The healing faith of a child

God shows up in some astonishing ways when we're opening to seeing him.

Like many children, my daughter Evangeline has plenty of stuffed animals, none of which has mattered much at all to her. That changed when her grandmother died. Suddenly, Evangeline bonded with a handmade stuffed rabbit that she has had since she was born, whom she calls Cinderabbit. Evangeline has slept with Cinderabbit every night since Grandma's funeral, and for a while she took her everywhere she went as well.

As my close, personal friend Rykie once observed about the divine love that shone through her own imaginary friends, so I have seen with Evangeline and Cinderabbit. Cinderabbit demands nothing in return from Evangeline for the comfort she gives. She stays as close as Evangeline wants, loves her unconditionally, and listens to the moans and sighs Evangeline doesn't know the words to express.

She is the very expression of God's love in my daughter's life, and couldn't be any more real if her coat were made of velveteen.



Copyright © 2008 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Fred Gipson's 'Old Yeller,' and grief

"Your mother told me about the dog" remains one of the best, most understated lines I've ever read in a children's book.

The line comes from "Old Yeller," one of the best stories ever told in the English language about a boy and his dog. The book is set in Texas, not long after the Civil War. The boy's name is Travis, his little brother's name is Arliss; and the dog comes into their lives while the father is on a cattle drive up north. Even if you've never read the book, you probably know what happens to the dog, and what Travis' mother told his father once he returned from the cattle drive.

It was something of a surprise to me that my daughter didn't cry when Travis had to shoot the dog, but then she does internalize a lot of her grief and then express it through other ways, particularly in art.

When we lost Isaac, she took to drawing with a passion she hadn't shown in months. When we attended her grandmother's funeral, Evangeline merely grew very quiet when it was time to scatter her ashes, and said nothing at all on the subject until a few hours later, when she finally broached the subject with me in private.

She inadvertently has reminded me of something my close, personal friend Rykie once said, about God reaching out to children through their imaginary friends.

Until her grandmother died, none of Evangeline's stuffed animals mattered much at all to her. Then, suddenly, she bonded to a handmade stuffed rabbit she had had since she was born, whom she calls Cinderabbit. Evangeline has slept with Cinderabbit every night since Grandma's funeral, and for a while took her everywhere she went as well.

As Rykie observed with her own imaginary friends, so I have seen with Evangeline and Cinderabbit. Cinderabbit demands nothing in return from Evangeline for the comfort she gives. She stays as close as Evangeline wants, loves her unconditionally, and listens to the moans and sighs Evangeline doesn't know the words to express.

She couldn't be any more real if her coat were made of velveteen.


* She isn't a John Wayne fan, either.



Copyright © 2008 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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What it means to have the faith of a child

I imagine the disciples walking along the road somewhere between towns. The dust rises from the ground as they walk and covers their feet. It coats their robes, and it gets into their faces and hair. Somewhere along the way, someone -- probably Peter, James or John -- mentions how much he's missed out on for this life he's chosen.

It's a mostly innocuous remark. Peter probably was thinking of the time he wasn't getting to spend with his wife; or John or James was thinking of the role he had had in the family business and what he stood to lose in terms of financial security. But the thought, once voiced, prompted a snort from someone else who had given up even more.

Soon an idle complaint induced by the heat of the day and the weariness of the road has swollen into a top-this sort of argument over who had given up more. It's only a matter of time until someone says, "Well, whatever I've given up, it was worth it to me. Following Jesus means that much to me, and I'd give up everything I have to follow him."

From there it just goes downhill. Everyone's got to prove that he loves Jesus more than the others do, and what it boils down to, though probably no one will say it, is simply this: Who's the greatest in the Kingdom of God?

It's a favorite theme for the disciples, if the gospels are to be taken seriously, and we can only imagine how exasperating it must be to hear your 12 students once again picking up the refrain of "I love God more than you do" when a major part of your message is to forget yourself. Jesus is tired of the discussion. 

So Jesus, when he hears what they're quarreling about (again), and no doubt feeling a little exhausted from the road himself, sits down, puts a child on his lap and says, "Whoever wants to be first in my kingdom must be like this child."

I was taught for years that what he meant was he expects us to believe like children do: accepting what they're told at face value and not questioning it. That's actually a great idea if you're trying to pass on an ideology or to maintain an institution, but it sure sucks for making intelligent people who can think for themselves. (Although it does encourage intelligent people to parrot what they've heard or to find incredibly well thought-out justifications and proofs for what they've been told to believe.)

A couple things bother me about this understanding of Jesus' teaching.

For one, it's terribly condescending to children in its assumption that they just believe whatever they're told. Children are smarter than we usually give them credit for, and they do get the difference between metaphor or fiction and reality if we let them. It doesn't take a particularly sharp kid to do the math and see the problems Noah would have getting two of every animal onto an ark, nor does it take a genius to see how far some people have gone in trying to make the Noah story sound rational and scientifically viable.

The other thing is that this interpretation focuses on the substance of faith and not its nature. It emphasizes the importance of believing a set of doctrines over the importance of actually putting faith into action. It suggests that having a set of intellectual attitudes and beliefs is more important than bringing those beliefs to bear in the real world. And that's just plain wrong.

Christianity isn't a European or Western religion at all. It's an Eastern religion, and the culture it came from is a culture that was holistic before being holistic became trendy.

Here in the West we have creeps saying things like "I love my wife and kids deep down, where it counts" while they betray them in adulterous relationships; or we have politicians flattering religious conservatives with talk about "family values" while they make it harder on working families to catch a break.

In the West, we don't so readily see a disconnect there. In the East, where Christianity was born, they properly call that bullshit. You cannot love your family while you cheat on your wife; you cannot care about family values while you add burden after burden to families; and you cannot value truth if you lie.

This sort of outward display of righteousness comes fairly naturally to adults, but it's not that natural for kids, who bring a lot of enthusiasm to their faith. My kids love Jesus with an intensity that awes me. I've watched Evangeline struggle hard to incorporate his teachings into her life, seeking to do right by her classmates, even when they hassle her at school; and trying to intercede when her best friend retaliates on someone who's been picking on them. (Evangeline's actually taken some pretty big hits from her friend for trying to defuse that sort of situation.)

Compare that straightforward desire to love Jesus and live as he wants us to, with the faith adults have. We often rationalize our way out of forgiving, out of loving, out of giving, and too often are willing to tolerate or overlook injustice when it doesn't directly affect us and to tell ourselves that "there's nothing we can do" when there is -- if we were only willing to do it.

It seems to me that that natural, holistic approach to faith is what Jesus wants us to model.