“Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3).
In the last week, I:
- Stopped a jog to run forty-yard dashes because I missed sprinting
- Played section basketball; played poorly and lost; felt annoyed but also glad I played
- Went straight to mass afterward
- Got really frustrated at a problem set but gave myself some time and came back to it and figured it out
- Rediscovered Fortnite, trading off solo games with the guys in my quad
- Relearned how to play Mancala, kept losing to my girlfriend, but loved the game
- Went into an interview without a ton of preparation, trusting in honesty (it went well)
Alternatively, I could have:
- Insisted that I hit my mileage for the day to not interrupt a training regimen
- Skipped mass to practice for section basketball next week
- Come up with various reasons why the problem set was dumb, or looked up the answers
- Told myself that video games were for teenage me, but now I have moved on
- Resolved never to play Mancala again so that I never lose to my girlfriend
- Rehearsed every likely interview question several times, memorizing certain phrases, so that I can only blame my interviewer if I didn’t get the position
The first set of actions was more childlike and brought me closer to the kingdom of heaven than the second set would have. I know that I tend to err on the side of overthinking, over-committing, over-preparing, taking fun things too seriously and not being able to accept defeat. But the spirit of a child is the opposite: do without thinking because you want to, take serious things lightly, allow yourself to fail and be resilient. Unless I can keep embracing this spirit of a child, I cannot know true joy.
From the outside, the life of faith can seem so dry.
It can seem like faith is a matter of austerity and cautious observance and utmost solemnity. But the solemnity of faith cannot be the whole story, otherwise St. Teresa of Avila would not have quipped, “Lord, deliver us from sour-faced saints.”
Of course faith demands solemnity, but from the inside, living the faith is also a source of delight, rest and frivolity. Otherwise, St. Francis de Sales would not have written, “The world, looking on, sees that devout persons fast … deny themselves in all sensual indulgence and do many other things which in themselves are hard and difficult. But the world sees nothing of that inward, heartfelt devotion which makes all these actions pleasant and easy.”
Christ’s yoke is easy and his burden light.
G. K. Chesterton, who never wrote without a sense of humor, sums it up: “Angels can fly because they can take themselves lightly … But the kings in their heavy gold and the proud in their robes of purple will all of their nature sink downwards, for pride cannot rise to levity or levitation. Pride is the downward drag of all things into an easy solemnity.”
Unless I can be humble as a child, I cannot fly with the angels.
I have found that I am most happy not when I am obstinately forcing myself into a new habit, or an elevated second nature (though at times that is necessary), but when something unexpected leads my inmost nature to bubble up. What emerges is always more free, more relaxed, more unassuming, more open and vulnerable, more at home — more childlike.
And I feel these bubbles of joy trying to lift me to the most free and familiar place I have never seen — the kingdom of heaven.
Richard Taylor is a junior from St. Louis living in Keenan Hall. He studies physics and also has an interest in theology. He encourages all readers to send reactions, reflections or refutations to rtaylo23@nd.edu.
