Not Speaking of Sin

“There are times in life when all of your choices suck. There are times when there are no pain-free options. You don’t have the luxury of wondering ‘Why me?’ Sometimes you just have to decide who you are going to be and the price you are willing to pay, and leave the rest to God.”

When I spoke those words to my nine-year old child there were tears in his eyes; he was shaking with terror. He was facing the second round of a medical treatment that was critical for his well-being. The first round left him violently ill, and bruised. But it had to be done, not once, but three more times.

It broke my heart to say those words to him. There was a part of me that revolted against speaking those words. The mama-bear inside wanted to tell him that “everything would be fine” and that he didn’t have to do this. But no matter how much I wanted those things to be true, they were lies. So I told him what I knew to be true and felt my heart break with each word.

And if those cracks weren’t painful enough, when my little boy wiped his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and focused on a place I couldn’t see, while the nurses inserted the two huge needles (one in each arm) my heart shattered.

I spent my night crying in my pillow: crying that I could not eliminate the suffering my child had to endure; crying with the recognition that while I had been living under the assumption that my kid was “doing well," he had, in fact, been battling the symptoms constantly. It was those years of constant battle that taught him the mental toughness that got him through this hospital ordeal. His determination made me both desperately sad and immensely proud.

Later, a friend inquired about my son’s recovery and I recounted the trauma and my words. He said, “It may be no consolation, but your son now knows the real meaning of Original Sin.”

My friend’s words made me realize how little I talk to my kids about Sin. I am a priest and a theologian after all. I believe in Sin; I just don’t talk about it.

I talk to my kids about God’s unfailing love. I talk to them about good character. I talk to them about healthy relationship practices, like honesty and respect. I talk to them about resisting the temptation to judge by placing themselves in another person’s circumstance. I make them watch the March of the Penguins to extol the virtues of sharing and value of sacrifice.

I quote Desmond Tutu:

Fairness is not every one having the same thing; fairness is every one having what they need.

And Rebecca Lyman:

Faith is the courage to love when your heart is broken; and the determination to hope when all the news is bad.

And occasionally, Jesus:

Do to others as you would have them do to you.

I try to model kindness and generosity, good-humor and reconciliation (with varying degrees of success) because my faith has taught me these things that make our world livable.

While I rarely mention sin, I am aware that I am asking my kids to live “Kingdom of God –lives” in the context of Sin. There is no doubt in my mind that our world is broken. No matter what “advances” we humans have made intellectually, philosophically and technologically, we have not managed to “fix” ourselves. We remain subjected to the greed and hatred that infect the human heart. We still find ourselves at constant war: with other people, with our planet, and even with our own bodies. This is the broken-ness of the world. And it is the toxic ocean we all swim in.

I realize that asking my kids to live against the grain of that broken-ness is like asking a fish to avoid water. Still, I want them to resist the messages of our “self” centered culture (that “it’s all about me and my stuff”) and to reject the false gods of money and power. I want them to rebel against the lies of patriarchy and white supremacy that have given rise to the “-isms” in our lives. I want them to fight the poisonous effects of the very air they breathe.

I want my kids to resist the power of Sin because I want them have life. I don’t want them to relinquish life for the illusion of security. In this world, there are no “pain free” options. One way or another we will pay a price. Whether we choose the way of the world or we choose a more excellent Way, it will cost us something.

I want my kids to choose the things that give life: love over hate, generosity over greed, empathy over judgment, and peace over war. “For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life?”

I do not pretend that this will be easy. I know that doing the right thing is often difficult. I know that choosing honesty and honor will frequently be punished. I know that kindness will be considered weakness. I know that personal suffering threatens to blind us to the needs of others and make us bitter. I know that the world is in the habit of killing its peace makers.

I struggle every day to live honestly and lovingly and rarely get it right. All too often, I give in to fear. I fear pain. I fear suffering: not only my own, but the suffering of my children. I fear failure; and in my fear, I fail.

But I still ask my kids to be who their Creator/Redeemer created them to be: bearers of God's loving image. I know in my heart that living is not about simply avoiding pain. My husband loves to quote an old boxing coach who said, “If you’re a fighter and you haven’t had your butt kicked, you haven’t been fighting long enough!” There are a billion ways to be wounded in this world. And the world will kick our butt. Sometimes, we just have to decide who we are going to be, and the price we are willing to pay, and leave the rest in God’s hands.

The day after my son’s treatment, I walked onto his hospital ward and found him in the play room. He was calling out directions in Spanish, as a little girl (about the same age as his brothers) laughed and ran, trying to figure out the rules of “hospital kick ball.”

My son greeted me and introduced me to Orega. He then pointed out a baby (her brother), who was sitting outside of his room, watching the game and waving his tracheotomy tube. He explained that the family did not speak much English and that he’d been entertaining Orega and the baby.

As he was talking, Orega tugged on his arm and said shyly, “Listo?”

“Un momento,” he said.

Orega wandered over to her brother and began talking to him.

I could tell that my son was wearing out. He winced as I inspected the blue/black bruises on his arms. He rested his head on my side. I asked him if he needed to stop and rest. “In a little while,” he replied.

He lay against me for a few minutes. Then he got up.

“Orega,” he called out, “Vamos a jugar.” And with a squeal, the game resumed.

I got up and left the play area, because I knew I was going to cry. My tough-minded son was showing me something powerful. While I was struggling with my grief and guilt, he was choosing compassion. While I was wallowing in self-pity, he was choosing laughter and play. He had decided who he was going to be, and it someone that I respected and admired.

I live in a broken, Sin-sick world. It is a world where: children get sick, language and religion and skin color divide, selfishness is the order of the day, wealth is considered a divine right, and where those who suffer are considered deserving of their suffering.

I wish it were not so. I wish I could tell my kids that everything will be fine, and that they will always be safe. I would give anything to insure my children against suffering and pain. But I can’t save them. I can only do my best to prepare them.

Luckily, every now and then, God gives me a glimpse of redemption, a taste of grace, a hint of what our world could be. And these brief samples are enough to give me hope.

My hope is real. And because I hope, I don’t talk much about Sin with my children; I share my hope with them instead.