Children can be some of the wisest and most ridiculous human beings. One dulled red crayon in the hands of a toddler, for instance, can render a family experience more truthfully than any photo and then instigate unprecedented wailing if accidentally snapped.
Their little bodies hold such heightened capacity for learning and lack thoroughly the skills for survival. They frequently cannot calm their emotions, control themselves socially, or meet their own physical needs. Sometimes they can, but at great harm to themselves… and that’s a different message for a different type of blog.
We know Jesus told us to be like little children—a prerequisite to heaven, in fact. When Jesus told us to be like children, He didn’t mean entirely. Indeed, there are certain areas where we very much should not be like children. Paul even tells us that at some point we must put away childish ways. So what does childlike actually mean?
Faith is the most common virtue that comes to mind when comparing children with adults. Perhaps this is because Jesus teaches that we must “receive the Kingdom of God like a child” (Luke 18:17). Many of us are capable of belief. We accept things as true when proved that they are. Newton’s gravity, for example. Yet faith propels us to be assured of “things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).
Because of where they are developmentally—tasked with understanding their caregivers, surroundings, and the world around them—children are positioned to hold faith. They hold faith every day when trusting in the provision of their parents or the education they receive from a teacher. Even when children begin verbalizing “Why?” to instruction, their purpose is rarely to contradict but to understand.
Receiving the Kingdom as a child, then, asks us to have faith in principles, rewards, and actions unseen. We strive to accept that we will receive a crown for enduring trials and that our heavenly Father adores us every single day of our lives, even when we can’t feel it. As I mentioned last blog post, we strive to remember that we see in a mirror dimly, not completely. Like Dr. Clark, we believe that God can heal someone, even though we aren’t entirely sure how.
Having this sort of faith is hard. I think part of the reason it is hard is that although we are born with it, growing up requires maturing it: balancing it, losing it, finding it again.
There is wisdom in acquiring knowledge (Proverbs 18:15). There is wisdom in our capacity to gain reason and discernment. Children are notably naive when it comes to sticking their finger in a socket, or choosing play over rest, or putting a glass on an unstable edge. It’s wise to learn how to behave socially, how to have compassion for people in every circumstance, and how to hold healthy boundaries in both safe and unsafe relationships. It’s wise to acknowledge present reality, even while holding faith for a miracle, and to take care of our whole selves: spirit, heart, and body. It’s wise to test prophetic words and our perception of the whisper of the Holy Spirit in community.
It’s wise to learn how to walk without blindfolds.
Sometimes when we grow up, though, we can go too far in assuming that everything is understandable through sight. By sight, I mean our human experience, our feelings, our relationships, the truths that fall into our hands like lightning down a kite string.
But sight is incomplete. We cannot control or explain the supernatural we witness: healings, prophecies, deliverances, visions, dreams, or the presence of God. You can never fully describe the experience of being forgiven, of knowing someone you harmed holds nothing against you. The love of God itself—no matter how deeply we internalize it—surpasses understanding (Ephesians 3:19).
When Jesus asks us to receive the Kingdom as a child, I don’t think that means turning off our experience of grown-up reality but rather holding faith for the parts of the Kingdom that will remain a mystery.
Most of this is not new news. Versions of this message have been preached from many pulpits. When I ponder longer the unchildish childlikeness Jesus intended for us, I wonder if more than faith, He intends us to embody nonjudgment, specifically curiosity, the type that is present in our early years and stewarded through humility.
A friend once posed to me the idea that assumptions are, in essence, judgments. We know we are not to judge; we’ve been taught this in the Church. The measure with which we judge will be measured back to us, and there is only one Judge. Yet the things we typically avoid as judgments are value propositions of right or wrong or thoughts condemning ourselves or others. What of acting upon the things we assume? Not inviting so-and-so because we believe they don’t like large crowds, crediting someone to be wise simply because they are quiet, or congratulating a mother for a pregnancy she hasn’t revealed her feelings about yet?
I don’t mean that all assumptions are wrong. Some assumptions become presumptions, meaning my father knows to buy my mother stargazer lilies because they are special to her. I also don’t mean that we shouldn’t have them. Part of understanding the world is through assumptions and presumptions. Yet both can cause harm when they involve removing a person’s choice in a situation or coloring their experience with our own. And when that happens, are we capable of receiving correction and seeking the truth?
Like children, can we posture our hearts with curiosity towards people: those we don’t know, those we do, and those we presume we don’t want to know? Can we hold nonjudgment when their behavior, choices, or views are different from our own? Can we be slow to speak, quick to listen? Can we offer each person the gift of context? Everyone makes sense within their context, and the essence of what I’ve experienced around children is their willingness to come to understand any person.
This version of childlikeness permeates the healing and approachable person of Jesus in the Gospels. Though He is omniscient, He rarely healed a person without first asking if they wanted to be healed. He sought who touched Him in the crowd, though He likely knew it was the woman with the issue of blood. He invited Himself to dine with societal outcasts, despite other peoples’ opinions of their disinterest or unworthiness for Him. Even in many of His interactions with the Pharisees, He did not contradict them but replied with a question.
Of course, a wise person knows that posturing ourselves to understand another person does not require engaging with them. When we are children, we are prone to attempting friendship with a bully or being at risk for predators. Yet maturity asks us to stay away from an angry person, to not throw our pearls before swine, and to be wise as serpents in our interactions with others—even while holding nonjudgment and curiosity in our hearts.
A Saul could become a Paul, yet for now, he is a Saul, and as childlike adults we must walk the tightrope of holding faith for his transformation, curiosity for his journey, and wisdom in guarding our ways.
It’s hard to become a childlike grown-up, to develop the faith we need to receive the Kingdom and its virtues. And it’s harder still to be a grown-up child, to experience the consequences of our own childishness. I think in some ways, we’re all still learning how to truly grow up, but what’s important is that we’re trying.