Lectionary 25 (B) — Mark 9:30–37
I think one of the reasons I get along so well with children is that I’m still one of them. That seems like a bad thing; an adult, “entering” middle age, who hasn’t “grown up” yet. But that’s not what I mean. I pay my bills and have a career. But in the ways it counts, I wonder if we’d all be better off if we were more like children.
For example, children have a sense of wonder, which is one of the best things for our faith. Some people look at the complexity of the universe and say that it’s proof there is no God. The smallest glance out there shows how absurdly small and unimportant we are. In a tiny fraction of the night sky, only one thirty-two-billionth of what we can see out there, the Hubble Extreme Deep Field telescope photographed more than five thousand whole galaxies, each full of stars and planets and who knows what else. Our best guess is two trillion total, perhaps even more beyond the furthest distance light will ever travel to us. With that kind of “bigness,” what are human beings that any God would take notice of us?
That’s a very adult way of thinking. But add a sense of wonder, and it is exactly the point. My favorite children’s Bible says it clearly: The Bible is not a book or rules, of a collection of heroes. The Bible is “a love story, about a brave prince who leaves his palace, his throne—everything—to rescue the one he loves.” Only children can conceive of religion that way, but it’s a better understanding of our faith than any adult theologians. It’s that viewpoint in which the Psalmist asks, “What are human beings that God is mindful of us? And yet he has made us little lower than a divine being, crowning us with glory and honor.” If creation is two trillion galaxies wide, how vast is God’s love! What insights into who God is will we find with our next scientific breakthrough?
Adults need high-powered telescopes to find that sense of wonder. Children don’t. One day in Massachusetts, I had to speak to our nursery school director, so I wandered downstairs to the classroom. Brian, who was five, dragged me over to the middle of the room. Laid out on a sheet of paper on the floor was a huge sunflower. At first, the children had just stood back and looked, but soon, little hands were pulling the stem apart to see what was inside, picking off petals to look at how they were attached, counting the spirals in its center, making things out of the leaves with scissors and glue. They learned more about flowers that day than most of us would in a college botany class.
This is a fundamental principle of early childhood education. Children learn by playing. The best teachers of young children don’t need good lecture techniques or worksheet writing skills. The most gifted know how to set up a room for play, so children can teach themselves. They watch for moments in the classroom to lead to the next learning opportunity, and find ways to capitalize on their students’ natural interests. Playfulness is the best way to grow.
Adults forget how to play. We are stiff and boring people, and we suck the fun out of everything. Especially faith. But if God’s story really is a love story, it has to be playful, fun, full of joy and silliness. We’ve all heard of pastors and Sunday school teachers who condemn too many questions. But we have to ask stupid questions about Christianity because that’s the only way to discover the most profound truths about God. Our Sunday-morning rituals were meant to teach us about our faith and develop our relationships. But we repeat them mindlessly, dryly, just going through the motions. We have to pop the cork on the champagne at the Communion table on Easter, to dress up in silly clothing for the Christmas play, to try to sing songs that nobody knows. It’s only this kind of play that lets us stop taking ourselves too seriously, so that God can reach us. There are certainly times for solemnity. But I truly believe that any religion that cannot laugh at itself is no religion at all. It’s just a dead faith worshiping a dead God.
But our God is alive, and in unbreakable relationship with us. And that is a trait that adults and children share—the need for relationship. Children are clumsier at it, a little less subtle, but often a little more forgiving, and always full of importance.
Chase was eight, and his profile said he needed to work on anxiety. The camp he was attending that summer had a great system, they thought, to encourage their campers to work on their needs. They earned points, and at the end of the week, they spent them on fabulous prizes. Chase was warned, if you don’t go swimming, you won’t get points. So he stood on the side of the pool, staring at what felt like way too many children, and the deep deep water, and hated himself for it. And the adults watched him, and shook their heads, and marked it down on his paperwork.
Except one saw how heartbroken he was, and she went over to ask him what was upsetting. Chase couldn’t even speak, so she started to guess. When she asked if it was too crowded, he nodded. So she found a space on the grass and they threw a beach ball back and forth.
Two days of this, and even though Chase wasn’t getting his points, at least he wasn’t miserable. The next day, his counselor said it was too hot. She wanted to go in the pool. Would he stand on the edge and throw the ball with her there instead? By the next week, he’d forgotten about her altogether, and was in the pool playing with the other kids.
Adults have far more important things to do than listen to children. And that’s exactly why Jesus tells us to pay attention to them. Treat them like we’d treat him, treat God himself. Two minutes of caring about what we have to say can change our entire world.
Children and adults alike, which I learned when a child paid attention to me. That five year-old, Brian, with the sunflower. Months later, I was sitting in a restaurant in town, when he came up to my table, dragging his mother with him. “Mom,” he said, “This is my pastor.” And I felt like I was the most important person in the world.
The disciples argue, who is the greatest among us? Jesus looks at Peter, the first leader; and Matthew, the tax collector; and Thomas, the questioner; and then Jesus says he knows the answer. He sits on the ground, and gathers up a child in his arms, and says “This is the greatest among us. I would give up my palace, my throne, everything, even my life, for this person. Would you? And if not, maybe you could be more like him.”
* A note for the especially observant reader: In Matthew 18, Jesus instructs his disciple to become like children. But today’s reading was from Mark 9, and Jesus here tells us—not to be like children but—to welcome children. The difference is important. I admit, in my sermon, I took a little bit of each, which means I strayed a bit from the actual Gospel reading. I’ve decided that the Holy Spirit wanted me to that day, “so neener.” Anyway, I just wanted to say, “I know” before I left it.