I received the kingdom of God through a child, and it broke my heart

Recently, I’ve been thinking of Christmas. It started when my friend Bob pondered what is meant by “You shall not receive the kingdom of God unless you receive it as a child.” A “be childlike” reading of this passage focuses on how we must behave to receive the gift of the realm of God. Such a reading asks us to set aside our doubt, forget our guile, and be just like a child, open to new things.

Of course, we know that children can be very open to new things, unless the new things happen to be Brussels sprouts, blue cheese, turnip, spinach, or any number of other foods. They sit there with their mouth firmly shut on the spoon. I can’t blame them. I’m 73 and I still can’t choke down a tuna fish sandwich.

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Still, some of us who are not so innocent, hearing that perspective, may even feel predestined to be left outside, at the door of an exclusive club for tuna fish sandwich eaters. After all, it is a struggle to set aside our adult guile. It also makes me wonder if a “be childlike” interpretation places a condition on the grace of God. Something in that worries me, as, for some, this understanding could lead to self-righteous pietism. It makes me wonder if we have missed something.

Perhaps then, this passage is not about the qualifications needed to receive the realm, but about the realm of God itself. It may have a more literal meaning. What if we receive the very kingdom of God as a child thrust into our arms, naked and vulnerable, needing our care? Will such a realm thrive, or remain a stick-legged child crying out as in Gaza, hungering for justice, for peace, for bread? Perhaps the realm of God is thrust into our hands to receive or reject. That is, at once, a terrifyingly gentle word and a beautiful challenge.

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Late one night in May of 1979, I met him. My wife was pregnant with our first child, and I had been ordained the day before. I was in a chaplaincy quarter at SickKids hospital in Toronto and was called to baptize a dying baby. It was the first time I ever celebrated a sacrament. I held him in my hands, poured water on his head and spoke the words. And then it was over. My heart was broken, and it remains scarred all these years afterwards. I remember his name, his face, the fragility of his weight, and the wrinkles in the green scrubs I had to wear. And sometimes, I cry.

Forty-six years later, I ponder the realm of God as an infant, thrust into my hands that dark night. I received the image of Christ. I did what little I could; I held him in my hands and hold him in my heart still. The instant was burned into me and it will be there as long as I have memory and breath.

At best, I was a journeyman in my calling. I am now worn out, crippled, and sometimes quite grumpy. And yet, I am profoundly blessed to have been called upon that night. In my heart, “Saint Steven of the Neonates” reminds me that I received the realm of God into my hands. A holy life was given into my care, if only for a brief moment. And that moment is my Bethlehem, and I am grateful for the sadness and joy of it.

We do receive the realm of God as a child. Our hands can be the manager into which the Holy is gifted, or we can close our fists to the Christ who is offered without condition to all.

And that is why I love the birth narratives I hear at Christmas, and why I still cry.

O holy Child of Bethlehem, rest in our arms this day;
into our care you enter in;
as every child today.
We hear the Christmas angels,
You, holy one, within our arms

***

Rev. Gary Boratto was ordained in 1979 as a United Church minister and is Canada’s fourth-worst poet. He lives in Waterloo, Ont.