Boy Theologian
At the dinner table yesterday, as his mother brought over the evening meal and I paced around the living room holding the baby, our son, intent upon a Lego starfighter he had just constructed, unexpectedly inquired into why God made human beings.
My wife, having spent almost half a decade in a Franciscan monastery, would typically have jumped at the occasion to answer such a question, but an intense cold and the exhaustion that babies and busyness bring had robbed her of her mental energy at that exact moment. So she said, “Ask your Dad.”
“What was the question?” I asked, having not heard the boy’s question.
He repeated the inquiry, and I explained something to the effect of God being love and wanting to share love with others.
“It’s all about love,” I concluded.
The boy, sounding disappointed while flying around his starfighter, said, “Why can’t it all be about battles?”
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Boy Blogger?
Toby is quite obsessed with weapons right now too. We were once asked if Jesus could shoot lasers from his eyes.
Not exactly weapon-related, but I remember quizzing a small boy of mine on the Sorrowful Mysteries, and he was only coming up with four of them. Trying to remember what else might have happened that would be worth a mystery, he asked “Did Jesus’s hair catch fire?”
Then there was his brother, who was once naming the seven sacraments, and included the little-known “Annoying of the Sick”.
Those were fun times. Thanks for bringing back those memories.
Sounds like now you get to explain the Fall.
Little changes from generation to generation. As the lyrics remind us – Youve Got To Be Carefully Taught lyrics
I should note regarding South Pacific lyrics I’m referring to the effects of culture over and above the good example of well formed parents.
I think your son and mine might get on well! Our little guy is 7 going on 5. He’s developmentally delayed so we’re not always sure what we’re dealing with!
I frequently have to work our little catechetics sessions around the noise of “battles” being waged by little green soldiers, or, in their absence, my son’s hands fighting each other.
One day he was “fighting” with a tissue in each hand. This was new. He looks at me and raises one tissue-filled fist. “Good Angel” he says. “Bad Angel” was the other fist. All of a sudden a clear-as-a-bell “I will NOT serve God” rings out. The tissue battle continues for a few seconds and “Bad Angel” lands on the floor.
My son looks at me and grins. “Bad Angel in Hell” he says.