The World Where it Happened… were you there?
29 September 2020; “The World Where it Happened… were you there?”
As you may already know, the New York Times detonated a journalistic bombshell yesterday, an exposé on the tax cheating of evader-in-chief DdT, giving us, finally, clarity on the decades of financial legerdemain he’s been engaged in, from the details (he paid just $750 in taxes the year he was elected president, and the same amount his first year in office) to the insidious big picture (he’s manipulated the tax code, and now the US presidency, to enrich himself and his family, at the expense not only of public infrastructure, but of justice itself). And I thank God they have done it, having poured in over four years of effort, cultivating trust in their sources (who themselves took great risks to procure the documents) as well as faith in free speech and democracy themselves. To believe that this exposé is important and will make a difference, in the face of the “alternative facts” wildfire DdT has helped ignite and fan his entire term, is the kind of radical faith our world needs right now. It’s essential reading.
But what about the other bombshell, also essential reading, below the fold yesterday (at least in the national edition)— who of us saw that? About how pandemic-triggered school closures across the Global South (with specific focus upon India in this piece) are turning children into garbage collectors, trinket salespeople, prostitutes, and beggars, now and very likely— given the intimidating historical odds of ever returning to school after leaving it because of poverty— for the rest of their days?
And what about the bombshell today, also below the fold, second-fiddle apparently to the second installment of the tax exposé? (The editors aren’t dummies; they know what will sell more papers. In fact there’s only a picture beneath the fold; the piece itself appears on page A8.) One million deaths in our global family because of the pandemic. One fifth of them in the U.S.—far more than would have been the case under competent presidential leadership— but a large percentage of them in the Global South, and getting precious little attention in Western media, precious little compassion in Western hearts.
One million. We stammer when we try to swallow it. Yet we should also shake our head. Staggering as it is, it’s a lie, only part of the story. In our heart of hearts, we know better. It skips over the undercounts, happening sometimes innocently but all too often deliberately, all over the world: those who have died before they could be conclusively tested, and those whose deaths (and before that, their infections) were simply not reported, because of intentionally weak reporting mechanisms, or intentionally crass political agendas to keep things looking rosier than they actually are. And it looks past the indirect deaths, of the kind Nicholas Kristof and others have put before us with admirable persistence and courage: deaths from malnutrition, preventable illness, or violence (including suicide) brought about because of the massive economic downturn, the overburdened public health systems, and the killing stress this pandemic has brought upon us.
One million human beings. One million Children of God.
What if we committed to looking at it, thinking about it, breathing and praying with it, like this— that one million of our brothers and sisters, all God’s children, have died, and many needlessly? How might that change us?
What if we just tried that, for a week, a day, or even an hour? Every time we see or hear a story about a human being, taking a moment in our own mind to say, “a Child of God.” A Child of God lost his father, who was shot by police yesterday… fourteen thousand children in the Seattle school district still cannot access virtual learning… all of the children of God in the Dominican Republic’s public school system are waiting for the opening of classes, now scheduled for November 2, and very likely they’ll lose more time than that, maybe the entire school year when all is said and done.
How present are we to suffering— that of others, and even our own— on this level? It is indeed difficult it is to take the time, and create the mental and spiritual space within us, to take it in like this, but how essential. Even if we cannot do so in every moment, we must try to sometimes, if we stand a chance at understanding, and feeling, with any degree of honesty.
I cannot imagine the Atlas-like challenge that it must be for school leaders worldwide to find ways to serve their students well right now. It’s a tangled, thorny mess to walk through, on the pencil-then ledge of a sheer cliff. When schools are open, kids can learn and play and socialize, and for many, it’s their best chance to eat and see a nurse and frankly, stay safe; parents can work, or look for work, and not have to live the lie of choosing between job and child. And yet, the logic of flattening the curve is simple: the longer we remain faithfully in lockdown mode— no work, no school, no nothing, just avoiding contact entirely— the more quickly we’ll get infection levels low enough to open back up again.
I cannot judge with what level of good faith every leader has struggled with this. Certainly, some have mightily, and have developed wonderful solutions— look across the Pacific, to Australia and New Zealand, to name just a couple. And certainly, some, with cheerleader-in-chief DdT leading the pack, have seemingly not struggled at all, only swatted at it like an annoying fly who’s dared to board their yacht. Just get them open, just do it, it doesn’t matter how.
Yes, we need schools open. But wait, it does matter how. I can’t speak to the logistical side, only to the spirit, and for that what comes into my heart is that hymn we’d sing every Good Friday as a child, without fail. Were you there, when they crucified my Lord?
How aware, how present, are we to these children as Children of God? How present are we to what the Jesuit Jon Sobrino has written so eloquently about, the need to take the crucified peoples of the world down from the Cross? And that, of course, means we must first recognize the Child of God on that Cross, and get close enough to hear her cry, to pull out the nails in his hands and feet, to hold her in our arms and embrace her with love that she might yet live.
This takes work, more heart and soul work than we may feel capable of many days. But it is our calling, and invites us— demands us, especially at a time like this— to take a breath, to take a step toward the Cross, come a little bit closer, and with faith and with the company of others, come closer still.