On Wednesday, we went to church, and four white guys in their early twenties reflected on Jesus’ radical social reorientation that broke down barriers between classes, races, and gender, by marveling at their own wonderous arrival at this moment despite being from (wait for it) different states. “What else might have brought us together here,” they pondered, than the very power of the gospel? Parents rich enough to afford private Christian education, my wife astutely observed. I can’t be too hard on these guys – I like them. I was them. I am them. But we are part of the problem.
On Thursday, we took the young’un on a practice run to the National Center for Illustrated Childrens’ Literature. It’s a great place. Right now they’re featuring the books of Bryan Collier, who had come to the center and talked about his work. Large originals of his illustrations hung on the walls next to his books for children about Rosa Parks, Langston Hughes, Martin Luther King, Jr., the underground railroad, and modern life in Harlem. A child-sized model of a bus sat in the middle of the room, and a locally produced video about Mrs. Parks and the civil rights movement played inside, where visitors could sit in bus seats and watch and learn, and hear the voice of Dr. King. The place was full of children who were getting exposure to beautiful words and images, participating in creating their own, and experiencing these stories of courage, faith, hope, and lives of sacrificial love. I like the feeling that I’m from this place, too.
Later, at the Grace, in the Childrens’ Museum, we saw two boys, five and six years old, playing in the four-and-under area. They pushed a younger boy to the ground for playing where they were building. “Don’t ruin it!” they said. My mother in law said, “Hey, he’s a person, too.” We asked them how old they were, and told them they couldn’t play there anymore. The father of the boy who was pushed said, “Don’t worry about it. He has brothers – he’s used to it.”
It’s true. We get used to it.
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