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.