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09/24/06 Like a Child (Rev. Russell Rathbun) |
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09/24/06 Like a Child (Rev. Russell Rathbun)
Scripture Reading - Mark 10:13-16
MARK 10: 13-15
Receive it Like a Little Child
He just becaused. He told himself from the
time Jonah could talk the he would not answer a question with
because. His father had becaused him all the time. Even
going so far as to Just because him.
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Huu, just Because?”
He had never liked it, never been satisfied—always
felt that it wasn’t really fair. He new for a fact it was an
unacceptable answer, when he tried it out on his father, his Dad had
said, “Because? Because? That’s not an answer.”
He had almost pointed out to his father that it was
His favorite answer, but stopped him, sensing this would be a serious
misstep with consequences that far out weighed any rhetorical victory.
But like with many things regarding parenting, he
was beginning to have a lot more generosity when it came to his Dad’s
failings.
Jonah was the most amazing thing
that ever happened to him—well, yes, no it was true. There were
times when he could not believe how in love he was with his son.
He didn’t know he could ever feel that was—it was beyond feeling—it was
just beautiful over the top love. And there were times when he
had never felt more out of control rage as well. Jonah was like
that, had that effect on him. Maybe all kids were like that—he
didn’t know.
“Papa, why is God mad?”
“What do you mean? God is not mad.”
“Why?”
“I said, he isn’t mad.”
“Why?”
“He’s not.”
“No, why isn’t God mad?”
“Becau—um He loves us.”
“But you love me and your mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You're getting mad.”
“No I’m not, I’m just trying to read this thing for work. Why do you thing God is mad?”
“I don’t, do you think God is mad.”
“No. But you asked why god was mad.”
“Why is he?”
“He’s not.”
“Papa?
“Yeah.”
“Why is God a boy?”
“God isn’t a boy”
“Why is God a girl?”
“God is not a boy or a girl, he’s neither.”
“Why do you call him a boy if he’s not a boy.”
“Because, um, I just do by mistake. I don’t think
he’s a boy—I mean that God is a boy even if I say he when I talk about
him.”
“How come.”
“Um, because.”
“Because why?
“Jonah, just because.”
“Papa, Tiger put a big scratch in the wall.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just saw the wall in the kitchen and tiger put a
big scratch in it—and on the refrigerator and on the stove…and on the
dish washer.”
“How did she do that with her claws?”
“No, with her crayon…and her magic markers.”
He was amazed at how this five year old who seemed
to be on the this unending search for the truth—with questions about
everything from the beginning of time to where garbage goes—seem to
have almost no concern for actually telling the truth himself. He
could remember the first time Jonah lied to him. It hurt
him. He wondered what he had done, how it had failed as a
parent. But it also seemed that Jonah had discovered it. It
was as if he discovered he could alter reality. He could just say
something and that was that.
After seemingly years of the unbroken routine of,
him asking, “Jonah, did you wash your hands?” And Jonah running
back to the bathroom, washing his hands and running back, skidding to a
stop in from and saying, “Yes.” One day Jonah just said yes.
He looked down at Jonah’s hands they were visibly
sticky with syrup from breakfast and cat hairs stuck to the syrup along
with green magic marker and dirt. He couldn’t believe it.
His beautiful, perfect little boy was standing there, lying to
him. He went from patient, through teaching, to frustrated.
“I can see that you didn’t wash your hands, there dirty, there filthy,
I didn’t hear the water running.”
“I did too wash my hands.”
And then, he realized later he taught Jonah about
lying, at least gave him a name for his new found ability to alter
reality.
“Jonah, you are not telling me the truth.”
From there on out he could always tell when Jonah
was lying because he would end every false statement with, “I’m telling
you the truth.”
Once Jonah, learned this new concept of not telling
the truth and that it was a “bad” thing he loved to apply it to other
people. “Papa, can I have a popsicle?”
“No, we don’t have any popsicles.”
“Yes we do.”
“No, Jonah, we don’t”
“Papa, you’re not telling the truth.” He was
almost charmed that the kid thought he could make popsicles appear,
with the magic phrase. And baffled that his son would believe
anything he said about any crazy thing—unless he wanted the answer to
be different—then it was, “you’re not telling the truth or you just
don’t know or the straight forward—Papa, your wrong.”
And wrong. Right and Wrong. He didn’t
know really anything about child development, but he would not have
guest that the concept of Justice and injustice developed so
early—fairness was big with Jonah. Well, more accurately the
sense of what wasn’t fair.
His son while playing with other kids had never
uttered the phrase, at least to his knowledge, “That seems fair.”
But he couldn’t even begin to count the number of time he heard Jonah
say, or more likely scream, “that’s not fair.” Maybe it is a
child development thing—in the development of right and wrong—it seemed
like the knowledge of wrong definitely developed first. Well, the
awareness of being wronged—not being wrong.
He could not stand when David Schwimmer or David
Bowie or some celebrity would come do a Public Service Announcement
about the Family Table. Giving statistics about how if you have
one meal a day together as a family your kid would be less likely to
grow up an illiterate criminal.
David Schwimmer should come to dinner at his house
he thought. He called it Hell hour. It was a time everyday
that there would proof what a bad parent he was and how horrible his
son was.
There was the washing the hands
and then trying to get Jonah to stay in his seat—how hard is it to sit
in a chair? He would put him there then turn around to get the
meat loaf and the kid was gone turning on the TV or petting the cat
which meant having to go through the hand washing thing again.
Get him to stay in the chair and he doesn’t stop moving. His body
is constantly moving—he falls out of the chair at least twice—and
usually brings something down with him.
Spills. Repeated spills. Don’t cry over
spilt milk. Ok, sure the first time. After he got the rag
and threw away the soaked napkins and blotted the milk of the green
beans, wiped up the floor, cleaned off Jonah’s feet, because he
inevitably jumps up and stands in the puddle of milk, and then moped up
the milk foot prints over to the cat and then get Jonah to wash his
hands again after pets the cat. Then hearing about every thing in
the meal that Jonah hated or thought was gross and wasn’t going to
eat—He always knew dinner was half over because that was usually the
point where he was yelling in frustration and Jonah would start
crying. On particularly hard nights slamming would be
included. By one or both of them—a fork or the door after a
dramatic walk off.
He thought David Schwimmer would definitely change
his mind if he sat down to the family table with them. Maybe he
would do public service announcements warning about the emotional and
physical risks of the family meal.
But inevitably by the end of the meal Jonah would be
on his lap and he would sneak bits into him mouth while the were
laughing and talking—and Jonah would hug his neck and kiss him and put
his sticky greasy hands all over his clothes and his face.
That was the thing—he knew that Jonah more than
anything in the world wanted to be with him. Know matter how much
yelling or time outs or saying no—or how bad he lost it—Jonah wanted to
be with him, touching him—like he didn’t now they were separate
people—couldn’t imaging separations was even a possibility.
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