Become Like a Child

On laying down the burden of being someone before God

“Unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

— The Holy Bible

There comes a moment in the spiritual life when a man begins to suspect that much of what he called devotion was still full of himself.

His labors were real. His sacrifices were real. His love may even have been real. Yet hidden within it all was the need to be someone. Someone useful. Someone fruitful. Someone important in the eyes of others, in the eyes of the Church, even in the eyes of God.

So he taught. He wrote. He led. He carried burdens. He pressed himself forward. He sought holiness through effort and identity through service. He believed that if he gave enough, suffered enough, accomplished enough, then his life would justify itself.

Many religious lives are built on this quiet bargain.

I will give You everything, Lord, if in return I may remain significant.

But God is merciful, and because He is merciful He eventually shatters the bargain.

He allows fatigue. He allows obscurity. He allows hidden years. He allows circumstances where one can no longer build the image that once sustained him. He permits weakness in the body, limits in circumstance, the demands of caregiving, the narrowing of horizons, the silence of unanswered ambitions.

Then the soul protests.

What of my gifts?

What of my mission?

What of all I might have done?

What of the words left unwritten?

What of the people who need me?

Yet beneath the protest another voice begins to emerge.

Become like a child.

Not childish. Not passive. Not sentimental.

Become a child before God.

Stand before Him without performance.

Without titles.

Without ministry as identity.

Without usefulness as worth.

Without narrating your importance to yourself.

Without asking every day what great thing you are meant to do.

A child does not strive to justify his existence.

A child receives.

A child trusts.

A child rests in the presence of the father.

This is why hidden seasons are often holier than productive ones. The world cannot understand this. It measures worth by scale, visibility, influence, output. Even religious minds can become infected by the same sickness.

But Heaven counts otherwise.

The son who quietly cares for his aging mother.

The man who keeps a humble house in peace.

The one who prays when no one sees.

The soul who resists the hunger to be noticed.

The monk in the small room who lets silence cleanse his heart.

These may be doing greater works than those praised in public.

There is a form of pride that wants to save the world. There is another form of grace that consents to sweep the floor, make the meal, keep vigil in the night, and whisper the Name of Jesus.

One seeks importance.

The other seeks communion.

Perhaps many are not called away from ministry but away from ministry as selfhood. Away from being teacher as identity, writer as identity, guide as identity. One may still speak when asked. One may still write when grace gives words. One may still serve where needed.

But the center has changed.

No longer: I must become something.

Now: Let me remain with You.

No longer: Use me greatly.

Now: Receive me simply.

No longer: Let my life be impressive.

Now: Let my heart be clean.

There are seasons when God uses a man’s strength. There are seasons when He uses his speech. There are seasons when He uses his suffering.

And there are seasons when He asks for none of these.

Only that the man remain before Him like a child.

Blessed is the one who accepts this invitation. He may appear diminished to others. He may even appear diminished to himself. Yet for the first time he is free.

For the burden of being someone has fallen away.

And at last he learns that to be loved by God is enough.