“God is just a story.”
The first time my 4-year-old says these words, I feel a stab of panic, as if we might be struck down at any minute for blasphemy.
My next instinct is to protest. I’d like to believe in God, I tell him. I like the idea of a God who loves us, who can protect us and keep us safe.
“But no one knows for real,” he says, and I tell him this is true. Both of us know that God doesn’t always protect us, that we’re not always safe in this world.
The truth is, we don’t often talk about God in our house, and that’s because I don’t really know how. When we do, it’s mostly in Hebrew. Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheniu melech ha’olam. Blessed are You, God, ruler of the universe.
These are sacred words, and saying them feels holy. But until now, we’ve never talked about whether someone is really listening.
Eli thinks he knows how to find out. “Watch this,” he says. “God!” he calls expectantly. “Tell us a story!”
Then he spreads his arms wide into a ‘well, what can you do?’ gesture. “See?” he says to me, half-pityingly. “He doesn’t answer.”
I’m reminded of a wisecrack Fox Mulder once made on The X-Files: “They say when you talk to God it’s prayer, but when God talks to you, it’s schizophrenia.”
These days, Eli is brimming with questions about the larger mysteries of the universe: Who invented milk? Well, then who invented cows? What was the earth like before there were any people? Was God alive before the dinosaurs? If God is the inventor of everything, who invented God?
I try to explain — haltingly, fumblingly — that some people think you can see God in every awe-inspiring sight in nature. Eager to please, Eli lights upon the first object he sees and croons, “I see God!”
Back to square one.
When I was an adolescent, I went through a crisis of faith. Or, depending on how you look at it, a crisis of mandated attendance at Hebrew school. I was a fraud, I told my parents, a sham. I went to class every week, but I didn’t feel a spiritual connection with God. So therefore I shouldn’t have to go to Hebrew school anymore.
As an adult, I was able to say those words that every Jewish parent longs to hear: You were right. Eli goes to Hebrew school every week now at the same temple I grew up attending, and he loves it. When we go to Shabbat services and he sits transfixed by the children’s choir, mimicking their hand motions, my eyes fill with nachas and tears.
But that comes from a place of tradition, of community, of family. We’re all there to talk to God, I suppose, but it’s the blessings we give to one another that resonate most with me.
Whenever I find myself flummoxed by childhood curiosity, I do what my father the librarian taught me to do: I turn to books. Amazon.com’s “customers who bought this item also bought” feature leads me from one suggestion to another, and I scour the customer reviews for clues about whether the “right” answer will be revealed.
“It offers everything a child first needs to know about God: who he is, where he is, how do we find him, how much he loves us, why is there evil in the world and how do we pray,” says one review of a book called Where Does God Live?
“Fine if you’re looking for heresy,” scoffs another.
(Come for the deep existential questions about the role of God and spirituality in your young child's life. Stay for the hersey!)
I settle on the 4.5-star-rated What Is God? Eli pipes in excitedly when he hears mention of Moses and the Torah and synagogue. I cringe when I get to a new-agey paragraph about how if God is in everything then “all of us are God!”
I get on board with the paragraph that says
When we pray to God,
We are praying for that feeling of love
To come to us and to everybody we know,
Maybe even to all those people we don’t know,
So that we can all be happy together, or apart.
Eli is nonchalant as I finish reading. I’m relieved we haven’t been struck down for blasphemy, but sort of disappointed there haven’t been any major revelations either.
“You know, in a way you’re right that God is just a story,” I tell him, “because there are so many different stories that people tell themselves and each other about God. But that feeling that you feel when you talk to God? That’s real. And when I talk to God, I say thank you for making me your mommy.”
I sit back, triumphant. I’ve done it, I think. I’ve Hallmark-carded my way through this crucial developmental discussion.
Eli looks at me. ‘Duh, Mama’ says the expression on his face.
“Can we read another book now?” he says.
No comments:
Post a Comment