What Does the Cross Say to Law Enforcement?

I grew up warily respecting cops in a family that respected and feared the police. I was a white kid in a mostly white, working class suburb before I was a white kid in a white rural town. Both my grandfathers were police officers and I remember the occasional story, though neither of them glorified their jobs any more than they did their military experience.

My sister’s now in law enforcement too. And I hate that she is ever in danger.

And then there is Ferguson. And the stories of black kids and teens and adults all over the country telling the same story: black kids are dying in our streets and many of them are dying at the hands of cops.

And then there are the stories I hear all the time on the streets of almost every city I have been in—being roughed up by the police, targeted by the police, for being homeless, for being poor, for looking the wrong way or living on the wrong side of town.

When we talked about Ferguson in Aberdeen, people told their own stories.

When Ferguson happens, we want to frame it into a manageable narrative. We want to make it about a black teen and his good or bad character and a white cop and his good or bad decisions. Two people. Let’s wait and see what the “real story” is.

But that is not what this is about. Not really.

Its about a system where poor people, and especially poor people of color, are not considered human beings. Not given respect or dignity. Where they are roughed up and beat up and arrested and caged and, yes, killed by people trained to believe that they “serve and protect.” All the time. Whether they have guns or knives or not, whether they are polite or rude, whether they have stolen a candy bar or sat in the wrong place.

Being a priest, my mind runs immediately to the gospels, set in a time when Rome oppressed Galilee and Palestine, in a time when John the Baptist and Jesus and their people were robbed, oppressed, and murdered by those who served and protected the empire. And I think particularly of a group of soldiers, the Roman equivalent of a domestic military force, who came to John in Luke 3, asking what they should do. And John tells them to stop extorting people.

John gets that they are trying to make a living. John gets that they are human beings. John gets that they are scared in their line of work. But he gives them a choice. If you want to be part of the kingdom of God, then you cannot join in the oppression of the community. You cannot rob people of dignity and life.

It’s simple, really.

It’s the same message Oscar Romero preached to the members of the Salvadoran police and military:

“I would like to make a special appeal to the men of the army, and specifically to the ranks of the National Guard, the police and the military. Brothers, you come from our own people. You are killing your own brother peasants when any human order to kill must be subordinate to the law of God which says, “Thou shalt not kill.” No soldier is obliged to obey an order contrary to the law of God... It is high time you recovered your consciences and obeyed your consciences rather than a sinful order… In the name of God, in the name of this suffering people whose cries rise to heaven more loudly each day, I implore you, I beg you, I order you in the name of God: stop the repression.”

Today, as well, the members of our police and law enforcement have the same choice. To choose between the people of this nation or upholding a status quo that systematically and deliberately controls and persecutes an increasing number of struggling people. To serve and join with the people of this country, black and brown and white, but especially black and brown because these communities were never meant to be protected by our law enforcement, or to serve and protect our systems of power and control.

There is that poignant final scene at the site of the crucifixion. As Jesus lets out his final, dying scream, a man cries out; “Truly, this man was the son of God.” The man who said those words was the man who put Jesus there, who drove nails into his flesh, who killed him, who was just doing his job, who was just following protocol, who was just following orders. A man who, in the eyes of the law, did nothing wrong and everything right. And, in a blinding flash, he recognizes the enormity of what he has done and falls at the feet of the dead man.

Will the police of Ferguson fall at the feet of the dead man, of Michael Brown, the kid left dead in the street for hours, and say; “Truly, this man was a child of God”?

Will the officers of Aberdeen or of Seattle or of the myriad of other cities who are charged with enforcing anti-vagrancy laws and criminalizing homelessness—will they fall at the feet of their brothers and sisters and say; “Truly, they are children of God”?

That is the call of the gospel.

In the name of God, in the name of this suffering people whose cries rise to heaven more loudly each day, I implore you, I beg you, I order you in the name of God: stop the repression.