A wise man spoke to our LDS ward on Sunday. He shared a story about his 7-year-old daughter. It seems she asked her mother, “So, whatever we do to others, it’s the same as doing it to Jesus?”
“Yes it is,” her mother replied.
“Good,” the little girl said, “So that means no more spankings.”
It was one of those “out of the mouths of babes” moments that members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints always enjoy. We’ve all heard children speak wisdom beyond their years. And we say, where did that come from?
Well, I think we know where the wisdom of children comes from.
Not long ago I read a letter written by a little French girl. She wrote of caring for her pigeons with all the wide-eyed wonder of a kid at Christmas. Then she turned her attention to a nearby figure of Jesus. The shift from simple to profound in the letter was jaw dropping.
Was it the Light of Christ at work?
The little girl would eventually become “St. Therese of the Child Jesus,” one of the most influential Christians of our time.
I’ve spent some time mulling over the wisdom of children. And this is what I’ve decided: Access to spiritual depth must be one reason Jesus asked his followers to become like little children.
Children aren’t full of themselves. They don’t spend their days fretting over property, power or prestige. And because they’re empty of such worldly concerns, they can be filled by spiritual wonders.
I saw that very process at work in my mother.
Mom was often naïve about worldly ways. She taught second grade and saw the human race as struggling children.
I remember her plopping the mustard and catsup in front of my brother Val, a Ph.D, and declaring: “The red’s the catsup, the yellow’s the mustard.”
She later showed him the right way to sharpen a pencil.
She’d often make sweeping generalizations. “Don’t become a golfer, Jerry,” she once told me, “golfers are arrogant.”
“Mom,” I said, “The only golfer you know is Dad.”
“You just made my case,” she said.
And yet, when the topic turned to spiritual matters, the transformation inside of her could be startling. Like Therese of the Child Jesus, she would suddenly start sharing wonderful pearls of wisdom.
During an emotionally crushing time in my life she said, “It’s up to you, Jerry. Is it going to be booze, a shrink or the Lord?”
Boom!
Her insight into my inner-workings was breathtaking.
But the moment I remember most was a Christmas when I’d come home for the holidays. She’d put out a small, glass Nativity set. At the center of it stood an empty crib.
“Someone stole the Baby Jesus,” she said. “Or maybe I just misplaced him. There’s not much point to the thing without him.”
I studied the scene a moment, then I flipped the crib over. Baby Jesus was attached to the bottom. She’d placed it upside down.
Her first look said, “Let’s not tell anyone about this.” Then I sensed that familiar shift inside of her, the shift to matters of the spirit.
“That’s just like Jesus,” she said. “We think he’s nowhere to be found when he’s right here with us the whole time.”
Then she looked at me. I’d just been through a difficult divorce.
“I think that’s a lesson both of us needed this Christmas,” she said.
No, hers wasn't the wisdom from the mouths of babes.
It was wisdom from a woman who had allowed herself to become as a little child.
It was wisdom from a mother who’d emptied herself of self-interest.