After prayers this morning I was having breakfast with one of the friars. We were talking about the Sunday ahead; who was going where and for which Mass, etc. I mentioned that I was grateful not to have to give a homily today; I've had to preach in Italian the last three Sundays and it has been a challenge. Each time it was a lot of work for a short little thing too conventional in approach for my taste. But it has also been good practice, both spiritually and with the language.
As I was thinking on this I was struck by an analogy. Back when I was at the parish, once in a while I would have a chance to offer Mass with the children of the parish elementary school. It didn't happen very often; as I recall they came to Mass once a month and almost always on a Friday, which was my day off. But when I did have the chance to give a homily with the children, I really appreciated it. It was always a fascinating challenge, given the need for simple language and concepts, and also respecting the fact that a large portion of the kids had little or no experience of church apart from these moments. How could I try to evoke something of the pleasantly jarring surprise of the goodness of God and the good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ without being able to presume many religious concepts or much of the basic critical vocabulary of Christian spirituality? Whether I ever succeeded or not I was always fascinated by the challenge.
In a way my current moment is something similar. But now I'm the one without the words. I might have the theological concepts, but I don't know (or don't know if I know; let us not commit the masked man fallacy) the common spiritual vocabulary in which the average Italian Sunday Mass-goer is accustomed to receiving them. So as much as I could I tried to stay close to the language of the Scripture readings. There's nothing wrong with that, after all.
Maybe such an analogy comes to me because I'm not so far from concluding this hidden life of language study which has been my first four months in Italy. Soon this infancy will be over and I will have to land in the general curia and rise to the occasion of being tested out in this new assignment.
Showing posts with label Ex Ore Infantium. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ex Ore Infantium. Show all posts
September 23, 2012
July 14, 2011
Sanctity is Pretty
This morning I was so grateful that it was cool enough to walk to the Poor Clares for Mass. On the way I was thinking about Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, whose feast day we keep today here in the United States.
I was reflecting on the holy pictures and statues I've seen of her. She always appears as a young and pretty American Indian woman. This might seem odd. As I understand it, her face was scarred from the outbreak of smallpox that killed the rest of her family when she was a child. So why is she depicted as pretty and without scars? I suppose it's because holy cards and statues aim to reflect the beauty of a soul. (How some of our sense of sanctity might change as we begin to have more and more photographs of saints!)
So what's the connection between sanctity and prettiness?
In reflecting on this I was reminded of something from my job before I entered the Capuchins. I worked in human services, doing mostly direct care. Our days required a lot of teamwork. Most of my coworkers were women. In examining my conscience one day I realized that I was more helpful and attentive to the coworkers who seemed more attractive. I brought this insight up with my spiritual director, who saw in it an opportunity for a positive work of chastity. He advised me to make a spiritual practice out of trying to let go of seeing my coworkers through my senses of attractiveness or interest--which are largely arbitrary anyway--and try to see them as God sees them, as unique and unrepeatable creations beloved by Him. I should try to reinforce this interior practice by the exterior behavior of trying to treat all of them as if they were interesting and attractive, because that's how God saw them.
It's like the time I did practice confessions with a class of children back when I was a parish priest. I asked for a volunteer, and a bold little boy offered himself. I told him to make up a sin for the sake of the practice.
"I called my sister ugly," he confessed.
"Do you know why that's wrong?" I asked.
He thought for a moment, and then responded brilliantly:
"Because God made her beautiful."
True story. And full of truth too.
But here's the thing. By working to see others as God sees them, as creations passionately beloved for the beauty of their souls, we begin to bend our own sentiments and attractions to the divine will. We ourselves become more clearly the image and likeness of God which we were created to be, and thus become more affable, attractive, interesting, and lovable.
God, after all, is adorable and interesting. Indeed, He is supremely so. So if we want to be attractive and interesting, we should try to become more like Him. That's the sense, I think, in which sanctity is pretty.
I was reflecting on the holy pictures and statues I've seen of her. She always appears as a young and pretty American Indian woman. This might seem odd. As I understand it, her face was scarred from the outbreak of smallpox that killed the rest of her family when she was a child. So why is she depicted as pretty and without scars? I suppose it's because holy cards and statues aim to reflect the beauty of a soul. (How some of our sense of sanctity might change as we begin to have more and more photographs of saints!)
So what's the connection between sanctity and prettiness?
In reflecting on this I was reminded of something from my job before I entered the Capuchins. I worked in human services, doing mostly direct care. Our days required a lot of teamwork. Most of my coworkers were women. In examining my conscience one day I realized that I was more helpful and attentive to the coworkers who seemed more attractive. I brought this insight up with my spiritual director, who saw in it an opportunity for a positive work of chastity. He advised me to make a spiritual practice out of trying to let go of seeing my coworkers through my senses of attractiveness or interest--which are largely arbitrary anyway--and try to see them as God sees them, as unique and unrepeatable creations beloved by Him. I should try to reinforce this interior practice by the exterior behavior of trying to treat all of them as if they were interesting and attractive, because that's how God saw them.
It's like the time I did practice confessions with a class of children back when I was a parish priest. I asked for a volunteer, and a bold little boy offered himself. I told him to make up a sin for the sake of the practice.
"I called my sister ugly," he confessed.
"Do you know why that's wrong?" I asked.
He thought for a moment, and then responded brilliantly:
"Because God made her beautiful."
True story. And full of truth too.
But here's the thing. By working to see others as God sees them, as creations passionately beloved for the beauty of their souls, we begin to bend our own sentiments and attractions to the divine will. We ourselves become more clearly the image and likeness of God which we were created to be, and thus become more affable, attractive, interesting, and lovable.
God, after all, is adorable and interesting. Indeed, He is supremely so. So if we want to be attractive and interesting, we should try to become more like Him. That's the sense, I think, in which sanctity is pretty.
March 13, 2011
Jesus
It seems like every Sunday I come back from Mass with a post to write about a conversation with some child or other. It helps me to notice that one of the things I miss from parish ministry is the presence of children in my daily life: the chance to work with altar servers so as to build their confidence and pride in doing something well, the natural desire for goodness in my young catechumens, the challenge and privilege of preaching to the schoolchildren, the funny little boy who liked to imitate the gestures of the priest at Mass, the very proper little girl who would politely present her gluten-free altar bread before Mass and then wait patiently for her little personal pyx to be returned to her afterward.
But on to today's edification from the young. In the sacristy before Mass, one of the altar children showed up and placed a folder on the vesting table. "What's in the folder?" I asked.
"Stuff for CCD,*" she answered.
"Oh yes," I continued, "and what are you learning about?"
"Different stuff...but mainly about Jesus."
Amen.
*I never cease to be amazed by the sticking power of the term "CCD" for programs of childrens' religious education in general. As Fr. Kselman, who taught us Old Testament and was one of our favorite teachers, always liked to remind us, sacred language is conservative in nature and tends to preserve itself.
But on to today's edification from the young. In the sacristy before Mass, one of the altar children showed up and placed a folder on the vesting table. "What's in the folder?" I asked.
"Stuff for CCD,*" she answered.
"Oh yes," I continued, "and what are you learning about?"
"Different stuff...but mainly about Jesus."
Amen.
*I never cease to be amazed by the sticking power of the term "CCD" for programs of childrens' religious education in general. As Fr. Kselman, who taught us Old Testament and was one of our favorite teachers, always liked to remind us, sacred language is conservative in nature and tends to preserve itself.
February 24, 2011
Extra Miles and New Girdings
I received an encouraging gift after Mass this past Sunday: a little girl presented me with a drawing she had made in crayon. I didn't quite understand what it was supposed to be, so I asked her to explain it. It was the person going the 'extra mile' from the gospel of that day, she explained.(Matthew 5:41) Here were the people, and there was the road--complete with cars, trees, and a little pond with fish in it.
I put the picture up here above my desk. I had been thinking of putting a crucifix there, to help me remember to work hard at my current obedience and unite its trials to the Lord's Sacrifice, but this picture of the extra mile is just as good. Of course it reminds me to pray for the little girl and her family, in thanksgiving for their devotion and good example, and to remember the basic goodness of children, but I think that God is also inviting me to reflect on the hard teaching of this gospel.
I remember going to one of my very first meetings with a formation director in a very agitated state. I had only been in religious life for a few days, but I had already seen a lot that had confused and scandalized me. The director gave me some saving advice: in each case I should ask myself what the Holy Spirit had asked me to look after, and leave the rest to God. If some aspects of religious life did not seem very religious, or even appeared irreligious, I should remember that the Holy Spirit had not asked me to be a superior or a spiritual director, and that only my own soul and my own religious life was my worry. I need not be scandalized by anybody's behavior, because it wasn't my concern.
This bracketing strategy saved my vocation, and enabled me to finish religious formation (on the second try) to become a perpetually professed friar and ordained priest. But many times strategies and behaviors that we learn in order to survive at one moment of life become maladaptive later on. I'm wondering if this is what God is telling me through the little girl's picture of the extra mile. I am grown-up religious now. I am a priest. Perhaps it's no longer enough to limit my attention to a narrowly defined set of concerns in my own personal obedience, to what, specifically and formally, the Holy Spirit has asked me to look after. Thank God that I have not (yet) been asked to be a superior or a pastor, but I do have a certain voice, a certain obligation to give good example in a way that I have not had before. Perhaps it's time to let go of interior bracketings and boundaries that help me to preserve my recollection and protect me from being scandalized, dismayed, or having to fight about things all the time. Perhaps I should look at my letter of obedience and ask myself what the 'extra mile' might be.
It edges into another reflection I've been having lately. I'm aware that statistically, I'm at a moment in my vocation when many guys leave. It's a well known phenomenon, and has been well-researched. I never understood how religious or priests could leave just a few years after final profession or ordination, but now that I find myself in that moment in my own life, I think that maybe I understand. Or at least I understand what would be the nature of that temptation for me. I'm not thinking of leaving, or, perhaps better, my temptations in this regard aren't relatively fierce for me at this moment. But maybe now I get it.
In religious formation and study for priesthood there are a ton of trials. They aren't the trials you had imagined for yourself, and nor are they the ones you would choose. But there is also a lot of reinforcement, and there is an increasing freedom and facility with the life as you move on. There are ceremonies that mark every little movement and achievement. Sure, you get up there and announce in your vows that you are renouncing this and that, and giving yourself over to God in this or that way, but there can still be some ego in it. I make this big, counter-cultural, glamorous decision to enter religious life. There are vows of renunciation and the ordinations of service, but they are still my vows and my ordinations. They are things that I do on some level.
Two or three years after all that, as all of the being made much of and the big days of ceremony and celebration fade into the past, a new challenge to self-renunciation begins to come into focus. God continues to invite me into a deeper renunciation of self, but now without the natural and supernatural encouragements that went with the initial training and initiation into this life. The experience reminds me of another gospel passage, Jesus speaking to Peter in John 21:18-19:
Being in my second assignment out of formation feels something like that. The challenge is to remember that the invitation to the deeper renunciation of self is an invitation to glorify God through such a death.
I put the picture up here above my desk. I had been thinking of putting a crucifix there, to help me remember to work hard at my current obedience and unite its trials to the Lord's Sacrifice, but this picture of the extra mile is just as good. Of course it reminds me to pray for the little girl and her family, in thanksgiving for their devotion and good example, and to remember the basic goodness of children, but I think that God is also inviting me to reflect on the hard teaching of this gospel.
I remember going to one of my very first meetings with a formation director in a very agitated state. I had only been in religious life for a few days, but I had already seen a lot that had confused and scandalized me. The director gave me some saving advice: in each case I should ask myself what the Holy Spirit had asked me to look after, and leave the rest to God. If some aspects of religious life did not seem very religious, or even appeared irreligious, I should remember that the Holy Spirit had not asked me to be a superior or a spiritual director, and that only my own soul and my own religious life was my worry. I need not be scandalized by anybody's behavior, because it wasn't my concern.
This bracketing strategy saved my vocation, and enabled me to finish religious formation (on the second try) to become a perpetually professed friar and ordained priest. But many times strategies and behaviors that we learn in order to survive at one moment of life become maladaptive later on. I'm wondering if this is what God is telling me through the little girl's picture of the extra mile. I am grown-up religious now. I am a priest. Perhaps it's no longer enough to limit my attention to a narrowly defined set of concerns in my own personal obedience, to what, specifically and formally, the Holy Spirit has asked me to look after. Thank God that I have not (yet) been asked to be a superior or a pastor, but I do have a certain voice, a certain obligation to give good example in a way that I have not had before. Perhaps it's time to let go of interior bracketings and boundaries that help me to preserve my recollection and protect me from being scandalized, dismayed, or having to fight about things all the time. Perhaps I should look at my letter of obedience and ask myself what the 'extra mile' might be.
It edges into another reflection I've been having lately. I'm aware that statistically, I'm at a moment in my vocation when many guys leave. It's a well known phenomenon, and has been well-researched. I never understood how religious or priests could leave just a few years after final profession or ordination, but now that I find myself in that moment in my own life, I think that maybe I understand. Or at least I understand what would be the nature of that temptation for me. I'm not thinking of leaving, or, perhaps better, my temptations in this regard aren't relatively fierce for me at this moment. But maybe now I get it.
In religious formation and study for priesthood there are a ton of trials. They aren't the trials you had imagined for yourself, and nor are they the ones you would choose. But there is also a lot of reinforcement, and there is an increasing freedom and facility with the life as you move on. There are ceremonies that mark every little movement and achievement. Sure, you get up there and announce in your vows that you are renouncing this and that, and giving yourself over to God in this or that way, but there can still be some ego in it. I make this big, counter-cultural, glamorous decision to enter religious life. There are vows of renunciation and the ordinations of service, but they are still my vows and my ordinations. They are things that I do on some level.
Two or three years after all that, as all of the being made much of and the big days of ceremony and celebration fade into the past, a new challenge to self-renunciation begins to come into focus. God continues to invite me into a deeper renunciation of self, but now without the natural and supernatural encouragements that went with the initial training and initiation into this life. The experience reminds me of another gospel passage, Jesus speaking to Peter in John 21:18-19:
"Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go." He said this signifying by what kind of death he would glorify God. And when he had said this, he said to him, "Follow me."
Being in my second assignment out of formation feels something like that. The challenge is to remember that the invitation to the deeper renunciation of self is an invitation to glorify God through such a death.
December 12, 2010
A Sheep
This morning at Mass the time of the childrens' Christmas play was announced. While further announcements were being made, I inquired with the two altar children if they were in the play. They said no. So then I asked, if they were in the play, who would they want to be? The little boy shrugged his shoulders as if to say he didn't know or was indifferent to it. The little girl, however, answered directly. She would be one of the sheep.
Her answer took me a little by surprise; I guess I was thinking of the human roles when I asked and expected her to say that she would be a shepherd or even Mary herself. No, she was going to be a sheep.
I was reminded of St. Francis and his own desire to celebrate with a live nativity scene at the famous Christmas at Greccio in 1223. As related by Thomas of Celano, Francis desired to contemplate and behold with his bodily eyes, as much as was possible (utcumque corporeis oculis pervidere) the humble circumstances of the Lord's birth. It was important to him that things be real. Real hay, real cold, real animals, and real people. The animals, provided by Francis's mysterious friend John, with all of their noise and probably even their smells, mattered to Francis because it all spoke to the humility of the incarnation, and to see this humility as much as he could was Francis's great desire.
So, as my young friend reminded me this morning, the animals who witnessed the Lord's birth were not there accidentally, and nor are they there just to make our own nativity scenes look cute and fun. The animals have christological signifance, and speak to the humility of the incarnation and the renovation of the whole creation which it brings.
Her answer took me a little by surprise; I guess I was thinking of the human roles when I asked and expected her to say that she would be a shepherd or even Mary herself. No, she was going to be a sheep.
I was reminded of St. Francis and his own desire to celebrate with a live nativity scene at the famous Christmas at Greccio in 1223. As related by Thomas of Celano, Francis desired to contemplate and behold with his bodily eyes, as much as was possible (utcumque corporeis oculis pervidere) the humble circumstances of the Lord's birth. It was important to him that things be real. Real hay, real cold, real animals, and real people. The animals, provided by Francis's mysterious friend John, with all of their noise and probably even their smells, mattered to Francis because it all spoke to the humility of the incarnation, and to see this humility as much as he could was Francis's great desire.
So, as my young friend reminded me this morning, the animals who witnessed the Lord's birth were not there accidentally, and nor are they there just to make our own nativity scenes look cute and fun. The animals have christological signifance, and speak to the humility of the incarnation and the renovation of the whole creation which it brings.
October 24, 2010
Spiritual Direction from a Pretty Princess
Sometimes I invest conversations with more meaning than is probably there. I don't apologize for this wholesale; often in the Scriptures people say more than they know, so why shouldn't it be so for me sometimes?
Consider a conversation from after Mass today. After I had given the standard buen Domingo to her mother, a little girl addressed me directly, in English:
"Do you know what next Sunday is?"
"The thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time?" I responded.
"No," she said, correcting me. "Next Sunday is happy Halloween!" As she said the 'happy' she spun around with a gleeful flourish.
"Oh," I said. "And what are you going to be for Halloween."
"I'm going to be a pretty princess!" she announced. "What are you going to be?"
"I don't know yet," I confessed.
"You better figure it out!" I was instructed. "It's next Sunday!"
Indeed. Who knows how much time any of us has left on this earth? I've probably used up more than half of my time already, and without having made hardly a beginning of a spiritual life. Receiving the grace of surrendering to the person God wants us to be in this life is a task of some urgency, and it gets more urgent with every moment that goes by.
Consider a conversation from after Mass today. After I had given the standard buen Domingo to her mother, a little girl addressed me directly, in English:
"Do you know what next Sunday is?"
"The thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time?" I responded.
"No," she said, correcting me. "Next Sunday is happy Halloween!" As she said the 'happy' she spun around with a gleeful flourish.
"Oh," I said. "And what are you going to be for Halloween."
"I'm going to be a pretty princess!" she announced. "What are you going to be?"
"I don't know yet," I confessed.
"You better figure it out!" I was instructed. "It's next Sunday!"
Indeed. Who knows how much time any of us has left on this earth? I've probably used up more than half of my time already, and without having made hardly a beginning of a spiritual life. Receiving the grace of surrendering to the person God wants us to be in this life is a task of some urgency, and it gets more urgent with every moment that goes by.
April 28, 2010
Overheard: Homiletic Arithmetic FTW
Last night was Confirmation. It's always a joyful night, and it's good to see so many of our young people completing their sacramental initiation. In the sacristy, while we were preparing for the procession, the bishop was playing with the altar servers, asking each of them in turn if they would like to preach the Mass. All but one shyly declined the opportunity.
Then the bishop came to one girl who had herself been confirmed the year before.
"Would you like to give the homily?" he asked.
"Sure," she exclaimed, "1 + 1 = 3!"
She was referring to a part of the homily from the previous year, at her own Confirmation Mass, in which the bishop warned the confirmandi of the dangers of premarital sex and teen pregnancy. Get it? 1 + 1 = 3.
The bishop was startled and taken aback that his homily, at least in part, had been remembered. We parish staff were proud, of course. Not accepting the calling of his bluff, however, the bishop did preach the Mass himself, and even used the "1 + 1 = 3" bit once again.
Then the bishop came to one girl who had herself been confirmed the year before.
"Would you like to give the homily?" he asked.
"Sure," she exclaimed, "1 + 1 = 3!"
She was referring to a part of the homily from the previous year, at her own Confirmation Mass, in which the bishop warned the confirmandi of the dangers of premarital sex and teen pregnancy. Get it? 1 + 1 = 3.
The bishop was startled and taken aback that his homily, at least in part, had been remembered. We parish staff were proud, of course. Not accepting the calling of his bluff, however, the bishop did preach the Mass himself, and even used the "1 + 1 = 3" bit once again.
April 21, 2010
Right Lisa, a Wonderful, Magical Animal
So responded Homer Simpson, disbelieving his daughter Lisa's claim that bacon, ham, and pork chops had a single origin.
Today I was using one of the classrooms at our grade school to host a meeting. While I was waiting for folks, I enjoyed reviewing displays that the children had made on the countries of the world. I was impressed by the diversity of countries, as well as the care and effort that had gone into the work. I was proud of our kids. The original assignment could be discerned from the displays: one was to report on the government, culture, religion, dress, and food of each country.
One little text box caught my eye:
I have advised Fr. Pastor to review the science curriculum.
Today I was using one of the classrooms at our grade school to host a meeting. While I was waiting for folks, I enjoyed reviewing displays that the children had made on the countries of the world. I was impressed by the diversity of countries, as well as the care and effort that had gone into the work. I was proud of our kids. The original assignment could be discerned from the displays: one was to report on the government, culture, religion, dress, and food of each country.
One little text box caught my eye:
The most popular delicacy in England is fish and chips. In the United States it is referred to as Chicken Strips and French Fries.
I have advised Fr. Pastor to review the science curriculum.
September 26, 2009
Fidelity
Yesterday a 'perfect storm' of vacations, retreats, and random events left me home alone at the friary. So after saying vespers in the church, I went for Chinese take-out. After placing my order, I couldn't help but notice the other customer: a kid of maybe eleven or twelve years with crutches and a big cast on his foot. As we sat there waiting, me for my hot and sour soup and he for his double order of french fries, I just had to ask:
"How come you, with a broken foot, have to be the one sent to pick up the Chinese food?"
The kid pointed across the street and explained,
"That's my football team practicing there. I'm out for the season, but I can still do stuff like this for the team."
How about that? Out for the season and on crutches, this kid was not only still showing up for practice but was also finding other ways to serve. As I think from time to time, perhaps our catechesis of children has something to learn from football.
"How come you, with a broken foot, have to be the one sent to pick up the Chinese food?"
The kid pointed across the street and explained,
"That's my football team practicing there. I'm out for the season, but I can still do stuff like this for the team."
How about that? Out for the season and on crutches, this kid was not only still showing up for practice but was also finding other ways to serve. As I think from time to time, perhaps our catechesis of children has something to learn from football.
March 29, 2009
Overheard in the Sacristy
Altar Server in the fifth grade: Father, I'm sorry I missed serving last time; my car broke down.
Priest: Your car broken down?
Server: Yes! Now I have to take a cab!
Priest: Your car broken down?
Server: Yes! Now I have to take a cab!
February 9, 2009
New Testament Abstracts
A young Sunday school student was asked for recollections of the homily from Mass, and provided this erudite summary:
"Fr. Charles was sick, Peter's mother-in-law was sick, and they were sick together."
"Fr. Charles was sick, Peter's mother-in-law was sick, and they were sick together."
November 10, 2008
Best. Prayer. Ever.
On Saturday the local funeral home sponsored their annual memorial Mass for all the families they had served over the past year. It's a beautiful event. There were about 150 people. The undertakers give them all lunch too.
At the conclusion of Mass we the ministers were standing in the vestibule greeting the people, and the cross bearer was standing next to me. A little girl, maybe five or six years old, came through the doors, turned, and just stood there looking at the crucifix. Eventually she just said, "Wow," and continued to stand there looking up at the Lord until she was called away.
Then one of the friars said, "That's the best prayer I've heard in a long time." Another exclaimed, "I have my Good Friday homily done for next year!"
I thought of Jesus' words to Nicodemus, "Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, so tha teveryone who believes in him may have eternal life." (John 3:14-15) When the Israelites gazed upon the serpent they were healed, and so it is when we turn our spiritual eyes to the crucified Lord.
At the conclusion of Mass we the ministers were standing in the vestibule greeting the people, and the cross bearer was standing next to me. A little girl, maybe five or six years old, came through the doors, turned, and just stood there looking at the crucifix. Eventually she just said, "Wow," and continued to stand there looking up at the Lord until she was called away.
Then one of the friars said, "That's the best prayer I've heard in a long time." Another exclaimed, "I have my Good Friday homily done for next year!"
I thought of Jesus' words to Nicodemus, "Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, so tha teveryone who believes in him may have eternal life." (John 3:14-15) When the Israelites gazed upon the serpent they were healed, and so it is when we turn our spiritual eyes to the crucified Lord.
October 23, 2006
Foiling the Enemy
Yesterday I was leading a children's liturgy of the Word, and I asked the kids why we make the sign of the cross on our forehead, lips, and heart as we begin to hear the Gospel.
One little girl raised her hand and said, "Because we should think about Jesus, and tell him that we love him." Who could improve on an answer like that?
It brought Psalm 8:3 to mind: Out of the mouths of children and of babes you have found praise to foil the enemy and the avenger.
One little girl raised her hand and said, "Because we should think about Jesus, and tell him that we love him." Who could improve on an answer like that?
It brought Psalm 8:3 to mind: Out of the mouths of children and of babes you have found praise to foil the enemy and the avenger.
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