An ancient legend about St John the Apostle tells us that he lived to a great old age. His words became fewer as he grew older. Toward the end of his life, he was content to repeat to his followers: ‘Little children, love one another.’ Someone asked him why he kept repeating the same thing. John replied: ‘Because that is enough.’
To have a faith-filled, childlike orientation toward life is a great grace. However, to have an accurate understanding of what it means to be childlike, it must be distinguished from being childish. The two are quite different. Unfortunately, as human beings, most of us fall into childish behaviour now and then. We lapse into ‘selfie’ conduct, when thoughts, words and actions revolve around ourselves. We can be selfish, jealous, blame others, have temper tantrums, call people nasty names, or insist on having our way—or else. Another interpretation suggests that a childish person can be easily fooled, gullible, led astray, susceptible to myths and fantasies, a follower of ever-changing trends, or quite taken by shiny trinkets and trendy gadgets. Childish behaviour reflects an immaturity rooted in narcissism.
We need a gallant demeanour—a vision beyond the ‘selfie’ orientation—if we are to understand John’s words. When we look at the bigger picture, John’s response makes great sense, because it infuses an altruistic dimension into a self-gratifying society. Children and adults alike need God. Prayer is the deepest expression of who we are as human beings, and what is most needed in the world today. Childlike prayer is simple—a loving sigh from the heart or a quiet aspiration. Words are honest and plain. Thérèse of Lisieux wrote: ‘I tell God what I want quite simply, without any splendid turns of phrase, and somehow He always manages to understand me.’
Thérèse
Thérèse of Lisieux, a Discalced Carmelite nun who died at the age of twenty-four, specialised in maintaining the fine art of a childlike disposition. She gave us the precious gift of her ‘Little Way’. This blessed gift is not meant for those who seek high profiles or grand accomplishments. Rather, it is for those who want to love God without pretence, and to serve with simplicity. Thérèse knew she was not capable of great deeds or heroic sacrifices. She lived her daily life with transparent beauty, lovingly tending to her duties, no matter how insignificant they seemed.
Thérèse lived the words of Matthew 18:3: ‘Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like little children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.’ No matter how old we are—even at seventy or eighty—we can still turn and become like little children and practise Thérèse’s ‘Little Way’. It is not related to age, but to a disposition of the heart. No matter what our years, God still loves us as a good father loves his children, and so we must respond in kind to His love. Thérèse tells us: ‘Merit is not to be found in doing much or in giving much, but rather in receiving and in loving much.’
Thérèse gives us courage to take the next little step. In her autobiography, Story of a Soul, she wrote: ‘How happy I am to see myself imperfect and to be in need of God’s mercy […] It is needful to remain little before God, and to remain little is to recognise one’s nothingness; expect all things from the good God just as a little child expects all things from its father. It is not to be troubled by anything, not to try to make a fortune.’1
Humility
Jesus’ disciples asked Him: ‘Who is greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ He answered: ‘Whoever humbles himself as a little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.’ Humility is a hallmark of childlikeness. To be childlike is to practise a humility that places sound limits on self-interest, ambition, pride, haughtiness, and self-importance. Such liberation draws us out of ourselves by an inner strength—a conviction to turn away from anything not of God. Henri Frédéric Amiel wrote: ‘Blessed be childhood which brings down something of heaven into the midst of our rough earthliness.’2
We reflect on the root meaning of humility, which comes from humus—earth, the kind of soil a farmer longs for in his field. Rich with nutrients, it allows crops to flourish. So too, the soil of humility nurtures the growth of other virtues and sustains our desire to know God more deeply. This humble ground cultivates what is real in us and in all creation. It is the foundation of spiritual childhood.
Humility is easily experienced when we enter a vast, beautiful cathedral. We feel small. Our being is diminished. Yet, as we see others gathered in prayer, we become aware of the needs of humankind—of which we are a part. Humility keeps our feet on the ground and our heads out of the clouds, as we do what we can to uphold the dignity of every human being. This takes courage. Humility is not weakness. It is not being a shrinking violet, a doormat, or a fool. It is a journey from self-preoccupation (‘What will people think of me?’) to an orientation toward others (‘What needs to be done?’).
Humility is like a sacred wedge that opens our hearts ever wider to God. We are needy, and we turn to Him who is our anchor on both the rough waves and the placid seas of life. Humility loosens our grip on our problems and frees us from our unsavoury selves. It increases our trust in God and gives quiet witness to His beauty and goodness. It softens our dislikes and helps us regard all tasks—from running a business to cleaning a bathroom—as equal in importance. John Climacus wrote: ‘Humility is the divine veil that covers our good deeds and hides them from our own eyes. In the end, we are nothing more than who we are before God.’3
There is a quiet joy in noticing how close humility is to humour in the dictionary. It may cause us to smile as we stand before God. God has a sense of good humour, and it may be revealed in us. If we cannot laugh gently at ourselves, how can we be truly humble? The innocence of children’s humour is a treasure to behold. In one Catholic elementary school, the children were lined up in the cafeteria for lunch. At the head of the table was a large pile of apples. A sister had written a note and posted it on the tray: ‘Take only one. God is watching.’ Further along the line, at the other end of the table, was a large pile of chocolate chip cookies. One child whispered to another: ‘Take all you want. God is watching the apples.’
Childlike faith is a simple faith. Sometimes our thirsting intellect can lead us away from God. If we rely too heavily on what we understand about divine things, we may become sceptical or doubtful. We can lose the innocent trust we once had—in others and in God. Childlike faith is content with mystery and wonder. It helps us hold fast to confidence in God, even when people disappoint us, information bewilders us, life confuses us, and God seems absent.
Simple faith calls us away from the hyper-independence so prevalent today. When Jesus told us to have childlike faith, he meant that we should learn in the light of Gospel teaching. We seek knowledge, yes—but we realise that it leads us deeper into the wonder and mystery of God. Living humbly and simply fosters a serene and quiet conscience, which is worth more than the greatest earthly treasure.
Wonder
A childlike spiritual orientation keeps a twinkle in our eye, a lightness in our step, wonder in our heart, hope in our soul, and resilience in times of trial. We believe that great trouble can give birth to great good. Yes, at times we have doubts—but when the faith of an innocent child takes over, we rise above those doubts. Indeed, some days are more childlike than others.
Childlike spirituality is not found primarily in doing good works or thinking deep thoughts, but in giving our love to God. The holy is hidden in ordinary, little things. What do we usually do when we see an ant crawling across the kitchen counter? We kill it. What does a child do? He watches it with fascination.
When our lives are in harmony with Christ, we begin to see both the little and the large concerns of life with clarity, and we focus on possible solutions. We are small—God stretches us. We fall—He picks us up. We are empty—He fills us. And we learn to laugh light-heartedly, especially at ourselves. Our littleness confirms our trust in the greatness of God.
As we close this reflection, these timeless lines remind us of the enduring love of Jesus—a love that welcomes the weak, walks with the willing, and stays with the faithful:
[…] Little ones to Him belong;
They are weak, but He is strong.
Jesus loves me still today,
Walking with me on my way,
Wanting as a friend to give
Light and love to all who live.
Jesus loves me! He who died
Heaven’s gate to open wide;
He will wash away my sin,
Let His little child come in.
Jesus loves me! He will stay
Close beside me all the way;
Thou hast bled and died for me,
I will henceforth live for Thee.4
- Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. Story of a Soul: The Autobiography of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. 3rd ed. Translated by John Clarke, OCD. Washington, DC: ICS Publications, 2017. Quoted in the Epilogue, p. 267. Also see Thoughts of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. Rockford, IL: Tan Publications, 1992. ↩︎
- See Amiel, Henri-Frédéric. Journal Intime (also known as Amiel’s Journal). Posthumously compiled from his personal diary. ↩︎
- Saint John Climacus. The Ladder of Divine Ascent. See Step 25: ‘On Humility’. ↩︎
- Excerpts from Jesus Loves Me, lyrics by Anna Bartlett Warner, originally published in Say and Seal (1860). Music and chorus by William Batchelder Bradbury (1862). Public domain. ↩︎
