When it Comes to Dealing With Sexual Abuse, Will Evangelicals Take the Path of the Hero or the Saint?

St. Francis preaching to the birds. What a fool! What a waste!

Since my last post inspired by Brian Zahnd’s blog, I’ll admit I’ve been revisiting his site quite a bit.  His post from earlier this past week  brought to mind something in regards to the whole Sovereign Grace Ministries scandal (if you’re not familiar with it, then you can catch up on it here.  If you’re an Evangelical, you need to know about it).  First, let me quote something I found in Zahnd’s most recent post and then I’ll link it to the SGM scandal.

Zahnd quotes Francis Ambrosio, Associate Professor of Philosophy at Georgetown, regarding the difference between heroes and saints:

“For the hero the meaning of life is honor. For the saint the meaning of life is love. For the hero the goal of living is self-fulfillment, the achievement of personal excellence, and the recognition and admiration that making a signal contribution to one’s society through one’s achievements carries with it. For the saint, life does not so much have a goal, as a purpose, for which each human being is responsible, and that purpose is love, and the bonds of concern and care that responsibility for one’s fellow human beings carry with it. These two paradigms, the hero and the saint, and the way of life that descends from each, are really two fundamentally distinct and genuinely different visions of human society as a whole, and even of what it means to be a human being. They are two distinct and different ways of asking the question of the meaning of life.”

My wife and I both have been reading about the sexual abuse lawsuit that has been filed against a number of former and current leaders at SGM. I think Ambrosio’s words might just strike at the heart of the question as to why C.J. Mahaney’s friends have chosen, until recently, to remain silent about Mahaney’s alleged involvement in the conspiracy: is it possible that Evangelicalism as a culture is overly concerned with producing leaders who are “heroes” rather than “saints”? As Zahnd points out…

In the Western world we are deeply conditioned to choose the heroic over the saintly. We love our heroes best of all. Heroes are goal-oriented people of great capabilities who know how to make things happen. We admire their ability to get things done and shape the world according to their will. Saints on the other hand — especially to the American mind — seem quaint and marginal, occupying religious spheres on the periphery of the action.

Together for the Gospel (L to R): Al Mohler, Ligon Duncan, C.J. Mahaney, Mark Dever

Could it be that as Evangelicals, in our desire to reach the masses–to be, well, evangelical–we have unwittingly embraced practices that actually work against the Gospel and work against the central mission of the church, which is love–especially love for the vulnerable?

In ancient Greek literature, heroes pursued glory, fame, and honor, and even with the influence of Christianity on Western culture, in our collective psyche, that image of the hero is still with us: the one who accomplishes great feats of strength and racks up acknowledgements and awards.  We still honor, as Ambrosio says, the hero who seeks “self-fulfillment, the achievement of personal excellence, and the recognition and admiration that making a signal contribution to one’s society through one’s achievements carries with it” (and with good reason: there’s nothing wrong with honoring someone for excelling at, let’s say, a sport, or more significantly, for achieving some discovery that yields life-saving results). But as Zahnd points out, Jesus comes along and carves out another way: the way of the saint, who doesn’t live by our goal-setting and goal-achieving ways, but instead reveals that love is the highest good in life–that responsibility to others, especially to the vulnerable (Matt. 25), is more important than reaching goals or achieving fame.  I like the language Ambrosio uses: the saint is called not to a goal but to a purpose.  The saint’s life is not centered around statistics or numbers–the number of conversions or the number of members on the roll, the number of people you reach via satellite or the internet–but the hero’s life is.  The hero’s life, according to Ambrosio’s two paradigms, is centered on product, accomplishment, and recognition.  The saint’s?  The saint’s life is focused on the opposite–the quiet, little way of acts of compassion, self-giving, and self-forgetfulness.  Why?  Because the saint is focused on the one, not the many.  The saint’s “accomplishments,” in fact, may seem rather useless and ineffectual in the end, according to his critics (see the late Christopher Hitchens’ criticism of Mother Teresa, if you’re not familiar with it).

I wonder if this is what’s really at the heart of C.J. Mahaney’s friends’ muted response to the SGM lawsuit. Is this the reason Mark Dever, Al Mohler, and Ligon Duncan–with whom Mahaney started Together for the Gospel–initially broke their silence about the sexual abuse lawsuit against SGM and Mahaney with a defensive open letter to the public–one that remained un-nuanced in its defense of Mahaney (the revised version is not much different)?

Defensive and lacking nuance: two unfortunate qualities that Evangelicals have possessed in their history when faced with criticism.  Could it be that this defensive posture has been the the go-to mode for Evangelicals because, despite their calling to be self-emptying servants in the City of Man, they have been actually more concerned with position and accomplishment in the eyes of “secular” society–that their desires have been more shaped by “secular” images of the good life–than they are willing to admit?

Ultimately, I know this defensiveness has nothing to do with being Evangelical.  We all know similar sexual abuse scandals and cover-ups have occurred in the Catholic Church and at non-religious institutions like Penn State.  Both of those institutions have exhibited their own defensiveness and committed the sin of silence out of the desire to maintain position or reputation.  Though it should be different with religious institutions, it’s in our nature–regardless of whether you’re a mega-church pastor or Catholic priest (or a Division 1 college football coach, for that matter)–to cling to power, position, and prestige.  And since Evangelicals have had skin in the culture wars for some time, it’s understandable if they feel they must remain vigilant–must remain in combat mode–against the “enemy.”

But Evangelicals are called to “downward mobility” (as described by Henri Nouwen in my previous post), and I think Evangelicals can learn to see the beauty of this other way, the way of the saint–indeed, the way of Jesus–if they can catch a vision of the paradoxical beauty of victory in defeat.  I think they can catch this vision and learn to value those things considered foolish by society–such as exposing darkness even when that darkness is in their own midst–even if exposing that darkness will provide the “enemy” with more arms in their arsenal to attack them in the ongoing culture war.  I think they can learn to see that this embracing of defeat is actually the path of victory (we do follow a “failed” Messiah, after all, whose kingdom was not of this world).

Despite being in combat mode for so long, I think Evangelicals can learn the way of the saint–can learn do something as “useless” and “foolish” as St. Francis once did when, as it’s told, when he preached to the birds.  What did such preaching produce for Francis?  What could Francis show for his preaching to these unproductive members of creation?  Nothing.  But it was an act of beauty, an act of praise (which is, by nature, a “useless” act, as in it serves no utilitarian purpose).  Can Evangelicals do something just as “wasteful” and “useless”–just as non-product oriented–as Francis once did by preaching to the birds?  Under the current circumstances, could they do something, which in the end, may appear self-defeating (talk about unproductive!)–may appear foolish if viewed from the vantage point of the culture warrior–something like siding with the vulnerable, siding with those who for so long have had no voice–even if it makes them “look bad”?  Can they “lose” in the eyes of their “enemies” and let their own glory dim so that the glory of Jesus’ humble way may shine more brightly?  Can they shed the desire for accomplishments and goals for the calling to a purpose, a calling to love?  I think so if they embrace the downward path of Jesus, of the saint, and forsake the hero’s desire for power and position.

Just this week, my denomination (and Ligon Duncan’s), the Presbyterian Church in America, pared down a resolution on child sexual abuse to exclude a part, among other things, that would require churches in the PCA to notify law enforcement about allegations of sexual abuse in their congregations (you can read the original draft here and the revised here to see the difference between the two).  The good news that came out of the revision process was that the PCA, instead of adopting the revised (and watered down, according to some) draft of the resolution, has decided take the next year to investigate the matter more thoroughly and work with survivors and experts so that they can come up with a more informed resolution.

If the PCA’s example is any indication that Evangelicals are willing to take a stand against the darkness–even when that darkness may exist within their own borders–then they’re on the right path toward being a witness to the power of the downward way–indeed, the power of the saint.

Brian Zahnd: Countering the Politicizing Proclivities of Fundamentalism with the Beauty of the Cruciform Life

Brian Zahnd

In the search for certitude and a penchant for Bible-Answer-Man explanation, the intrinsically artistic nature of the Christian mystery is turned into gift shop simulacra. Fundamentalism is to Christianity what paint-by-numbers is to art. 

So Brian Zahnd, pastor of Word of Life Church in St. Joseph, Missouri, states in a recent post on his lively and insightful blog. Zahnd, who is an interesting mix of mystic, pastor, scholar, and Bob Dylan, maintains an insightful blog laced with insights from the church universal.  It’s common to find him quoting anyone from Dostoevsky to St. Athanasius to Stanley Hauweras.  (I first discovered him through a friend who sent me this link)

If you give his blog posts a cursory glance, you’ll find that a main theme in his writing is the need to recognize mystery and not to rely too easily on “cheap certitude,” as he calls it in more than one post.

His most recent offering is no exception. In this post, he astutely notes something that I have long recognized: that Fundamentalism is just as enslaved to modern scientific explanations of the Bible (and the Christian’s experience of grace) as any modern skeptic (which is why, by the way, he prefers The X Files to, say, Sherlock Holmes. For The X Files, the answer is “out there”–there’s a mystery to explore–but for Sherlock Holmes, created as he was in the 19th century with its industrialized imagination, mysteries are only problems to be solved).  In this recent post, he writes:

In discovering a richer Christianity I have been able to identify an ache that had always been in my soul — it was the ache for mystery. Mystery is at the heart of reality. Ask any quantum physicist! Newtonian physics sought to explain everything, but post Einstein physics has learned to bow in chastened reverence before the altar of mystery. And Christians should have at least as much reverence for mystery as quantum physicists! Christianity is a sacred mystery. The Apostle Paul loves to speak of the mysterion — he uses that rich word twenty-one times in his letters. Christianity is a confession, not an explanation. We will attempt to explain what we legitimately can, but we will always confess more than we can explain. I fully confess God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, even though I cannot fully explain the Trinity. I fully confess the resurrection of Jesus Christ, even though I cannot fully explain what it means that the Son of God has inaugurated a world beyond the realm of death. Room for mystery is necessary for orthodox theology. Mystery is good for theology. And mystery is good for the soul.

In addition to his understanding of the importance of mystery in the Christian life, I appreciate Zahnd because he recognizes that Christianity is meant to be a prophetic witness in society: it is a political, though not politicizing, faith.  The Kingdom of God challenges partisans on the Left and the Right.  In an interview that The Gospel Coalition’s Trevin Wax conducted with Zahnd, the pastor from “St. Joe” (who, by the way, was once a Word of Faith preacher.  Read Wax’s interview to find out more) replied to the question, “What are the dangers of a politicized faith? And does moving away from that lead us into quietism?” with the following:

Christianity is an intensely political faith and as such can never be compatible with quietism. The church should be a prophetic witness within the body politic—the church is to embody the politics of Jesus. But when the church settles for cheap partisanship, it forfeits its prophetic voice. Once the religious right became the de facto religious wing of the Republican Party, it ceased to be prophetic. To the Left, it was a partisan enemy, and to the Right, it was a partisan tool—but it was prophetic to neither.

Unfortunately, in our polarized partisan culture, if I pull away from a carte blanche endorsement of the Right, it is perceived as an endorsement of the Left—which is not the case at all! For example, as I allow my politics to be informed by Christ, I try to be consistently pro life—so I’m opposed to abortion and the death penalty. As you can see, that doesn’t make for a nice alignment with either the Left or the Right. It’s not political engagement that I’m opposed to but partisan allegiance. Ultimately, political parties are interested in power, but the church is called to transcend the politics of power and embody the politics of love set forth in the Sermon on the Mount.

Christianity is interested in public affairs because it is interested in the common good, but “partisan allegiance,” and ultimately the desire for power, short circuits this involvement and prevents the church from effectively engaging society. Christianity’s witness to the public, in order to be prophetic, must embrace an alternate approach of social engagement that is shaped by something other than the binary imagination of our politicized world.

Photo courtesy of the Fenland Hermitage

Ultimately, our engagement in the public sphere is shaped, according to Zahnd, by the beauty of the cross. Later on in the interview with Trevin Wax, Zahnd says,

In defending truth, the church has created Christian apologetics, and in defending the good, the church has created Christian ethics. But by and large, we have ignored the virtue of beauty, relegating it to the demoted status of mere adornment. Yet the recovery of beauty as a way of interpreting and expressing the Christian faith may be just what we need at this time.

Along with Christian apologetics and ethics, we need some Christian aesthetics. In a culture that is suspicious of our truth claims and less than impressed with our claim to a superior ethic, beauty may be a fresh way to communicate our message. Beauty has a way of sneaking past defenses.

But for us to adopt a presence of beauty, we need a form that we can look to as a guide. Whether it’s a painting or a poem, a sculpture or a song, it’s the form that gives a thing its inherent beauty.

So what is the form of Christian beauty? I think it has to be the cruciform—Christ upon the cross, arms outstretched in offered embrace, forgiving the sins of the world. What I’m suggesting is that the body of Christ should be in the world as the beauty of the cruciform. What we say, what we do, what we demonstrate should be in some way an expression of cruciform beauty.

We should ask ourselves, does this stance, this position, this project, this action, this attitude look like Jesus upon the cross? If not, maybe we should rethink it. This would be a helpful step in getting rid of some of the ugly ways we react to what we perceive as wrong with the world.

Zahnd’s thoughts about beauty here remind me of two things.  The first is in regards to beauty and the second, the cross, cruciformity, and weakness.

The first is Gregory Wolfe’s response to the politicization of Christianity (it’s no mistake, by the way, that both Zahnd and Wolfe have both written a book with the title Beauty Will Save the World).  According to Wolfe, societal transformation will not take place primarily through the go-to modes common in our day and age–politics and rhetoric–but instead will only come about because “of the imaginative visions of the artist and the mystic.” But this deference to the dreams of the artist and the saint is not a surrender, not a withdrawal into quietism, as Wolfe points out.  Instead, this retreat “involves the conviction that politics and rhetoric are not autonomous forces, but are shaped by the pre-political roots of culture: myth, metaphor, and spiritual experience as recorded by the artist and the saint.” Without articulating it quite this way, I think Zahnd promotes this vision of cultural engagement.  What is needed from the church is the more indirect approach of the visionary poet or the suffering saint.  This indirect approach has a way of working on the heart and imagination of the individual that the more straightforward approach of politics–and even apologetics–cannot. As Zahnd says in the quotation above: “In a culture that is suspicious of our truth claims and less than impressed with our claim to a superior ethic, beauty may be a fresh way to communicate our message. Beauty has a way of sneaking past defenses” (italics mine).

The beauty of the cross, of the cruciform, provides an alternative in our world of the culture wars.  In response to the bald desire for power that often undergirds a politicized faith, Christians should prophetically bear witness to the power of weakness, the power of emptying ourselves of our rights and privileges in order to serve and give.  Henri Nouwen called this “downward mobility,” the way of powerlessness:

It seems nearly impossible for us to believe that any good can come from powerlessness. In this country of pioneers and self-made people, in which ambition is praised from the first moment we enter school until we enter the competitive world of free enterprise, we cannot imagine that any good can come from giving up power or not even desiring it. The all-pervasive conviction in our society is that power is a good and that those possessing it can only desire more of it….

Surrounded by so much power, it is very difficult to avoid surrendering to the temptation to seek power like everyone else. But the mystery of our ministry is that we are called to serve not with our power but with our powerlessness. It is through powerlessness that we can enter into solidarity with our fellow human beings, form a community with the weak, and thus reveal the healing, guiding, and sustaining mercy of God….As followers of Christ, we are sent into the world naked, vulnerable, and weak, and thus we can reach our fellow human beings in their pain and agony and reveal to them the power of God’s love and empower them with the power of God’s Spirit.

Paradoxically, as Nouwen points out, it’s through surrendering our power that we will gain a hearing with others, with “them.” Why? Because such a surrendering allows us to sympathize with others, which of course, opens the lines of communication.  It opens the ears so we–so they–can hear. We sympathize because He first sympathized with us.

Elsewhere, Nouwen writes:

This is the way of downward mobility, the descending way of Jesus. It is the way toward the poor, the suffering, the marginal, the prisoners, the refugees, the lonely, the hungry, the dying, the tortured, the homeless–toward all who ask for compassion. What do they have to offer? Not success, popularity, or power, but the joy and peace of the children of God.” (from Here and Now pp. 138-139)

I think it’s this joy and peace Zahnd is calling the church to–a joy and peace that can only be found, however, by surrendering to the mysterious beauty of the cruciform–a joy and peace that counters the concern, worry, and power-grabbing of a politicized faith–a faith that, lacking a substantial vision of the kingdom of God that can capture the collective imagination and move the collective heart of the public, overly relies on answers and morality–rather than holistic witness–to counter the decadence and decay of our society.  If the Gospel truly has an “intrinsically artistic nature,” as Zahnd says–by which he means that it is ultimately a mystery–then we need more witnesses who are willing to enter that mystery and live the mystery.  Doing so, may not produce immediate results, but slowly, over time, the beauty of bearing witness will have its way with those who have ears to hear.  It will sneak past their defenses and give them a picture of what could be and, indeed, what one day, shall be.

Can We Have a Real Conversation About Unethical Adoption? Taking a Look at Together for Adoption’s Rhetoric

(Photo courtesy of Institute of Development Studies)

I’ve debated about whether I’ve needed to write this post, and I’ve decided that I do.

Earlier last week, Dan Cruver had a guest blogger, Micah Jelinek, write a post on his Together for Adoption blog in response to my post “‘Cosmetic Solutions’? Some Thoughts About Dan Cruver’s Series on Unethical Adoption.”  In this post, Jelinek comes to Cruver’s defense, claiming that I misunderstand Cruver’s theology of adoption, while also expanding that theology to show how it fits within a broader theology of justice.

Let me just say, first of all, that I think Cruver, Jelinek, and I end up in the same place: all three of us stand for ethical adoptions, social justice, and believe that when all is said and done, Christ will make all things new.  I agree with much of what Jelinek wrote, but in order to prevent us from talking past each other, I want to highlight a few subtle, but crucial, differences.

In “Orphan Care is Not Enough: Part 3” I mentioned that I was making my critique of Cruver from a macro level.  I purposely painted with a broad brush when describing Evangelicalism’s relationship with social justice in order to shine a light on the assumptions of Evangelicalism.  I did not intend to argue facts and details (e.g. isolated cases where Evangelicals have pursued social action) but instead I wanted to try to expose underlying beliefs that have made it difficult in the past for Evangelicals to embrace, without hesitation or equivocation, social justice.

Misunderstanding this aim of mine led Jelinek to claim that I was criticizing Cruver because he had “forgotten to address broader social justice issues as a result of an underdeveloped theology of justice.”  I believe I made clear, though, that the language I was critiquing in Cruver’s post was symptomatic of the “old dichotomy” between Gospel proclamation and seeking social justice that has long been inherent in Evangelical theology–that, whether Cruver realizes it or not, the suspicion toward social justice was latent in his language.   I wasn’t saying that Cruver should have been writing about “broader social justice issues” or that, somehow, he had forgotten to do so.  Rather, I was suggesting that Cruver narrowly focuses on adoption because it’s an acceptable form of social involvement among Evangelicals.  I realize he may intend otherwise, but Cruver’s language suggests the uneasiness Evangelicals have had with social action.  In fact, shortly after I posted my critique of his post, Cruver got in touch with me via email and it gave me a chance to explain my point to him.  Here is part of what I wrote:

I wrote what I wrote because I perceived a fundamental inconsistency in what you were writing and what I hoped my post would encourage you to clarify your meaning.  I am sure you are opposed to the Manichean split between social justice and the preaching of the Good News, but while you may hold to this theoretically, I still stand by my assertion in my post that your language betrays that belief.  My post wasn’t a critique of you or your beliefs as much as it was a critique of the assumption that seems to be latent in your words.  I’m sure if you and I could meet and talk, we would find a lot to agree about…But as a writing teacher, I know that language matters, and so when I said I detected in your language the split between pursuing social justice on the one hand and preaching the Gospel on the other, I meant that as a critique of the way you expressed yourself. So, whereas you may know for a fact that you don’t see a huge chasm between social justice and the preaching of the Gospel, I don’t think your language expresses that very clearly.  So, take that for what it’s worth.   

I would also like to add, in response to Jelinek, that I did not seek to “account for the large numbers of Evangelicals who have been concerned with social responsibility since the mid ‘6o’s” because I was not focusing on the exceptions, but rather the rule.  Ask any historian of American Evangelicalism, and he will tell you that Evangelicalism has never fully embraced social justice, and when it has, it’s been with an uneasy and awkward side hug. Sure, there are groups within Evangelicalism that have been, and still are, advocating for social justice while proclaiming the gospel, but these groups are exactly that–groups within a much larger movement.  Again, they are the exception, not the rule.

To be fair to Jelinek, I am well aware of recent movements within Evangelicalism and books that have been published more recently that highlight Evangelicalism’s growing embrace of social justice.  I mentioned before the End It movement, borne out of the student-focused Passion Conferences, in “Orphan Care is Not Enough: Part 1.”   And as far as books go, I am aware of Tim Keller’s A Generous Justice, When Helping Hurts by Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert, and The Hole in Our Gospel by Richard Stearns to name a few.  These, and many more, are all wonderful signs that Evangelicals are seeing the need to be active in the world, not just to save souls so they can make it to heaven, but to bring light in the the dark corners of the world.

With all that said, when you boil it all down, I think that my ultimate problem with Cruver’s point of view, and now Jelinek’s, is a rhetorical one as much as a theological one (the theological problem I discussed here).

Though I believe Jelinek makes a fairly clear case for how “capital A” adoption is central to all of salvation history and guides us in our pursuit of justice, I’m still confused about one thing in particular.  When Jelinek writes, “Adoption is bigger than adoption,” a la Cruver, he fails to connect this in any meaningful way with what he writes after that statement.  While I understand what he’s getting at with this idea (I think), it would help the discussion regarding adoption standards if this concept was more thoroughly brought into conversation with some of the critiques of this idea (more on this in a minute).

In my mind, the adoption metaphor, as Cruver and Jelinek use it, is overburdened and in danger of collapse.  While I understand this metaphor’s role in expressing the profound reality of God’s redemption of his people, I also believe metaphors have limits.  (A question I still would like answered is “Does Cruver, and now Jelinek, view adoption as a literal cosmic event? Or, is it a metaphor?  And if it is, can it still be authoritative for Cruver and Jelinek as ‘merely’ a metaphor?”)

To close, what I would like to do now is transition from my response to Jelinek and focus on Cruver once more–in particular, on his response to David Smolin’s critique of the Evangelical adoption movement. “Adoption,” as Cruver uses it, is an ultimate term, or “uncontested term.”  An uncontested term represents the “values, premises, and conclusions assumed already ‘fixed by universal enlightened consensus’ for an era or a culture.”  To me, the key words from this definition are “assumed” and “culture.”   I believe Cruver has helped create a culture that, in my mind, has become so insular that it can rarely, if ever, truly hear any dissenting opinions.  This is why, for example, I don’t think Cruver has ever actually answered Smolin’s critique (click on the link above and see for yourself).  Cruver is speaking a language that only those who assume the values, premises, and conclusions of T4A can hear.  It’s as though if one does not use the code Cruver speaks (employing terms like “redemptive-historical,” for example), then one cannot be heard. Smolin doesn’t use that code and thus, he isn’t heard by Cruver (if you read Cruver’s response to Smolin, you’ll see what I’m talking about here).  As far as I can tell, the best Cruver does in his response to Smolin is simply to dismiss Smolin’s critique.  He never really interacts with Smolin’s socio-historical exegesis, but instead is surprised (genuinely, I think) when Smolin does not hold to the same “metanarrative” he does–doesn’t use the same code he does.  Consequently, he spends the rest of his critique earnestly educating his audience and Dr. Smolin about redemptive-historical theology and how it provides a theological justification for adoption.  Again, the problem with this approach is it causes Cruver to disengage from the matter at hand and therefore prevents him from really interacting with Smolin’s textual critiques, thereby effectively shutting down the conversation.

When I studied the Bible in college, I was taught that Scripture cannot mean for us what it never meant to its original audience.  This fact is what leads students and scholars of the Bible to spend so much time exploring the socio-political (and yes, rhetorical) layers of the text.  Cruver dispenses with this principle with his overemphasis on a redemptive-historical understanding of adoption.  He misses the socio-historical trees for the redemptive-historical forest.

For me, what this all boils down to is this:  Does the theology of adoption that Dan Cruver and T4A put forth allow us to live with “the constant recognition of the claims of human community” upon us?  To put it another way, what is the trajectory of such a theology?  I think, in the end, Cruver and Jelinek agree with me that the Evangelical community has to have a more multi-faceted approach to working with orphans and vulnerable children (Cruver even has a post on the T4A blog entitled “Adoption Doesn’t Mean Adoption,” in which he explains how T4A is about more than child placement).  But as I wrote to Cruver in the email cited earlier, language matters.  The way we talk about adoption and the care of vulnerable children shapes our imagination and how we see the matter at hand.  Allowing some of their terms and ideas to be challenged would help Cruver and T4A foster a true conversation about best practices and the care of vulnerable children and their families.