He calls his father!
In what sphere of accepted, moral human behavior is it comprehensible that a 28-year-old man should call to ask his father what he should do after he sees a child being raped? How does he not know what to do? How does his human instinct not instruct him what to do?
I wrestled with that question over and over as the gruesome details of the charges of child molestation against former Penn State defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky were reported and as the fallout compounded. Two university officials stepped down after being charged with perjury. Then Joe Paterno, Penn State’s legendary and revered head football coach of 45 years and 409 victories, and Graham B. Spanier, the university president, were fired for failing to do more to stop Sandusky.
And still, what continued to confound me was the behavior of that graduate student, Mike McQueary, a former Nittany Lion quarterback and now the football team’s receivers coach. What possessed him to call his father, who is reported to be an avid longtime Penn State booster?
It just made no sense. If my adult son called me to ask what he should do after seeing a boy being raped in the shower, I would know I had failed as a father; that I had somehow raised him with a confused moral compass and distorted allegiances. I expect my son to know what to do if he sees another child being teased on the playground, for God sake.
And the father’s advice? It wasn’t to report the rape to police. It was to go talk with Paterno, advice that reveals the father to be as morally compromised as the son.
The inexplicableness of it gnawed at me.
Everyday we read news of behavior that our sensibilities simply cannot understand as human: a mother drowns her children in the bathtub; a man snatches a teenage girl off the street and sexually assaults her before dumping her battered body in a ravine; a student with a semi-automatic weapon opens fire on classmates at school; a 12-year-old boy murders his parents while they sleep in bed.
Here’s the thing: I can explain all that away. Yes, it’s horrific, and, yes, it’s abhorrent and, yes, it seems incomprehensible humans can do such things, but I can sort that out in my mind by classifying those people as sickos, which I know is not an accepted term in psychiatric circles but is one that works just fine for a layman such as me. There’s simply something wrong with a mother who murders her children. There’s something broken in a child who turns a shotgun on a neighborhood playmate.
In a twisted way, I can make sense of all that.
But none of the talk of the pervasive importance put on football at Penn State could explain to me McQueary’s call to his father. And here’s why: in that moment, in the moment when he walked into the shower and saw Sandusky raping a young defenseless child, how could a long-held attachment or deep-abiding passion or even the most fervently held loyalty to a football program override the human instinct to save the child? I can’t believe that is possible. That is where no reasoning could take me.
I was at a loss.
But then thousands of Penn State students rioted in the wake of Paterno’s firing. On news reports I listened to them shout their outrage at Paterno’s ouster, watched them gather at the old coach’s house and call out “We love you, Joe Pa” and reach out to touch him as if seeking a blessing. They chanted in a strong unified voice, “We are Penn State!” A commentator said what was obvious: “They worship this man.”
I realized right then what was wrong. I realized why McQueary was uncertain what to do when he saw a child being raped by a football coach. I realized why college officials from the president on down looked to Paterno for guidance on how to handle the problem with Sandusky when the moral choice was actually stunningly clear.
What happened is I suddenly remembered Jonestown. I remembered the way members of the People’s Temple venerated their spiritual leader, Jim Jones. I remembered the fervor his followers showed toward his teachings, the fanatic devotion they held for him, and the adoration they proclaimed toward him. It isn’t difficult imagining them shouting, “We are People’s Temple” or holding up signs written in block letters, “We love you, Jim Jones!”
And then against all human instinct, they killed themselves and their children at Jones’ command because they had handed over to one man their total devotion and in so doing had forfeited command of their humanity.
I know few people will feel comfortable with this analogy, but I am convinced that the Penn State football program devolved into a cult. Paterno wasn’t simply an influential college football coach; he had become a cult leader. The school even erected a bronze statue of the man while he was still alive.
McQueary, raised in the cult that was Penn State football, was thrown into a moral quandary when he saw his old coach raping a child because his corrupted sensibilities understood that what he saw threatened the institution — and the man at its head — that he had been reared to revere. As things have played out, he was clearly right about the consequences; he was just wrong to think that any of that could matter over the welfare of a child.
I know it can be exhilarating and reassuring and empowering to identify with a group. We do it all the time. We have our churches and schools and companies and political parties. Organizations can serve to provide us a sense of place and acceptance in a chaotic world.
But when that group fosters the elevation of a leader to near superhuman status and endorses the adulation of that leader, it is the obligation of a moral individual to maintain their distance and identity.
Otherwise, when faced with a moral choice that challenges the object of your veneration, you may need, as McQueary did, to call your father for direction.
I’m no preacher, but I’ll say this: Watch who you worship. They rarely warrant it.
No comments:
Post a Comment