It's the fourth Sunday of Lent, the 'day off' from fasting for some, the Lenten match for Gaudete in Advent, the day for brightness amidst the reflection. We begin to glimpse what lies ahead of us, and start the path towards Passion Sunday next week (I know, RC keep Passion Sunday on Palm Sunday) recalling how Jesus 'turned his face to Jerusalem.'
In many churches it is an unashamed mummy-fest, in others it is a celebration of family (for which read 'middle class western nuclear family'). We will be centring our thoughts on 'children and church' a more holistic, community focus I hope, but none-the-less affirming the role of carers. So, no posies for the 'ladies' or even button holes all round, as I once did at my old church. Instead we have Michel Quoist's wonderful poem/prayer 'I like Youngers'
I Like Youngsters
From Michel Quoist Prayers of Life, published by Gill and Macmillan 1963
They brought children for him to touch; and the disciples scolded them for it. But when Jesus saw this he was indignant, and said to them, Let the children come to me; do not try to stop them; for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you, whoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a child will never enter it. (Mark 10, 13-15)
God says: I like youngsters. I want people to be like them. I don't like old people unless they are still children. I want only children in my kingdom; this has been decreed from the beginning of time.
Youngsters - twisted, humped, wrinkled, white-bearded - all kinds of youngsters, but youngsters.
There is no changing it, it has been decided, there is room for no one else. I like little children because my likeness has not yet been dulled in them. They have not botched my likeness, they are new, pure, without a blot, without a smear.
So, when I gently lean over them, I recognise myself in them. I like them because they are still growing, they are still improving. They are on the road. They are on their way.
But with grown ups, there is nothing to expect anymore. They will no longer grow up. They will no longer improve. They have come to a full stop.
It is disastrous. Grown ups think they have arrived.
I like youngsters because they are still struggling, because they are still sinning. Not because they sin - if you understand me - but because they know that they sin, and they say so, and they try not to sin anymore.
But I don't like grown-ups, they never harm anyone, they have nothing to reproach themselves for. I can't forgive them, I have nothing to forgive. It is a pity, because it's not true.
But above all, I like youngsters because of the look in their eyes. In their eyes I can read their age.
In my heaven, there will only be 5 year old eyes, for I know of nothing more beautiful than the pure eyes of a child. It is not surprising, for I live in children, and it is I who look out through their eyes.
When pure eyes meet yours, it is I who smile at you through the flesh. But, on the other hand, I know of nothing sadder than the lifeless eyes in the face of a child.
The windows are open but the house is empty. Two eyes are there but no light. And, saddened, I stand at the door, and wait in the cold and knock. I am eager to get in. And he, the child is alone. He fattens, he hardens, he dries up, he gets old. Poor old fellow!
Alleluia! Alleluia! Open, all of you, little old men!
It is I, your God, the Eternal, risen from the dead, coming to bring back to life the child in you.
Hurry! Now is the time. I am ready to give you again the beautiful face of a child....
For I love youngsters, and I want everyone to be like them.
Whatever you're up to, Laetere!
I have a postcard of this plaque on the wall of my kitchen, one of two postcards bought to remind me of the happy years I spent living in Manchester. On Saturday someone found this suitably bizarre as their experiences of England's self-appointed second city (don't mention that in Birmingham) had been less than positive. We laughed about it, but my postcard stays firmly on the wall declaring what for me was so.