Getting Little At Advent

Last year Advent was a very special time for me. A child taught me, in a way only a child can, something precious, something true about the birth we all await.

Peter was born the day after Christmas four years ago. Had he tried a little harder, two hours and four minutes harder to be exact, he would have been born on the same day as Jesus. But he didn't, and he wasn't. It was not his last act of stubborn resistance.

Ever since his birth, I always looked forward to the all-too-rare times when his parents, Bob and Jackie, would leave town for a much-needed spiritual retreat and allow me to stay with Pete while they were gone.

Not that Pete was an angel; no, he certainly was not that. Nor did I find it an easy thing to do; he would keep me so busy and run me so wild that I was exhausted by the time Bob and Jackie returned. I think staying with Pete was a joy because in his fun-loving way he would invariably, no matter how I was feeling, bring out the child in me. Sometimes he would have to pull and pull, almost wrenching it out of me, but it always came.

I'm not sure Peter felt as good about me substituting as his parent as I did. One of the first times I stayed with him, he was still small enough to be given a bath in the kitchen sink. I misread Jackie's instructions to put one drop of baby oil in the bath water and put in one capful. By the end of the bath Pete's body was one shiny little greaseball with beads of water clinging to him everywhere. After several moments of staring at himself, a quizzical look came over his face, and he gazed up at me in stunned surprise. He couldn't talk yet, but there was no doubt about what he was thinking: "My parents left me with you!"

I don't know why, but I can never seem to tell the difference between a left shoe and a right one when the shoe is only four inches long. One morning I had Pete all dressed and was holding out his jacket, unable to figure out why he didn't hop down from his chair so we could go to his daycare center. He looked down at his shoes, looked up at me, looked down at his shoes once again, and just slowly shook his head. Even a two-and-a-half-year-old could tell the difference between a left and right shoe. I got the point, switched shoes, and we were off to school--Peter skipping and me red-faced.

Last year, at the beginning of Advent, I was running late getting Pete ready for school. I had his shirt and pants on and was hurriedly putting on his socks. He was a bit fidgety so I decided to make some small talk with him to take his mind off his restlessness.

"Pete," I said, "I really like your shirt. It looks real nice." He was quiet for a moment and had a thoughtful expression on his face, inspecting his shirt.

About 30 seconds passed, and I had dismissed the remark from my mind. But he hadn't. In a serious, almost somber tone, Peter asked me, "Do you really like it, Joe?"

Surprised that he was still thinking about it, I said, "Sure, Pete, I really do." I could never have predicted his reply. Without a moment's hesitation, and in all seriousness, he said to me, "Well, Joe, you can have it when you get little."

I could hardly believe my ears, so startled was I by the imaginative twist that played in his mind, turning around the concept of growth, shrinking me until once again I was able to fit into his tiny shirt.

Long after the laughter left me, his comment stayed, all that day and during all of Advent. And it remains with me still. While offering me his shirt, Peter ended up giving me a much more precious gift. In his own unwitting way he reminded me of a very special truth: "Unless you turn and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."

Now, we who are adults know a lot about the kingdom that children don't know yet, and someday they're going to find out. But we had better remember that they know some things about the kingdom that we usually forget.

They know that we adults had better "get little" if we ever hope to fully take part in the life of the kingdom: "Let the children come to me, for to such belongs the kingdom of God."

They know that we, like they, are needy and that our sense of self-sufficiency is nothing more.than an illusion. They know that true greatness comes in humbling oneself and becoming last: "Whoever humbles himself like a child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

They know that true wisdom is saved for those who don't pretend they have it: "I praise you, God, that you hid these things from the wise and intelligent, and revealed them to babes."

And they know that, in the midst of all that is complicated and confusing about our faith in this world today, we had better not forget what is simple, basic, and true about our belief in God: "Like newborn babes, long for the pure milk of the Word."

If we do forget, we risk losing our faith altogether. Not all at once, but slowly, subtly, it will surely depart from us. But the hope of renewed and joyous faith that Peter gave me that day was to imagine myself "getting little," once again becoming like a child and seeing with the eyes of childlike faith.

And why shouldn't it be that to enter the kingdom of heaven we must become like little children? After all, didn't God choose to come to earth first as a child?

Joe Roos was publisher of Sojourners when this article appeared.