To love a murderer on Good Friday, Easter Sunday, & every day after

Working at the Denver Street School has ruined me for murderers: I’ve come to realize I love them and it regularly breaks my heart.

A few years back, my vice-principal and I started a running text chain. Some days it’s a mix of teaching memes and funny student quotes, but there are other days where we somberly exchange news articles with headlines written about our students.

This year alone we’ve exchanged two articles. The first explained that a prior student had been arrested for killing his three-month old daughter (accidentally or not, we’re still not sure). The second was a list of criminal charges a student from two years ago is facing. As I write this, he is awaiting arraignment for nine felony charges– including first-degree murder, first-, second-, and third-degree assault, and menacing with a deadly weapon, among others.

Fuller and my weird text chain began in 2014 with information regarding the murder of one of our then-current students. It was reinstated four months after Johnny’s death when we exchanged news articles about the arrest of another then-current student who had tried meth, then proceeded to attempt to kill a police officer while under the influence.

I’m far from a news junkie, but when I see my kiddos’ faces on news channels or in my Facebook feed, I can’t help but sit enveloped in the articles and subsequent comments from the public.

“Let him burn in hell.”

“Public execution. Maybe even firing squad.”

“A disgrace.”

“A waste of space.”

These are the words that strangers have said about my students, my babies.

And every. single. time. that I’ve gotten sucked into the wormhole of comments from the public, I’ve sat, shaking as I read them through tears.

In those moments, I know I’m crying for my students, for their victims, for each of the families and the various communities involved in the incident. I cry because I don’t understand how my students have come to make the choices they’ve made. And no matter how hard I try, I know I’ll never be able to reconcile the reality of the brokenness of this world in my heart.

But just as I’ve cried tears of sadness, I’ve also screamed in rage. In those moments I’m unbelievably angry at my students for what they’ve done, for who they’ve allowed themselves to become. As time progresses, that anger subsides though, often leaving my heart puzzled.

The days go on, but at least for a little while my students’ faces stay in my news feed attached to those horrid headlines; follow-up articles are published, and with them, more horrid comments from people whom I would argue need better hobbies.

As I scroll through the articles and read the death threats and aggressive comments about the students I love, every ounce of me wants to scream back,

“You don’t know them! You don’t see their struggles! You don’t know the abuse they’ve suffered at home, the pain they carry in their hearts, or the ways they have been set up to fail in this world since they were in their mother’s wombs!” 

Let me be clear.

I have no desire to make excuses for my students or their actions, but in those moments I feel trapped between a rock and a hard place– between the seemingly reasonable expectations of human decency and the calling to love and defend the students Jesus has placed in my care.

Thus, in those moments of blinding, complex sorrow and rage, I sit, confused. Feeling a little bit helpless. Saddened by the fact that the only thing I can do is pray and schedule a visit at the county jail to see the students I love.

Because that’s just it. I love my kids. I will love my kids no matter what they do, no matter who they become. And I wish I could convince the rest of the world to do so as well.

Maybe I’m blind or naive, but those students? The ones in Fuller and my text-chain, in your Facebook feed? They’re human. They’re kids I’ve played football with at lunch. I’ve read their stories in my English classes– stories where their “fictional characters” struggle to be men and women of character in gang and drug infested worlds, in “fictional settings” that are strikingly similar to those of their author’s.

I’ve taken these students on leadership retreats to the mountains. I’ve watched them build snowmen and sled and giggle like little kids. I’ve watched them cry out of frustration when they can’t figure out their math homework and literally run screaming down the halls with excitement when they pass a test.

These young people who have made horrid choices– either one incidentally or as a string of other poor choices– these people who have taken another’s life?

They’re young men and women I honestly trust with mine.

They’re sweet and goofy; they’re so much smarter than the choices they’ve made or the stigmas the world placed on them before (or after) they ended up in the orange jumpsuits they now wear.

It’s because of this that I’ve spent several of my planning periods this year tracking some of my favorite former students through the Colorado judicial system. Last week as I waited for the Denver county inmate search website to load, a meme popped up in that text chain, and I couldn’t help but laugh at just how weird this job of mine is.

As I stared at the slowly loading page, the comments from old news articles flashed through my mind, as did this old snapchat– a picture of the student I was trying to locate–

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In that moment, I glanced around my empty classroom, then down at the Bible on my desk and I was reminded that loving murderers probably isn’t a common aspect of most people’s jobs; in fact, outside of DSS, it’s probably rather rare. And outside of the relationships with Jesus that our school is built upon, I doubt that it’s possible.

But isn’t that just it?

Jesus had a heart for murderers. That’s what Easter is about.

The fact that King of the Universe came down to save His people from themselves and the sin that entangles them even though we couldn’t deserve it less.

Our perfect, benevolent Jesus came to rescue His people in love and restore them to relationship with the Father, even though they shouted, “Let Him be crucified!”, “I do not know Him!”, and “Do not release Him, the innocent, but Barabbas, the robber!” just days earlier.

Jesus came to save us even though we shout those words at Him and at each other with our lips, actions, and inactions every day.

We are murderers.

Each and every one of us.

And if we refuse to acknowledge that truth in our pride or arrogance, our own virtue or religiousity, then I firmly believe that we’ll miss out on the heart of Jesus.

If we can’t look at our sin, our own capability and guilt of murder against our King– and those created in His image– then we are in danger of missing so much of the beauty of Jesus and what He has done for us, even though we are so undeserving.

May we become a people who look upon the crucifix with a more full understanding of our sin, so that we might relish in the goodness and love of the truth that followed three days later– the words that continue to shake me to my core this morning: “He is not here; Christ has risen, just as He said He would.” (Matthew 28:6)

You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

(Romans 5:6-8)

 

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When lightening strikes

10RainThere’s a phenomenon that occurs between a father and a daughter during a storm that one of my coworkers at the Street School recounted several times this last year.

When it rains in the afternoon, my 4-year-old always knows exactly where I am. She stands a few feet away at the window with her siblings, their faces smushed against the glass watching the rain blow sideways outside. They watch in sheer awe at the power of the storm. They ooooh and ahhhh at the thunder and lightening– until it cracks on the street right in front of our house. 

Before I can blink, my daughter becomes a scarf– her arms and legs somehow both wrapped around my neck as I lounge on the sofa and laugh.

She knows the storm is still raging just feet away on the other side of that window, but she also knows that she is safe in her daddy’s arms. Such is the case with all daytime thunder storms.

But when a storm breaks out in the middle of the night and the claps of thunder wake her, it’s a different story.

Our bedrooms are only separated by a 3-foot hallway, and yet when thunder breaks in the middle of the night, you can just about bet that it will be followed by a small, squeaky voice yelling across the hall.

“Daaaaddddddyyyyy?! Daddy, where are you?!”

I usually flip on the light and see Tenley’s little silhouette standing just feet away in her bedroom door– paralyzed by fear.

Fear of the dark, the noise, the unexpected wake-up call.

In these moments in the middle of the night, she rarely runs to me. Instead, she stands in her doorway, in her sister’s too-big nightgown, with tears running down her face and her arms outstretched for me.

“Come here. You’re okay. You’re safe with me.” I groggily beckon her forward with my hands. In an instant, she’s my scarf again– arms and legs entangled with mine as I hug her and wipe away her tears.

She knows she’s safe in her father’s arms.

~

Wednesday evening I sat in the rocking chair on my front porch and watched lightning spread over Denver. As I watched the light show and felt the thunder in my chest, I thought back to the metaphor of Tenley and Chris and mentally cataloged all the times throughout this incredibly rainy month that fear has stopped me dead in my tracks.

Like Tenley, I’ve allowed myself to be paralyzed by fear too many times lately. I’ve stopped, just feet away from my Heavenly Father with tears streaming down my face and my arms slightly outstretched, yet feeling incapable of running to my safe place.

I’ve never really been one to struggle with fear, but over the last month there have been days where my fears have consumed me.

Fear of rejection.

Fear of change and the unknown.

Fear of the darkness.

Fear of jumping into things too quickly.

Fear of not moving quickly enough and missing the boat on opportunities.

Fear of catching a bad case of revertigo and getting sucked back into less than Christ-like habits from my past.

Irrational fears and completely rational fears.

We’ve all got them– these fears that seem to cement our feet to the floor and keep us from running to God when the storm gets too crazy or too close for comfort.

These fears, if we let them, will leave us feeling just out of the reach of our Heavenly Father.

They will lead us to doubt His sovereignty and goodness. They will become a breeding ground for lies from the enemy– lies that seem to tell us that God doesn’t love us because He’s not “actively” rescuing us from our fears.

But I believe that He doesn’t rescue us all the time because He wants us to run through the fear, into His arms.

He wants us to run to Him through the storm– both in the daylight and in the darkness.

I get it. It’s terrifying and counter-intuitive to quiet yourself before God in the midst of a life-hurricane and submit our fears to Him. I would much rather over-process things to death and try to find a logical solution to my problems than pray and listen, but that is what we are called to do.

That is where we will find safety in our Father’s arms.

What is your reaction when the lightening strikes?

~

“The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”

Deuteronomy 31:8