The Word in Focus with Dr Larry Taylor

Six-year-old José was happily playing with sticks, imagining himself a mighty warrior defending the fort from invaders, when the invaders showed up. Their faces masked, their bodies armored, eyes red with hatred, souls drunk with power – grabbing, tackling, beating, shackling, abducting. No warrants. No badges. Miranda who?  

They came for him. Screaming. Sobbing. Terror.

Until. Papá.

Papá was not José’s biological father. No one knew where Papá came from, or where he slept at night. He seemed to only appear in crises. He had no family. Everyone in the neighborhood was his family. No one knew his name. He was simply Papá.

Papá was huge – over seven-feet tall, massive muscles, arms like timbers, fists like boulders. A gentle giant. He was soft and warm, kind, his presence soothing.

He scooped up José in his massive arms. Intently, he looked into the eyes of evil and evil froze. He carried José, whose little round face was buried in his chest so deeply he could feel the massive beating heart, to the prison van, got in and sat.

A masked man ordered him to drop the child and get out. “We’re not here for you.”  Papá ignored him. He said nothing, but his actions said, “If you take him, you take me.”

Others, crying, were pushed in. The van was dark, dank, foul. Bodies jostled against one another as it moved. How long? Hours? Days? 

Rows of razor wire. Guard towers. Block buildings in a swamp of pythons and alligators. Cages. A massive dog kennel. Jammed. Stench. Sweat. Excrement. Tears. 

Papá held little José tightly, rubbing him softly, whispering all will be well, all manner of things shall be well. Softly singing. Gently holding.

Months later – shouts, curses, batons, slaps, kicks, spittle – but none fell on José. Papá absorbed it all as they were herded forth like pigs in a slaughterhouse. 

The rocky dirt road was steep. It flattened into a plateau wherein sat a steel-making blast furnace. As they walked with the crowd of the innocent brown-skinned and terrified, faces full of animosity hurled curses and stones. Papá deflected them with his hand and arm, which was soon dripping with blood.

José began to cry. “I’m scared, Papá! What are they doing? Why is this happening?”

“I’ve got you, little one. Pequeño. I’ve got you, Mijo.”

“Don’t let me go!”

“Never, ever.”

All of them were herded toward the furnace.

“Don’t look, little one. It will only hurt for a minute.”

Papá’s warm blood, now streaming from his rock-cut head and upper body, felt comforting to José, like a soft warm bath.

He heard screams. He buried his head more deeply into the massive pectoral muscles.

A hot glow.

Darkness.

Light. Soft fluffy clouds. An emerald rainbow.

And all was well. All manner of things were well.

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My Jesus, I am the seed of Much Afraid and Ready to Halt. You bid me follow you on the Via Dolorosa, the Via Crucis. I cannot. I am too weak. Too afraid. Lift me in your everlasting arms, my Jesus. Carry me through persecution and death to resurrection.

“See, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

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