“When I Was A Child…”

When I was growing up, one of my favourite breakfasts that Mom made was French toast and “maple syrup”. We lived in a remote northern community where there was not easy access to the real liquid gold, so Mom would make our maple syrup. The syrup was a concoction of water, brown sugar, a splash of artificial vanilla, and a dab of margarine. And I loved it. I have no recollection of having real maple syrup as a child, but I suspect that if I had, I would’ve preferred Mom’s concocted version of it. Parents have talked how their children would rather drench their pancakes in fake syrup than in the real deal. My maple producing husband’s humble opinion of the counterfeit gold is that it is fit for none other than keeping the dust down on the laneway.

Now, with maple syrup on tap in my backyard, I can’t imagine going back to anything else. My fondness for the sweet nectar of spring has only grown with each maple season, and a generous drizzle of it over a small chunk of egg cheese is the season and region at its finest. I have also been known to pack my own little jug of maple syrup in my bag if we’re going out for breakfast. It seems since I’ve developed a taste for bona fide maple syrup, nothing else will quite do.

“When I was an infant at my mother’s breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good.” (The Message)

As a child, when I read the Biblical text, I read it literally. It was all I knew of how to read it, and it was a child’s natural approach. As I got older, that approach left gaps that didn’t make sense, but in good faith, I tugged and stretched at the pieces to make the seams line up. The fabric of the Bible has enough give to it, so that tugging and stretching can work for awhile. But eventually the whole garment hangs askew and no longer fits. What then? Can I as an adult, unlearn? Relearn?

The Bible has been likened to a guidebook. I have travelled with a guidebook, and it is very helpful. A guidebook told me about places I had never heard of and gave me insights into these places. I would have missed a lot without these guides. But it is one thing to get the necessary picture of a place like Mont Saint Michel, and quite another to wander the heights of it with the wind whipping around the turrets and buttresses. A guidebook gets you there and gives you an understanding of a place, but actually being there is what brings it to life. I’ve read that getting lost is one of the best things that can happen when you travel, because then you’ll find yourself in places off the beaten path, and that may be where the real treasure lies. You may actually interact with the heart of a new country. Could it be when the ready answers we once gave from and for the text no longer fit that we may stumble upon some of its real treasure? Can we let go of the rigidity of certainty, of the tourists’ spots of high travel, and wander into the remoteness of a foreign village where we may have to resort to a sign language of sorts and feel the anxiousness of not knowing how it will all unfold?

Using the Bible as an instruction manual or a rulebook, another metaphor that’s been used, seems to me to miss the mark of a mature reading of the text altogether. We do need instructions to get us started on something new, and we do need rules when we’re young and are learning to be safe, but to live from that place as an adult seems stilted and lifeless. We have a wood burning cook stove in our kitchen, and one of the first things our little ones and now our grandbabies learned was that it was hot and could give a burn. One of the first things most grown people do when coming into our kitchen is find their way to the stove and stand with their backs close to it, letting the radiating warmth chase away the chill. While there has been a singed garment or two, I generally don’t need to remind anyone of the potential harm that can be done by getting too close. Even our toddler grandie is learning to respect its dangers while benefiting from its warmth. Similarly, I may need to remind myself of the letter of the law when I feel the acridness of judging my neighbour worming its way into my thoughts, but I don’t want to stay in a place where I need a rule to keep me kind hearted.

Years ago, I was having tea and conversation with a friend while our two preschoolers were off playing. Later, they showed us pictures that they had made. Her little guy had drawn a picture of me. He portrayed me with the classic triangular skirt of a female symbol with a leg on each side, feet splayed Mary Poppins style. But there, in the centre of my proper skirt, protruded a third leg! His Mom and I came undone. We were both sensitive mothers, so I hope we managed to protect the child artist in our mirth. When my daughter and I talked about this memory recently, she said she remembers feeling mad and indignant at her little friend’s portrayal of me thinking – “MY MOM DOES NOT HAVE THREE LEGS!!!” (This same boy, now a young man, paid me the kindest of compliments on a dress I wore to a wedding we both attended this past summer.) I don’t know how his child’s mind saw me and there must have been some perception that warranted that third leg, but I do know that I don’t have three legs.

“When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child does. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.” (New Living Translation).

If interacting with the Bible is a part your life, might it be done with a maturity that allows for grey area? Can it be done lightly while acknowledging that it is weighty? Can the text be given breathing room? Might we be willing to be aware of and even change the lenses through which we read? The over-arching story in the text holds a timeless invitation, but it was penned in the context of an ancient time. Could that context be a part of our interaction with these words?

In his book “The Bible Tells Me So”, author Peter Enns suggests that “God lets His children tell the story”. Might this humble Divine let a child’s portrayal of the story stand even if that perception resembles more of a caricature than an actual likeness? Might this humble and relational Divine let the child savour the concocted sweetness, hoping she might tap further into story to discover and explore a more robust yet delicate dulcet tone? And might we, as we learn, unlearn, relearn many times over, adopt that same humble posture of openness and welcome?