Words can be confusing

I have a degree in linguistics. I'm supposed to know about word meaning. But sometimes I forget what words can sound like to children. Words and phrases which are familiar to me may not be heard the way I expect.

I presented the story of Jesus' calling of the first disciples, the four fishermen. You probably know the story. It has a very famous line: Jesus says 'come, follow me, and I will make you fishers of men'. 

I wondered, with the children, how did the men feel?

Confused. Upset. Sad.

Okay, I said. Odd, I thought. Why?

Because they weren't sure how they felt about hunting and killing people.

Oh. Dear. Let me re-tell that story. Right now.

I told the story to a different group later, and amended the crucial line 'Come, follow me, and I will send you out to do my work.'

I wondered with that group, how did the men feel?

Proud. Excited. Happy.

Oh so much better.

That day I learned to be more careful with my word choices. Words can hurt.

A very special child

Recently I held the body of a baby who had gone to be with God. So beautiful. So peaceful. 

She had died in God's time. In her whole life she had only known love, safety, comfort and peace. She had everything she needed. She had never known pain, and never will. She was known: by her parents, her siblings, and God.  

We had prayed for God's will to be done in her life, and the lives of her family. We had prayed for mercy, that she would suffer no pain in her life. 

What did I learn from this child?

God answers prayer in his time and in his way. 

God loves each child of his. 

Thank you to the parents of this child who allowed me to have this very special moment holding their baby, and also to share my reflections here.

What's with the donkey?

I recently told the story of the first Palm Sunday to a group of 8-10 year olds. There wasn't anything particularly amazing about the way I told the story. I used Mark 11:1-11, and I didn't add to the story. 

I was hoping to get them to see the contrast between Palm Sunday and what was to follow. Because I think I thought that was the point. I wondered with them: what could Jesus have done next? What were the people feeling? How did the disciples feel when the donkey was there, as promised, and the subsequent conversations happened as promised?

However, as the wondering went on, I discovered the kids were wondering:

* did the donkey get home?

* how did the donkey feel about being ridden for the first time by someone it didn't know?

* how did the donkey feel about all the people yelling? 

The point of connection for these kids was the donkey. This was the character they identified with most strongly. I did the story with three different groups. They all asked the same questions.

The following week, I brought the Jesus figure, the donkey, a cloak and a branch from the original story, and asked them to tell me a story. One girl in the first group told me the whole story, leaving nothing out, using almost exactly the wording I used. The next two groups needed a couple of people to contribute, but they got all the details. 

Clearly this story has more going on in it than I first thought. At my church this weekend, the sermon title (to go with Luke 19:29-38, the first palm Sunday) was advertised as 'available for the Lord to use'. I immediately thought of the donkey.

Is truth only available from one perspective? Is there only ever one point to a story? If I miss the point, but get a point, is that wrong? 

I wonder what the children are teaching me. 

Where is the complication?

Once, a long time ago, I read a part of John's gospel to a small child. She can't have been more than 4. She might have been 2 or 3. I was reading this story to her because I had to read it for life group, and she wanted a story... two birds, one stone. So I read to her. Sadly, I can't remember what I read. I finished, and paused. John is not straightforward. At least, not to me. We sat in silence for a moment, and then I commented, 'That was complicated!' And she paused, and then said, without any trace of rudeness, 'No, it wasn't.' So I asked her to explain it to me. And she did; she told me exactly what had happened in the story. She was right, it wasn't complicated at all. I was.

I was reminded of the person I once was, who took a Ridley class on Revelation. I sat patiently through the discussion of how this letter might have come to have been written. There were many, many theories. Complicated things, none of which I can remember.

I raised my hand. "Is it possible that 'John ... [was] on the island of Patmos because of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus ...[and] on the Lord’s Day... was in the Spirit, and ... heard behind [him] a loud voice like a trumpet, which said: “Write on a scroll what you see and send it to the seven churches...'"

Sometimes I feel that life is very complicated. I wonder if it is. Or whether we are.

Learning accompanies a forgetting

I'm reading a book at the moment Through the eyes of a child: New insights in theology from a child's perspective (ed Anne Richards and Peter Privett). On page 25, in an article called 'Nakedness and vulnerability', by Anne Richards, we are introduced to Jude, a 3 year old, playing with dinosaurs.

The dinosaurs are in a circle. They are having a fight. Raaaaaaargh! Then they go over here and talk about their toys.

I am reminded of a little boy I know, who plays with cars like this. The first few times I watched him play with his cars, he was pre-verbal, and I just watched him. I remember driving a car up and down his arm, which made him smile. Now that he is talking, I can hear that the cars do all sorts of things, including going shopping, and waiting for grandma. Imaginative things. I watched another little boy today doing similar things. The cars weren't cars, exactly. They were... friends, perhaps.

Jude's dinosaurs, and my friend's cars, do what their owner, the child is doing. Imagination fills in the gaps in the child's knowledge.

In time, adults tell Jude what dinosaurs really do, what this one is really called, what they eat, etc. And over time, Jude's new knowledge takes over from his old knowledge. One day, too, my friend is going to know that there are Holdens and Fords, and such things, and what all the parts of the engine do. And then, they won't wait for grandma anymore.

Learning... also accompanies a forgetting, but being in the midst of children can remind us forcibly of how much we have forgotten. 

We might have forgotten what it was like to hear a particular story for the first time, or what it was like the first time we saw the stars in the country, or what it was like the first time we understood the ridiculous injustice of the death of Jesus.

But if we surround ourselves with children, and really listen to them, perhaps we can get close enough to remember what it is that we have forgotten.

A gift

This happened a while ago now. I was reminded of it because I had cause to tell it again recently.

I was telling the story of Paul's first letter to the Corinthians to a group of 8-10 year olds. 

I held in my hand a long rectangle of white cotton fabric, rolled up to look like a scroll, while I introduced the story.

A long time ago, there was a man called Paul.

He travelled from place to place, telling people about Jesus.

When people heard about the wonderful things that Jesus had said, and the amazing things he had done, they wanted to follow him.

This is what happened in Corinth. Paul had told the people about Jesus, and people had started to follow Jesus. And after a time, Paul went on to another place.

But the story of Jesus has parts that don't seem to make sense. The people in Corinth were disagreeing over what was true. 

So Paul wrote them a letter, on a scroll, to explain what was right, and how it did make sense.

I placed the scroll on the ground, and as I unrolled it, I added pictures which described something about Jesus' life.

Jesus was born. God became a person, a small baby.

Jesus grew up, and did all the things that people do. He worked, he learned to be a carpenter, like his father.

Jesus was God. He said wonderful things, and did amazing things. He healed people of all kinds of illnesses.

He ate with people who weren't ... the right sort of people. 

Jesus' life shows that God is caring, powerful and forgiving.

So far, so good. I placed the next card, a photo of the cross that hangs in the auditorium of my church building.

And then Jesus was killed on the cross as a criminal. 

A little girl to my right, gasped and jumped. She physically moved up and forward when I said this. She didn't say anything. 

I paused. No one said anything.

I repeated the line, and continued on.

This bit doesn't make sense. 

Jesus, who had done nothing wrong, who did such amazing things, was killed as a criminal. 

He was killed for all the wrong things everyone else had done.

Paul reminds the people of Corinth that God uses the things that seem weak, to show the powerful that they are not so powerful at all.

Jesus' death shows God's great love for all people.

God raised Jesus to life again. Many people saw him alive.

Jesus returned to heaven, to be with God, and to make a place ready for all who follow him. 

God raising Jesus to life shows the power of God.

I then wondered with the group. A few things. But I started with this: 

I wonder: Can we take anything out of the story, and still have everything we need?

One boy, across the circle from me, smiled, pointed, and said 'the cross'. I knew he was trying it on, but choose to give respect to all answers. So I moved it out of the scroll, so that we could sit with that idea. The girl on my right wasn't having a bar of it, and quite forcefully moved forward, and put the cross back on the scroll. Where it belonged. 

I acknowledged the action, and continued on, but her reaction has stayed with me.

I loved the contrast in her. She clearly was not happy with Jesus' death. And yet, at the end, she had a firm conviction that the story needs the cross. I think that's what we all need. I know the end of the story, and so perhaps the sadness of Good Friday is lost in the joy of Easter Sunday. Perhaps. 

Her reaction was a gift to me. I can't unlearn what I know. I can't respond to the story as if for the first time. But I can remember her response, and try to come to Jesus as a little child. 

Listen to people, and not just the words

In January, I coordinated a program at a conference, for children aged 3-4. Mostly the children are from families who believe in Jesus, but some have come to the conference with grandparents who believe, while the parents don't.

I read a story book to some kids, during a time of free play. The book (chosen by a child) was a re-telling of Noah's Ark.

One of the children, one who had come with his grandparents, comes up, and listens to the dialogue between Noah and God. He looks, and points to Noah, and asks, 'Is that God?'

'No', I said.

He points to the picture of Noah on the facing page. 'Is that God?'

'No', I said.

'Where is God?'

'Well,'  I said, 'God is everywhere, really, but we can't see him. And it is tricky, because usually when people talk in books we see their picture. But we don't usually draw pictures of God.'

'Where is God?'

One of the other children interrupts. 'In heaven.'
This answer seemed to hit the mark.

'Yes,' I said. 'In heaven.'

In my quest for theological accuracy, I'd forgotten the development of the child. 'Everywhere' is not yet a sensible answer for him. I hope that he heard that I acknowledged the question, and that he would remember me as having tried.

But the child who answered gave the best answer. She understood the question where it was coming from, and gave the answer to the question he had asked. 

And he was satisfied with that.

When Jesus answered questions, he sometimes gave apparently bizarre answers. Yet people seemed happy with the answers he gave. I wonder if that's because he understood the questions. Or because he knew that people are more important than (some) facts. Or more likely, both. 

What have I learned from these kids? That people are more important than facts. That hearing and understanding the question is the only way to give the right answer. That knowing answers is not going to help unless you also know the questions. And that the simplest answers can sometimes be the best.

Connections

A long time ago now (2008) I heard Brendan Hyde speak on Children and Spirituality.

It was like the lights went on.

You know that feeling when someone says something, and it's so obvious, that you're completely mystified that you hadn't thought of it in those terms before? What he said put words around something that I felt I had known all along, but never at a conscious level. I had been vaguely feeling something was missing in my understanding of the world, but I couldn't figure out what. Which is ironic, because what I heard him say was that spirituality could be described as connectedness. Connectedness with self, and with other, including people, the world, and God.

Since then, I have been reading books about the topic and considering new approaches to the work I do as a pastor, and the work I do as a parent. I read Rebecca Nye's Children's Spirituality: what it is and why it matters over the summer, and decided to take a question posed in the FAQs as a challenge (pp 83-84).

If spirituality thrives on a less 'teachy' approach, what is my role and how will I know if I have made an impression?

Her book suggests that spirituality can be sidelined, even closed down, by the side-effects of our teaching. That in our attempts to 'teach' theological truth, there is spiritual fall-out. The hard part is that it is easy to assess whether we have imparted knowledge, and less easy to discern whether spiritual growth has happened.

So, her answer? Ask not what the children have learned from you, but what you have learned from them/being with them. Looking at it in this upside down way stops us thinking about the educational model we are used to, and you will see that the children are learning lots: which may or may not have anything to do with the lesson you prepared.

Jesus said two interesting things about children. "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matt 18:3) and "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." (Matt 19:14). Whatever else that might mean, it means this much to me: the children, many of whom are my brothers and sisters in Christ, have a lot to teach me, and I must take the time to listen. And if there is any possibility that my teaching will stunt the spiritual growth of children, then I must stop and take a long hard look. 

Learning up is a play on the management expression 'Leading Up', in which we seek to lead or manage those who are leading us. Here I want to share what I am learning from those I seek to teach.