Like a Child

Yesterday was my turn to spend time with my two year old daughter, Ella. My wife, who is just now starting to feel better after having had bronchitis for two weeks, took off for the day to indulge in her favourite hobby, scrapbooking. And deservedly so. As I said, she has been sick for two weeks and is still not feeling one hundred per cent. She needed some time away. Therefore, it was daddy and daughter day, something that probably doesn't happen often enough.

Earlier in the week we had finally gotten some snow and icy temperatures and so my wife, in her motherly wisdom, purchased one of those round saucer slides. We had already taken Ella out once--our next door neighbors have a slightly sloped hill at the side of their house closest to ours, and it's just perfect for a little two year old! Ella, of course, loved it! We would take turns sliding down this little hill with her, and, inevitably, when we reached the bottom Ella would say enthusiastically, "More!"

So yesterday, with the whole day ahead for Ella and I, we took part of the day and went sliding down this same little slope of a hill much to her delight. We would do the count--"One, two, three!"--and off we went! We'd scoot down the hill, sliding on snow that had been smoothed to an icy sheen, and when we reached the bottom we were laughing and giggling. We did this for three-quarters of an hour! That is, until my legs and bottom were sufficiently wet and cold. Ella had snow-pants on, but I did not! Besides, we needed to take a break for lunch. Needless to say, we had a fantastic time. And I felt very blessed to have had the opportunity for a whole day with my little girl.

The funny thing, when I was thinking about it, was that this was a Saturday. Now as a pastor, Saturday time is premium time, time for finishing up the sermon, getting things for Sunday school ready, etc. Saturday is often a busy day. But thankfully I had roughly 95% of my sermon completed. Only the typing remained. So when I was with Ella, I wasn't feeling distracted by a sermon that was waiting for me to work on. I was able to focus entirely on her. I was simply able to enjoy her. That made me think.

It made me think that even if I had had a lot more work to go on my sermon that I still would have had to focus on Ella. There would have been no other option. I mean, her mother was taking a needed day off. I was in charge. Even if I had had only one point of a three point sermon ready, my responsibility was still to Ella. It still would have been important to pay attention to her since while being with her I certainly couldn't work on my sermon (I've tried this before and it just doesn't work!). Not only that, but if I had tried to work on my sermon, not only would that attempt have been unsuccessful but I also would have lost a golden opportunity to enjoy my daughter--and I use that word enjoy intentionally.

One of the greatest things about having that time with Ella was hearing her laugh, and being able to take joy in her joy--being able to laugh with her as she was having fun slide down that hill. It made me think of the inestimable value of being present to my daughter and not only being present with her. Yesterday, in those moments we shared, including the laughter that found us cascading down a slope of newly fallen snow, I showed Ella more about God's fatherly love and care than if I had just plunked her down on the floor with her toys and tried to do something conceivably more pious, like finishing my sermon. It is from parents that children learn about the love of God, and they learn this most powerfully through relational moments. By sharing in her laughter and joy, I increased her laughter and her joy and opened her up to the joy God takes in us.

And so the analogy is an obvious one, isn't it? Doesn't it make sense that God must take joy in us when we ourselves are joyful, when we find ourselves rolling over in laughter so hard and intense tears are streaming down our faces? At least that's what I was wondering about after my day with Ella. Mike Mason, in his book The Mystery of Children: What Our Kids Teach Us About Childlike Faith, says that one of the first laws of parenting is this: "Those who refuse to become childlike are doomed to be childish." And certainly if I had had more work on my sermon to complete, I could have sulked that I had to look after Ella and I could have worried about how I was going to get my work done. In other words, I could have acted childishly. But what would have been the point of that, really? What more would have gotten done? Having to spend that day with her--thereby allowing myself to be childlike--taught me something crucial about how it is that we receive Christ, how it is that we are to enter the kingdom as a child.

We often see children as a nuisance. They seem to get in our way. They disrupt our schedules and routines. Worst of all, they make a mess. Toys are scattered everywhere. You can always count on a child (especially once they become mobile and develop lots of dexterity!) to get into places and things that they shouldn't. And they force us, really force us, to put our own concerns, priorities, and needs aside to pay attention to them. When a child is in the room, they are, more often than not, the center of attention, the whirlwind of activity. And usually if we do not respect them, treat them as genuine persons, and give them their due, they behave even worse. So we're better off seeing them in a better light.

Jesus, pointing out this wrong attitude in his disciples, chided them for preventing some children from approaching him. He says, basically, "Hey, you've got it all wrong. These are the sort of people to whom the kingdom properly belongs. You better learn from them." Just as I was able to take joy from Ella's laughter and find myself caught up in it, I can see God doing likewise with each of us. Certainly Jesus did. He blessed the children. And no doubt he took joy in them; joy is a fruit of Spirit, after all, something Jesus had an endless supply of! I want to suggest, also, that we are the children of that story--he wants us to come to him, and he wants us to come to him as trusting, joyful children who have a Father in heaven who loves them. He wants us to know that having such a disposition toward God, through Jesus, is exactly what it means to be in the kingdom of heaven.

So it's ok, then, to enjoy my daughter's joy and laughter, to take that time out and pay attention to her, and to be attentive to her presence. In doing so she learns about God in ways that I could never teach her through a family devotion, sermon, or Bible study (as important as these may be!). In fact, it's imperative that I do this, for in doing so not only am I teaching her about God's love for her but she is also teaching me likewise.

The Lonely Pastor or the Navel-gazing Christian?

One of the difficult things about pastoral work, it seems to me, is the lack of community for pastors. At my church I am the pastor, so I cannot also be a fellow traveller in the same way. Of course, I hope that over time I can grow closer to the folks in my congregation. I certainly don't think that professional distance is something pastors should aim for. At the same time, pastors, though human beings like everyone else, cannot share all of their struggles and hurts with those to whom they minister. There is a time and place for vulnerability, but a pastor, I think, needs to be prudent and discerning. But since this is the case, pastors also have to be guarded. At least I find myself feeling this way, right or wrong.

So for most believers the local congregation, ideally, is the place where they experience spiritual intimacy and accountability, where they discover Christ in the midst of relationships and friendships. Whether it's in a casual conversation or a ladies prayer meeting, there are opportunities for the opening of hearts, of mutual prayer, and moments where personal connections are made. But the pastor is not in the same position as the average Christian. He cannot open himself to those in his congregation like they might to one another. I know that I more or less try to be myself when around people from my church, but that isn't the same thing as sharing and praying about very personal matters. So it is that I find I experience a definite lack of spiritual intimacy, that sense of fellowship and communion that the church is intended, at least in part, to provide.

Rather than whine about this--and I hope that I haven't been doing that!--I simply want to say that pastoral isolation of this kind means that it often feels as though growing more mature in Christ is a responsibility left solely to the individual pastor. And while much of our North American Christian culture is individualistic so that even many Christians see their spiritual lives as largely private, I think that it's even more difficult for pastors. I only know that pastor or not that I have a long way to go when it comes to growing in the faith. And I feel like I can't go any further without someone to lend a hand.

Is it possible that what I am experiencing is not at all particular to pastors? Is it possible that because of the privatization of spirituality and specifically Christian faith that there are lots of Christians in the same boat? I can't speak for anyone else, but I will say this: when our worship service ends on Sunday mornings, I feel as though we're just getting started. It feels as though we could, and should, keep going, that we should move onto talk about what we sang about, what we prayed about, and what we heard in Scripture and sermon. It's pretty difficult to nurture a strong sense of community when you only get together once a week.

This leads me to ask a bunch of questions: Are we inviting people into a larger sense of what Christ calls the church to be on Sunday mornings, letting them know that this one hour of worship and celebration is merely the tip of the iceberg, or are we communicating that this time together is meant simply to get them through another week? Are we effectively teaching that God is not an add-on to the rest of their lives, and that he's there not only to help them cope with their life and their problems as they define them but that God calls us to radically reorganize our lives around his story, his kingdom, his will? Do even we as pastors fully comprehend our task in this regard? Are we even able to take time to consider these questions? Are we able to put these questions to our congregations effectively? Have we and our congregations been captured and convicted by the biblical vision of a God who enters time and history to save and redeem a fallen creation for his glory and his purposes?

And so then maybe we have to ask, what does this have to do with feeling isolated as a pastor or with Christians being too private about their faith? What does this say about having a greater sense of spiritual intimacy and community? Maybe nothing, but maybe everything. Even if we were to catch but a glimpse of the God who has chosen to reveal to the saints the "mystery that has been hidden throughout the ages and generations" (Col. 1: 26), I wonder if we would be so spiritually moribund as we sometimes seem to be. I do think that there is no way a greater sense of community and intimacy can emerge or happen by directly seeking it. I think that first and foremost it is only as we seek the Lord's face together will we be drawn together as a community. Even if we are lonely, and even if we need to create a space for greater spiritual intimacy in our churches, remedying such problems would only amount to spiritual navel-gazing without first having a vision of a holy and gracious God who invites us to relationship, not to meet our needs but for his glory.