When he arrived, I thought, "Oh great, here comes trouble." Listless and bored, Andrew would oscillate between causing trouble in class, being unengaged, and flat-out refusing my activities. I was beginning to enjoy my time just with the other two and had hoped for a bit of respite when I noticed Andrew missing.
I got none of it that day. Korean words were exchanged among the boys as Andrew sat down, words unfamiliar to me; I thought it a simple greeting until Andrew steeled his face and lifted his fist to his ear, silent and defiant. Though he didn't open his book at all and left his bag in the far corner of the room, I kept on with the song, then started my A-B-C flashcards. As I attempted to continue my review and ignore him, without warning Andrew pulled his fist back and whacked Shean in the high cheek close to his eye.
"Andrew!" I shouted. I pulled at his arm, trying to persuade him to follow me, and bent close to his face. "No! That is not acceptable!" I opened the door and called for Josh, the resident Korean disciplinarian, to assist me. He came and took both boys out of the room. Minutes later they both returned, a confident, peaceful look on Shean's face and tears of sorrow and shame staining Andrew's.
Bravely, I tried to return to my shattered routine. "Come over here, boys," I chirped cheerily. "Let's put our [alphabet] caterpillar board togeteher." Though Scott and Shean were eager to come, Andrew sulked in his chair at the table. I looked directly at him as we began, crooning softly, "Come join us, Andrew." Though I don't know how many English words he followed, the message was clearly understood. He shook his head. "Aneyo," his actions told me. No. Why would a boy freshly caught in sin and aware of his own filth be at all willing to join those faces so recently washed and scrubbed free of dirt?
Andrew continued to sit at the table and watch the activity from a distance, until Scott and Shean had trouble finding the letter G. I could tell he was interested in the game: once, he walked towards us only to sit back down again. He finally came, grabbed the letter triumphantly, and put it on the caterpillar--promptly returning to his seat. While playing the game with the boys, a church chorus echoed through my mind. "I know a place," it says, "where accused and condemned find mercy and grace." Continuing to offer inclusion, knowing the boy's detestable actions full well, is one way to hand out mercy and grace. As he gradually began to feel more comfortable with himself again, Andrew approached us to help finish the alphabet. I couldn't help but think that he had found a bit of mercy and grace during class.
How could it be that a little five-year-old boy could already feel the weight of the world's judgement so heavy on his thin shoulders? In my judgement of him, I accused Andrew of something that hadn't even happened yet; in his reaction to Josh's discipline, the boy showed his feelings of condemnation and self-remorse. That day I began to understand the message of the Cross more clearly: It is on those like Andrew that I must bestow the greatest compassion and acceptance, the one who knows the weight of his own sin. He doesn't need me to condemn him; his actions have done that work already! I can't shun the one so singled out, so rejected through his guilt and shame. The two of us meet at a common place, the foot of the Cross, and both must find healing there. Christ's forgiveness is as availible to him as it is to me. Even the wrongs of a five-year-old boy can be "nailed there with [Jesus], there on the Cross."
"I know a place,
a wonderful place
where accused and condemned
find mercy and grace,
where the wrongs we have done
and the wrongs done to us
were nailed there with Him
there on the Cross!
At the Cross
(at the Cross)
He died for our sins.
At the Cross
(at the Cross)
He gave us life again."
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