I had a neighbor growing up whose name was Roger. We were the same age, maybe 7 or 8, and we shared a sandbox, a sort of communal sandbox, which we shared with several neighborhood cats. Every morning we’d clean it out, then play cars, building highways, tunnels, and mountains, whatever our imaginations permitted. Roger had this snazzy red car that I loved. I asked my mom to buy me one just like it, but she said we couldn’t afford it, that we were too poor. So one day, when Roger wasn’t paying attention, I buried that snazzy red car deep in the sand so he wouldn’t see it, then snuck out to the sandbox just before bedtime, dug it up, and hid it in my house. I was planning to keep it there until Roger forgot all about it, then I would produce it and tell him my mother had saved money and bought it for me. The perfect crime.
But the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, and the following Saturday I went with my family to St. Mary’s Catholic Church to confess our sins, entered the confessional, knelt down, and said, “Bless me, father, for I have sinner. It has been one week since my last confession,” then confessed my usual transgressions–fighting with my siblings, disobeying my parents, thinking impure thoughts, the customary sins of a child. Ordinarily, Father McLaughlin would just tell me to offer a penance, usually prayers, then tell me I was forgiven. But not that Saturday. Instead, he said, “Is that all?” And it freaked me out. I thought, “Rats, he found out about that car.”
I was trapped. So I spilled my guts, and he said, “Take the car back to Roger, tell him what you’ve done, and ask forgiveness.” Which I did not want to do, but I also didn’t want to go to hell with unconfessed sin, so I did what the priest told me. I went home, retrieved the snazzy red car from its hiding place, and took it over to Roger’s house, told him what I had done, gave him back his car, and asked for his forgiveness, which he immediately granted. But his mother did not forgive me. She said, “I knew it was you. You can’t ever trust a poor person.”
We were poor, according to my mother. And Roger wasn’t, which I knew because he had Hostess Twinkies and Coca-Cola every morning for breakfast, and who could have that, but rich people. Because Roger’s mother was an adult and spoke with such certainty and authority, I assumed it must be true, the poor people were dishonest, and wealthy people were not.
For the past several weeks, we’ve been thinking about our relationship with money, its role in our culture, and its power in our lives. We spoke about money as a tool, not a weapon. Last week, we talked about our tendency to venerate wealth and those who have it, and its counterpart, society’s contempt for the poor. We are suspicious of poor people. When I am driving in a poor neighborhood or pull up alongside a man with a sign at an intersection, I instinctively check to make sure my car doors are locked. I feel threatened.
Statistically, this doesn’t bear out. White collar crime in America totals over 400 billion dollars a year, while blue collar crime, committed by poorer Americans totals 15 billion dollars a year. Yet we imprison the poor among us, criminalizing their behavior, while the affluent are given a pass. Let a desperate woman, driven by economic need, prostitute herself to feed her children, and we will charge her with a crime, give her a criminal record, thereby making future employment a near impossibility. Let a poor veteran, his mind and body suffering the ravages of war, self-medicate with drugs, and we will imprison him. But let wealthy and prominent men prey upon underage girls at an island hideaway, and their names will be kept secret on a hidden list, while the one woman involved is imprisoned.
The criminologist Freda Adler said, “a crime is anything that a group in power chooses to prohibit.” Time and again, we have seen the activity of the poor and powerless criminalized while the wealthy and powerful walked free. It is the poor we are told to fear–the immigrants, the people of color, who statistically commit far fewer crimes than native-born citizens. Entire political campaigns are waged, stoking our fears of the poor by exaggerating their danger. “They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists.” We claim the threat posed by the poor is so great, we do not owe them due process, or their day in court. They are jailed in inhumane conditions, in sweltering tents, packed thirty to a cage.
Freda Adler was right. A crime is anything that a group in power chooses to prohibit. And now, what they have decided to prohibit is poverty itself, by punishing those who live under its cruel lash. This is not new. It is a pattern as old as civilization itself. It is why Jesus singled out the poor and the prisoners as persons meriting divine concern. He knew too well that a crime is anything that a group in power chooses to prohibit.
Some of our Friendly folks are otherwise occupied this morning, engaging the members of Sure Foundation Baptist Church, whose pastor recently said on an online sermon that LGBTQ folk were “evil” and “disgusting,” urging them to kill themselves. Josih, from our meeting, and therefore isn’t Roman Catholic, but will one day be acknowledged by the Church as the saint he is, emailed those Quakers engaging the Sure Foundation Baptists, saying, “I have many years of experience bearing witness to the denomination that excluded me for service, jobs, and worship because I am gay. Dollars to donuts, there are LGBTQ+ kids attending that church, please make your witness a joyful one, sing, pray, and be in service to them so they know there is a loving community waiting for them.”
There you have it, friends. That is our calling, plainly stated, to let folks know there is a loving community waiting for them. Gay folks, Black folks, poor folks, powerless folks, overlooked folks, imprisoned folks, rejected folks, lonely folks, discouraged folks.
Our own Linda Linn drove up to the Sure Foundation Baptist Church to scout it out. She took a picture of their front window. They wrote their whole theology on their front window. “Independent, fundamental, King James only, Soul Winning, Family Integrated, Psalms, Hymns, and Spiritual Songs.” All spelled out in big letters. Linda sent me the picture, then said, “Perhaps Fairfield Friends can decide on six bullet points of belief to post on our door.”
I wrote back, “Do you honestly believe Quakers could agree on which six things to say?”
But I’ve been thinking more about that.
I bet we could all agree that the poor are to be helped, not punished.
I bet we could all agree that the rule of law should all apply to all people, regardless of their wealth or lack thereof.
I bet we could all agree that one’s morality cannot be measured by their bank account.
I bet we could all agree that our calling is to create a loving community where people are welcomed, not condemned. Even if they’ve stolen snazzy red cars.
I look back now with deep appreciation at a priest who neither ridiculed nor condemned me but urged me only to make matters right and seek forgiveness. I saw Roger this past week and having forgiven my misdeed, he has now forgotten it. May our attitude to our fellow beings be as welcoming and kind.