I Can't Hear You

John & Charles Wesley - Renewers of the Church (1703-1788, 1707-1791)

"Then Haman said to King Xerxes, “There is a certain people dispersed among the peoples in all the provinces of your kingdom who keep themselves separate. Their customs are different from those of all other people, and they do not obey the king’s laws; it is not in the king’s best interest to tolerate them."

ESTHER 3:8

Groggers, by Avi Schwab
Used under Creative Commons License

There is in the Jewish tradition a historical character so repugnant that -- when his name is said aloud -- the congregation produces such a racket so that they don't have to hear it pronounced.  When the Book of Esther is heard during the feast of Purim, there is even a special percussion instrument called a grogger that is used to generate some of the noise.  The sound it creates is a sharp and dry, much like the warning of a rattlesnake.

I like to think that there are few people in our contemporary lives who conjure up such profound universal dislike.  Of course there have been despotic figures throughout history -- responsible for swaths of misery and death -- whom we could agree the world would have been better off without. 

I can, however, think of one contemporary American family that probably fits that description.  While their actions are nowhere in the scope of the atrocities committed by Haman or Hitler, they manage to conjure up much of the same reaction.  And that is by design.  They want you to hate them.  They want you to hate them because they want you to talk about them, tell people about them, come out to confront them and possibly let your emotions get the best of you and do something for which they can -- shrewd scholars of the law that they are -- take you to court, where they will most likely win.  That's how they can afford to seemingly be everywhere at once, and -- now that they have forced America to once again acknowledge that even hateful speech is protected under our law -- they have vowed to redouble their efforts.

We wanted free speech, and now we've seen what that can sometimes cost.  As upsetting as it is to see such vile people be handed a victory, I do not think the Supreme Court could have ruled any differently. Once you start deciding that some speech is subject to censure, you're opening the door for any opinion that is unpopular to be repressed. As we have seen during certain political conventions, even as it is the First Amendment does not protect protesters when the vague claim of a security threat trumped their right to assemble peacefully and speak their minds. Do we really want to open the door for courts or -- worse -- legislators to decide what speech should be protected and what is fair game for punishment?

What upsets me more is the knowledge that the outrage of the public, now that the targets include military families, Catholics, the Swedish, Queen Elizabeth and whatever other group has managed to cross their delusional paths, was pretty much non-existent when the only people whose funerals were being picketed were AIDS patients. Where was Sarah Palin then?

So what do we do?  One school of thought -- which seems logical -- is that we respond to the way civilized people respond to an act of shocking incivility whose only purpose is to gain attention: we stop rewarding it with more attention.  Readers should tell news outlets "This is not news. Stop covering it." Interviewers should not kid themselves into thinking they will be the one who can foster a rational conversation.  Counter-protesters should stop thinking they will get the upper hand. Satirists should stop going for the easy laugh by giving them a platform for their bile.

We have tried it.  It didn't work.  So stop rewarding the behavior.  Turn your back.  Don't react.  Stop feeding the beast and maybe it will go away. After all, with any miscreant you encounter, what happens next is as much about you as it is about them.  In this case, they may serve us Christians well, because -- in a scramble to make sure others know we're not like that -- its up to us inclusive types to witness to our own understanding of who God does and doesn't hate.

If that doesn't work, maybe we should all be issued groggers.

Gonna Fly Now

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY

I didn't know Maurice, but I've seen Rocky, his horse.

Horses are (or were) a dime a dozen where I grew up, but -- unless you go looking for them -- you don't expect to see one in somebody's yard in the busy, densely-packed suburbs where I live now.  Thus Rocky caught my eye on a couple of occasions when making my way through the back streets of Montclair, but I never learned the circumstances of how he came to be there until this week.

Besides the prize-fighter portrayed so prolifically by Sly Stallone, Rocky was also the nickname of another odds-beating dude: a young California man named Rocky Dennis who led a short but rich life despite the effects of a rare disease that eventually disfigured his face, affected his hearing and vision, and gave him crippling headaches. His life is loosely portrayed in the film Mask, directed by Peter Bogdanovich.  As deftly depicted by a  young Eric Stoltz, Rocky maintains a sense of humor and grace that wins him the respect of not only his biker/addict mom (whose portrayal by Cher won her Best Actress at Cannes in 1985) but his formerly-cruel classmates and misguided principal.  Without necessarily trying to do so, Rocky taught those around him quite a bit about life, and about themselves.

Rocky the horse belonged to another young man, the aforementioned Maurice.  Maurice was born a year to the day before 9/11 in Washington D.C.  His mother was also addicted to drugs, and was HIV-positive.  Both Maurice and his twin sister Michelle were born with a host of physical and developmental problems, and she died before her second birthday.

Maurice's prognosis was not much better.  When he was three, two men named Tim came into his life.  They were intent on giving Maurice a home, despite being told by doctors that he was unlikely to live much longer.  It took another three years to negotiate the red tape, during which time the Tims continued to care for Maurice, and he responded by growing stronger and healthier.  A year after they adopted Maurice, big brother Kindoo joined the family and they moved to Montclair shortly thereafter.

Maurice loved horses, and -- although it was certainly not the norm  -- the family's new house had enough property, so they surprised him one Christmas with a horse of his own.  Thus Rocky came to town.

I didn't know Maurice, but I know how kids act around somebody who is different.  We've all seen it, and we know that no amount of us telling them not to prevents prying questions, cruel comments, taunts. In fact, if kids get the idea that the adults treat you "special" it can just make things worse.  Sadly, adults who should know better do it, too, and there's a whole element of our entertainment culture that encourages this survival-of-the-meanest mentality.

Ultimately it is up to the individual to claim his place, assert his right to participate, and earn the respect of the group.  What kind of support the child gets at home is key here, because a kid who has been taught to believe he has worth is far better equipped to handle this kind of flack.

I didn't know Maurice, but I can tell from reading about him that he had that kind of home.  Two people who could have spent their disposable income on circuit parties and mid-century tchotchke  instead reached out to a baby the world had already decided wouldn't make it, and gave him the best life they could, and -- in their care -- he thrived despite his shaky health and accomplished quite a bit: earning a black belt, graduating from high school and volunteering to serve the poor at St. Luke's Episcopal Church.  When their own relationship didn't survive, they did the best they could to make sure Maurice and Kindoo still had a stable home with two parents who loved them.   He had goals for himself, including living independently and teaching kids with special needs. 

Maurice died this week after a sudden illness.  He was 20.  The New York Times describes him here and includes a photo of a handsome and confident young guy astride his horse. To read about and look at him, this would not be a kid that you would pity.  This was a kid that you could (and should) learn from.  I can't say more about the man he grew to be, because I didn't know him.

That is my loss.