Angels, Among Other Things

As a child I confess I did expect the angel Gabriel
To appear in my bedroom one night
A flutter of wings, an explosion of glitter,
Unfurling a scrolled message from On High
His stellar entry a confirmation of
The mystery I’d long suspected: 

That such harbingers of glad tidings lurk
Around every corner, just waiting to be
Believed, and then seen. Yet
For all my believing, I still have not seen,
Though the night sky makes me wonder
If maybe all is not as it seems.  

This is why when the doorbell rings,
My heart jumps far above the veil dividing
Heaven from earth, God from man
Eager to entertain angels, though perhaps unawares—
For I was young once and have not forgotten
The teenage girl deemed worthy of an Appearance.   

Lo! Such great magnitude.

(poem originally published here)

For my dad’s birthday this year, my sister gave him the gift of digitized family videos that were previously unwatchable. And oh, what a treasure trove this has been. This weekend, my husband, family, and I watched as my 7-year-old self gave a groundbreaking performance as the Angel Gabriel in my siblings’ 1997 Christmas production of “The Nativity.” My 5-year-old sister played a compelling Virgin Mary with a blue dish cloth on her head and a heart of gold, and my 2-year-old brother toddled around in a regal cape with a “confused-but-happy-to-be-here” look on his face for his role as the aptly-named “Wisey Pants.” There were multiple “oops!” giggles and topplings of the manger and consequential ejections of the helpless baby Jesus doll, passionate declarations of “GOOD NEWS!” from our upstairs balcony with a surprise forecast of cotton ball snow flung for emphasis, and about eight unprompted, angelic renditions of my full-throated “Silent Night.”

Three important notes on “Silent Night”:
1. This was, apparently, the only song I knew.
2. “Jesus, borrrrn at Thy bir-irrrth” may or may not have been sung in full lyrical confidence (to which my husband thoughtfully responded, “She’s not wrong”).
3. “Silent Night” has continued to be my favorite Christmas hymn, and no one can take that away from me. I have tried to move on, but it has my heart forever.

In the midst of watching our childhood chaos and the saint-like patience of our audience and film crew (thank you, Mom & Dad) I saw something that as an adult, I didn’t know I had left behind. I saw the simple, radiant joy of my childhood faith. And I wanted it back.  

“Where did that girl go?” I wondered to myself in the quiet darkness of our drive home that night. Gradually, I sensed God’s gentle response: “I still have her. I still see her when I look at you.”

Something frozen in my heart began to melt, and in that moment I started to wonder if it was possible to re-capture some of that buoyant child-like faith, even after years of experiencing the harsh realities of the world and its brokenness.

In the gospel of Mark, Jesus tells us that to truly know and understand what He is all about, we must approach him with the faith of a child:

“Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of God belongs to those who are like these children.  I tell you the truth, anyone who doesn’t receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.” Then he took the children in his arms and placed his hands on their heads and blessed them. (Mark 10:14-16)

A childlike faith is not an ignorant or naïve faith that stubbornly closes its eyes to reality, refusing to wrestle with questions and doubt. There is a vast difference between childishness and childlikeness. Instead, this is a faith which is able to hold joy in one hand and sorrow in the other—knowing that this world is full of unresolvable paradox—and choosing to trust anyways. It turns out that this is the absolute hardest thing to do, especially as adults, because we crave the certainty of answers and the false security “having the answers” provides.

At some point, we learn that life is hard and we are going to have to find ways to protect ourselves from pain. We lose our ability to fully surrender to the moment because we are busy preparing for the next one. I confess that sometimes I am afraid to allow myself to be fully joyful and present, because what if the rug gets pulled out from under me? What if sorrow is just around the corner, and my joy is a useless defense against it? As such, I try to keep myself moderately hopeful yet fully prepared for devastation.

This is just as exhausting as it sounds.

To receive the kingdom like a child, however, means allowing one’s self to experience the fullness of each moment, as it is given, trusting that we will be cared for in each and every moment after. Life in the Kingdom invites us to bring the fullness of ourselves before God, trusting that our every need will be met, every tear be counted, and somehow every sorrow (one day) turned to joy.

A couple of weeks ago I was visiting an old friend. I had only seen her two-and-a-half year old daughter a few times since the pandemic began, so when I walked into their kitchen, she looked up at me with wide eyes, as if she was about to show me the single most important thing in the world to her. Pointing excitedly at my friend, she said,

“This is my Mommy.”

She then promptly walked away to play. This made me wonder: What if the first step in recovering childlike faith is as simple as knowing who to point to?

“This is my God, and I am trusting him.”

(Ps. 91:2)

Learning to receive the Kingdom as a child is a hard path to walk. It is much easier to say “No thank you, I will protect myself and trust God in small, manageable doses”—always busy, always keeping a couple steps ahead of the present moment. If we choose this, however, we risk missing out on the fullness and wonder and delight of surrendering each moment to a God who is not as distant as we might have feared. This is the “GOOD NEWS!” that I heard my seven-year-old-self proclaim on film this week, never knowing how much I would need to hear it as a tired adult, twenty-three years later.

It is good news that God came close and even became a child. It is very good news that God is with us still and points to us with excitement as His beloved children. May we have the courage to point back, even when all seems hopeless and we feel lost and alone.

“This is my God, and I am trusting him.”

Amen.