Receiving the Child

Today is the Feast of the Guardian Angels.  The Gospel from St. Matthew depicts Jesus answering the disciples’ question “who is the greatest of the Kingdom of heaven?” by calling a child, placing it in their midst and telling them, “Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the Kingdom of heaven.  Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the Kingdom of heaven.  And whoever receives one child such as this in my name receives me.” 

Whenever I’ve pictured this scene in my mind, Jesus is taking an angelically smiling toddler or a peaceful infant, perhaps a fresh-faced and hopeful teenager, and placing this child in the midst of the disciples.  But Jesus didn’t give us this teaching to reinforce sentimentalism about childhood or children in general.  He gave it as a way of turning the world on its head.  By letting us, his followers, know, I am in the children, the lowest of the low, the ones who are considered property, who have no legal rights, who are not perceived to have intelligence, who are without recourse.  Jesus held up this child, not because of anything this particular child did, but simply because this child existed as a beloved son or daughter of God, as all children do.  

Growing up, I pictured motherhood as a statue of the Blessed Virgin in our church sanctuary.  A waif-like Mary serenely holds her infant son who smiles and reaches up to touch her face.  Sure, I’d baby-sat before and knew that children weren’t always smiling, but that must be because they weren’t my OWN children.  Once I was a mother I would be able to satisfy my baby’s every need, and being completely at his or her disposal, my child wouldn’t cry or wail or want for anything.

And then, married a year, at the age of 24, I gave birth to twin daughters.  And all images of a peaceful, serene, and calm motherhood disappeared into the haze of late night feedings and the endless rocking of colicky infants. Though I was blessed with support from my husband, parents, extended family and many friends, there was still a good portion of each day when I was alone with my girls the first year of their lives.  And that time was usually spent with me holding them, one in each arm, while one, two or all three of us cried. 

At first I felt like a failure.  I cannot satisfy their every need.  I cannot feed them at the same time or change their diapers simultaneously.  I cannot swaddle one tightly, put her down and swaddle the other one before the first has squirmed out of her blankets and resumed flailing on the floor in un-swaddled frustration.  And then one day as we all cried, I realized, I may not be able to stop their tears, but I am holding them.  I receive these children as they are. 

Today, when I heard this Gospel proclaimed, I imagined Jesus holding in his arms a colicky infant who cannot be consoled, a three year-old in mid-tantrum, a sullen teenager, a grubby faced beggar child, a child with autism who struggles to make eye contact, and telling all of us, “Whoever receives one child such as this in my name receives me.”