The Stonecatcher's Cradle
A phrase has been bouncing around in my mind for weeks. Micah recently read a popular book that told the stories of young adults who are imprisoned. It told about their lives leading up to that place, about their conviction and sentencing, about the lack of justice--and certainly mercy--in many of their cases. It also told about a woman who sits in the court room at these trials. She has no relation to the defendants. She doesn't know the victims or their families. But she calls herself a "stonecatcher." She is there to be a shoulder to cry on, an agent of mercy, to catch just a few of the stones being hurled all around her.
The name is a reference to the story in John, about the woman caught in adultery. Culturally, by all rights, she should have been stoned. But Jesus said instead, "Let any of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her."
The world is full of broken people. Some of them have chosen the path that led to the place of the adulterous woman. They deserve punishment for their actions. Some of them have lived broken lives, full of heartache and hurt and abuse, and the choices they've made have been tainted by experience. Some of them have had stones hurled at them by virtue of proximity to others' choices. I've stood around these people myself, stone in hand, ready to hurl justice. And yet in this story--and in the story of the woman in the courtroom--it's not justice that prevails, but mercy.
Mercy is not pity. Pity stands by and shakes its head and laments the situation in which the person finds himself. But mercy--mercy is something different altogether. Mercy has hands and feet. Mercy is active. It sees the broken places, the broken hearts, and it meets the person where he is. Mercy says, "I know full-well what you deserve. I know what should be done with you," and yet it stands over the person, catching the stones that are hurled, taking the heat of the punishment that was rightly served to that person. Mercy means meeting the person in the broken places and walking with them--limping, at times--to a place of healing and wholeness.
I cannot speak to the stories of adulterers and convicts. But I know the stories of addicts well. I have stood by and watched them make choice after choice, tangling the web of addiction ever tighter. I've watched their babies, born addicted because of their own substance abuse, suffer as they withdraw. I've watched as again and again they've returned to a horrific lifestyle; visited their baby intoxicated; neglected, abused, and mistreated the people in their lives. Justice would look something like standing by, stone in hand. And yet...
Mercy means catching the stones. Mercy means recognizing the person caught in the nightmare. Mercy means looking them in the eye, speaking with kindness, giving them a voice and listening when they speak. Mercy means offering help, not condemnation. It means loving and setting boundaries. Mercy means walking with them, limping with them, to a place of healing and wholeness. Mercy means holding their babies, these victims of circumstance who can be so hard to love, and showing them kindness and tenderness. It means allowing what's best for them and their parents, and not what's deserved. Mercy means that sometimes justice does not prevail.
My heart has ached all along for these babies. They suffer greatly for the choices their parents have made. The cards are stacked against them, and no matter where they go from my arms, this will always be a part of their story. In my love for them, I've often blamed and condemned their parents. But as this phrase, this idea of being a stonecatcher, has taken root in my mind, my view of addiction itself has begun to change. These people I see in front of me are not just the sum of their choices. They are people. It sounds so basic to even say it! These men and women have stories of their own, stories of heartache and pain.
It's shaping the way I care for these babies and their families. There is a place for firmness, for consequences, for boundaries. But there is also a place for love, for respect, for kindness. Ultimately, what I want so desperately for all of them--babies and parents alike--is not justice, but wholeness. Justice will not heal these families, but mercy can. Mercy can bring them together, offer them another chance at redemption. Mercy can take into account the hurt and the illness, and limp with them to healing. Mercy can shelter and protect these children, while still offering dignity and respect to their parents. Mercy can catch the stones hurled all around the cradle--a stonecatcher's cradle--and see instead a future of hope and wholeness.
This phrase has changed my heart, changed me.
The name is a reference to the story in John, about the woman caught in adultery. Culturally, by all rights, she should have been stoned. But Jesus said instead, "Let any of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her."
The world is full of broken people. Some of them have chosen the path that led to the place of the adulterous woman. They deserve punishment for their actions. Some of them have lived broken lives, full of heartache and hurt and abuse, and the choices they've made have been tainted by experience. Some of them have had stones hurled at them by virtue of proximity to others' choices. I've stood around these people myself, stone in hand, ready to hurl justice. And yet in this story--and in the story of the woman in the courtroom--it's not justice that prevails, but mercy.
Mercy is not pity. Pity stands by and shakes its head and laments the situation in which the person finds himself. But mercy--mercy is something different altogether. Mercy has hands and feet. Mercy is active. It sees the broken places, the broken hearts, and it meets the person where he is. Mercy says, "I know full-well what you deserve. I know what should be done with you," and yet it stands over the person, catching the stones that are hurled, taking the heat of the punishment that was rightly served to that person. Mercy means meeting the person in the broken places and walking with them--limping, at times--to a place of healing and wholeness.
I cannot speak to the stories of adulterers and convicts. But I know the stories of addicts well. I have stood by and watched them make choice after choice, tangling the web of addiction ever tighter. I've watched their babies, born addicted because of their own substance abuse, suffer as they withdraw. I've watched as again and again they've returned to a horrific lifestyle; visited their baby intoxicated; neglected, abused, and mistreated the people in their lives. Justice would look something like standing by, stone in hand. And yet...
Mercy means catching the stones. Mercy means recognizing the person caught in the nightmare. Mercy means looking them in the eye, speaking with kindness, giving them a voice and listening when they speak. Mercy means offering help, not condemnation. It means loving and setting boundaries. Mercy means walking with them, limping with them, to a place of healing and wholeness. Mercy means holding their babies, these victims of circumstance who can be so hard to love, and showing them kindness and tenderness. It means allowing what's best for them and their parents, and not what's deserved. Mercy means that sometimes justice does not prevail.
My heart has ached all along for these babies. They suffer greatly for the choices their parents have made. The cards are stacked against them, and no matter where they go from my arms, this will always be a part of their story. In my love for them, I've often blamed and condemned their parents. But as this phrase, this idea of being a stonecatcher, has taken root in my mind, my view of addiction itself has begun to change. These people I see in front of me are not just the sum of their choices. They are people. It sounds so basic to even say it! These men and women have stories of their own, stories of heartache and pain.
It's shaping the way I care for these babies and their families. There is a place for firmness, for consequences, for boundaries. But there is also a place for love, for respect, for kindness. Ultimately, what I want so desperately for all of them--babies and parents alike--is not justice, but wholeness. Justice will not heal these families, but mercy can. Mercy can bring them together, offer them another chance at redemption. Mercy can take into account the hurt and the illness, and limp with them to healing. Mercy can shelter and protect these children, while still offering dignity and respect to their parents. Mercy can catch the stones hurled all around the cradle--a stonecatcher's cradle--and see instead a future of hope and wholeness.
This phrase has changed my heart, changed me.
