A Model Child

          I was a model child growing up. No, really, I was. I seldom got in trouble. I almost always obeyed my parents. I never experimented with drugs, and I didn’t take my first social drink until I was in college. I seldom stayed out past midnight; in fact, I think I got in after midnight only once, when my friend’s car broke down and we had to call her dad to come help us out. I never asked for much money, never wanted expensive clothes, and didn’t participate in extracurricular activities that required a huge investment of time and money on their part. And most of the time, I was kind, patient, generous, and uncomplaining. My parents should be darn thankful they ended up with a kid like me.

          Somewhere along the way after attaining adulthood, though, something happened. I became more self-centered and anxious, and more focused on things and achievements and the opinions of other people of me. As I matured, I became more immature.

          That didn’t just happen to me, apparently. In the workplace I’ve witnessed people who have been professionals in their field for decades acting like spoiled little brats. In a previous institution of higher learning where I worked, there was a small yet vocal contingent of faculty that made no secret of their discomfort with and disapproval of the particular student population I was assigned to serve. Some of them acted as if the sandbox had been taken over by the new kids on the block, and they weren’t going to stand for it, so they pouted and cried and stomped their feet, complaining to “daddy” in the president’s office, not acknowledging that the new kids might actually be fun to play with if given the chance. But they were too focused on deciding who was worthy to be in the sandbox in the first place, playing an “us vs them” game of exclusion and alienation. Needless to say, their attitudes didn’t make those new kids feel very welcomed.

          And I observed similar behaviors from so-called adults in other places, too. Church is one of the worst places for expressions of immaturity; I guess that’s why we’re called the children of God and not the adults of God. People complain about the state of the kitchen, or the condition of the floors, or that the coffee is too weak or too strong. They gripe about how a certain decision was made and carried out. They pout when they feel their feelings haven’t been taken into consideration, when their money (that they have supposedly offered to God already) isn’t being spent in the way they think it should be, when the sermon is too long or too short or doesn’t resonate with them, when they don’t like the style of music, when there’s a glitch in the flow of the service…and the list goes on. Sometimes I think the toddlers should stay in the sanctuary for worship and praise, and anyone over the age of twelve should retreat to the nursery to cry and poop and fight over toys.

          And all this griping and complaining and whining goes on while people around the world are being killed simply for being who they are: ethnic and faith groups in the Middle East and Iraq; young African American men right here in our own country; people caught in the crossfire between political rivals in Eastern Europe; young girls in Nigeria; gay and lesbian people in Africa and the Middle East. While we, the people of God, complain about the style of worship or the strength of our coffee or the administrative practices of our denominations, other people who are just as important to God are suffering in real, life-or-death situations. Shame on us.

          I think as children we have a natural connection with the Divine. For many years I have wondered philosophically, “If our souls exist after we die, then did they exist before we were born?” Many who believe in reincarnation would say yes, but that’s not exactly what I’m talking about here. To me, to die and go to Heaven is to be reunited with God in a purely spiritual sense. So, was my soul with God before I was born? And if so, did I as a child have some sort of spiritual memory of that union that was later corrupted by maturity, by my knowledge of sin, or all of the actions and attitudes that we name as evil in the world?

          Yes, children can be selfish; they can cry and pout when they don’t get their way. They sometimes don’t want to share or play nicely. They can be suspicious of strangers (not always a bad thing, mind you). But they can also be very nonjudgmental, happy for no particular reason, engaged with the world around them with a sense of wonder and curiosity and openness that is enviable. They live in the moment, holding no grudges over past hurts and harboring no fear for the future.

          Maybe that’s why Jesus said that we have to become like little children to enter the realm of Heaven. To me, that has nothing whatsoever to do with a city with streets paved in gold, descending from the clouds to serve as a home for the faithful (however one defines that) and no one else. Rather, it means a state of being, of accepting the realm of God into our hearts so that we can live life more abundant and free in the here and now. It means loving and accepting other people as small children do, before they’ve grown old enough to learn the destructive ways of thinking and doing from the adults in their lives. It means letting go of grudges and hurts and other burdens that keep us from experiencing that abundant and free life. And it means forgiving ourselves as well as others in order to move on unencumbered to be a whole, healthy child of God.

          Boy, that level of immaturity really takes a lot of hard work! Being child-like without being childish is tricky, especially for adults who have had more time in life to be corrupted by the negative, selfish influences in both their outer and inner worlds. I see this in myself, now that I’m over fifty. The farther I get from childhood, the harder it becomes to connect with that inner child. But he’s still in there in my head, somewhere, telling me to grow up without growing up, to be responsible and conscientious without losing my innocence and my joy and my ability to be thankful for simple things. He’s the child who feels happy with those who are happy, and offers comfort to those in distress. He doesn’t drag the past around, and he doesn’t worry about the future. He lets other kids play in his sandbox, and shares his toys, and doesn’t take the last cookie for himself. He is the model child of God, and it may take a lifetime to emulate him. And that’s OK; the point is to never stop trying.