Monday, September 27, 2010

The Genesis of Hate and the Teaching of Sin

The other day I took my son to the park. Another child saw his sewn eye and pointed and asked his mother what was wrong. I had no problem with his asking, but his mother severely chastised her son for pointing, for his natural curiosity, and for his child-like concern. She told him that it was rude to point, and made her boy, maybe only seven, feel hurt for asking. She could see her own rudeness, sin.
He then, turned and gave my 17 month old a dirty look. No wonder, as his mother had made him feel like dirt for his curiosity. This mother had succeeded in turning her son's wonder and concern for my son into despise and hate. The old cliche that kids are honest is true. I always had the question as to when that became the meanness that dominates our lives. This mother gave me an insight into how sin turns love into hate. My son own look at being hated told me that, in someways, I can't protect him. 
Poem I wrote about it:
On Seeing the Stares at My Son's Eye
I feel the bleeding Jesus. His blood
washes over me, allowing love. He called
for forgiveness as I called
for his blood. The sweat mixed with blood
from the garden has dried to the shade
sun baked earth. Below the cries
of the women, the curses of men
and shuffle of bare feet in the dirt,
there is beautiful horrible silence. 
In the crowd are slaves, like me, beaten and abuse
By the commerce of daily living. They come
To vent their hatred at the blasphemer
Unknown to most of them just a week before.
Like the broken well dug deep into the earth,
his blood continues to color the ground, color
The street, color the faces of desperation.
Step by step, God slowly died. No madman,
Asking about God and lamenting the murder,
Appears.  Only supermen of arrogance
Goosestepping across the human history.
Show up to mock, spit and celebrate the kingdom
Of death. Death. Death, a real possibility,
Shatters the mirror his disciples saw through
To understand the messiah and his promises. 
Here, Christ dies in every moment,
dies in every act of hatred, and dies
in many of my actions. To taste the new life
of the resurrection, we have to taste the cross
and his death. Weary of death,
we go to prepare the body of God.
Then Easter.

1 comment:

naturalspacerc said...

An excerpt of Jean Vanier's last letter (a Canadian Catholic philosopher, humanitarian and the founder of L'Arche):

Etty Hillesum often comes to mind. In 1942 when she was living in that terrible camp for Jews who were destined to die in Auschwitz and when Europe was dominated by Hitler’s demonic clan, she used to pray: “Yes my Lord, you seem so incapable of changing a situation which in the end is so bound up with this life. I do not ask for an explanation, on the contrary it is up to you to call us to account one day. It seems to me more and more clearly at every beat of my heart that you cannot help us but that it is up to us to help you and to defend to the end the home that shelters you in us.” What is important, she is saying, is to live in the arms of God.