The Theology of a Child
The theology of a child is often much less about the words in a book and more about the lives we are building for them.
It plays out in conversations in their head after we’ve tucked them into bed. It is built by memories and the words we whisper in their ears. It is crafted by silly voices and tickle monster time from a dad who conceals just how tired he is coming home from a long day of work.
A child’s theology is established by the safety they feel when we kiss them goodnight or bandage their wounds. It is the reassurance of our hugs when they’ve had a hard day and the grace we extend when they are cranky and in need of a snack.
It’s in the ways we respond when they spill the milk or break the lamp. The furrowing of eyebrows that scream disapproval. The playful winks and subtle glances when we catch them doing something silly or mischievous. It’s scripted in the posture of bending down to meet their gaze or pulling them up into our arms. In words unsaid but written all over our faces as they look for signs of affirmation that they are who they believe themselves to be.
It’s so much more than just the stories they read. It’s the stories they are living and breathing.
It is modeled for them in the ways we kiss our spouses and read our Bibles in front of them. In the prayers we pray when we think they aren’t looking and how we speak of others when they’re not around. It is in the ways we look at ourselves in the mirror and the grace we give or withhold for our own shortcomings.
The theology of a child is written on the walls of our homes, seeping through the speakers of our phones and TVs, yelling from the bleachers of their soccer game, whistling from the hum of the washing machine as mom folds another load.
And it is muddied by the outside voices, offering up a hundred unverified opinions, all claiming as fact. It is threatened by the voices in their own heads telling them they’re irreparably broken and maybe God is too busy to care.
It is ultimately reaffirmed by the prayers we utter in absolute surrender and fear. Prayers they will never hear, spoken through tears they will never see. A theology built on intercession and desperation that they will never bear witness to.
It’s so much more than just the stories they read. It’s the stories they are living and breathing. The ones we have the privilege and the responsibility of helping them write. And of one day handing over the pen altogether.
