so selfish and short-sighted.  

The evil ones are the Americans who adopt and then hurt the children they've adopted.  The victims are the children who will not be adopted.  What comes next?  I don't know.  But I wish I could get Mr. Dolgov and Mr. Putin to meet me at a hotel in Pskov.  I'd arrange for Vaya to be there.  And I would bring my boy.  Maybe the five could hash this out over a meal of the best fish you'll ever eat.