A small boy played quietly by the stream, watched silently by several men who hid in the cover of the dense jungle. As a leaf floated down the stream he bombarded it with rocks of all sizes, some nearly too large for him to lift. Occasionally the water splashed back on his dark skin making him squeal with laughter. After several minutes he saw a shiny object on the ground. He had never seen anything quite so colorful and after a minute he peeled of the bright red wrapper. Inside the wrapper was a hard ball shaped object. Intrigued, he rolled it in his fingers. It was much harder than a berry, which it reminded him of. He held it to his nose, but didn’t perceive much of a smell. He touched his tongue to it and as he contemplated the taste, he noticed that his fingers were becoming sticky. His eyes grew big and round as he tasted it again. It was sweet and wonderful—unlike anything he had ever tasted in his life. Once again, he squealed with laughter.
As he plopped it in his mouth he started to scan the ground for more of these wonderful berries. Just then a man stepped out from the jungle. He had a young smiling face and a kind look about him, although he was ghastly pale. The boy would have normally run away, but the man’s outstretched hand held out to him many more of the strangely wonderful berries. The man spoke softly and kindly as he befriended the boy.
Soon the other men also stepped out from the jungle. They seemed to be friends with the first man. They all seemed to be nice enough and invited the boy back to their ship. He really didn’t think much about going with them. It was all too easy.
As all this happened, the boy’s father stood and watched. He wasn’t quite sure what was happening and didn’t want to interfere in the boy’s life.
The boy was taken to a neighboring island. There he was taught different customs, a different religion, and a different language.
Although the father knew where the boy went, he did not bother to rescue him. He was very busy and wasn’t sure what to do. Other men in his village were also losing their sons and daughters, so this wasn’t shocking or out of the ordinary; it was just what happened sometimes. Sure, on occasion they would talk about how they missed their children, and how they wish they could do something, but what could they do?
This story seems implausible, because what parent could possibly sit by idly while losing his or her child to invaders. Yet, a similar scene is played out in America every day. Children are pulled away from their parents. They are given immoral values, sexy clothes, false religion, crude language, and a general distaste of all that is good. They learn to love leisure and endless forms of entertainment, while disdaining hard work and honorable living. Sex becomes acceptable in any form, and marriage seems like an old-fashioned ceremony that serves no purpose, but to pose an opportunity to play dress up.
Parents lose their children every day, but not to slavery as we know it. Parents lose their kids to a different slavery. A man is a slave to whatever has mastered him, and our children are becoming slaves to the world around them.
The process is so gradual that can go undetected. The amusingly defiant “No!” of the two-year-old becomes the abrasive “get out of my face” of the thirteen-year-old. The defiant thirteen-year-old becomes the detached sixteen-year-old who won’t talk to her parents, follow their advice, or perhaps even come home at night.
We are losing our children—in the United States, and in the church. We cannot stand to lose our children any longer. God forbid that we should just stand by and watch it happen to us.
We must fight. We must study the tactics of our enemy and the vulnerabilities of our children. Even our own values and beliefs must be challenged. We must be willing to be different. It would be insane for us to keep doing the same thing as everyone else and to expect a different result. Our own pride must be challenged. Are we willing to go to any extreme, even if it makes us look odd to our friends and families?
It is one thing to lose our kids, but it is quite another to lose them while silently watching from the bank of the river. We must realize the gravity of the state of our youth and take action.