A true story: It was the beginning of lent and a little boy sat in the still quiet church with his mother and his infant sister. He was probably 4. It was late afternoon, shadows grown long, cold seeping over the foothills. People entered the church, threaded themselves down rows of seats and shoveled their coats off their shoulders all around him; the coverings and layers slipped onto the backs of chairs. The people arranged purses, settled feet from shuffle to pause, and then began to relax – finally away from the rush of leaving work early, of driving in just-almost-icy cold to come to church, midweek, when there is so much other to do. Ash Wednesday – for Christians, the start of the countdown toward Easter.
The little boy, already quiet, listened to the murmurings around him as the service started, as people heaved up in collective noise, and back down again to stillness. He heard mention again and again of the ashes, heard the process described – how someone would dip a finger or a thumb into the bowl of ashes and draw a black cross on his forehead.
He did not kid-bluster, or squirm or skim-slide his bottom up and down his slippery seat like the other little ones. He listened intently.
When it was time to rise for the ashes, he did. He got in line in front of his mother and turned to speak to her, but she was wrestling the baby, trying to wrap her, hush her, lull her through the half-way-over long haul of mass. He turned back and faced front.
Next in line. Next in line. Next in line. And then it was his turn. The Eucharistic minister bent low, a hearty thumb of dry ash from a little white bowl at the ready; she reached toward the child. His eyes widened, but he did not flinch or pull back. He simply said, in a rush as if he could not stop himself, “Are they very hot?”
He was ready to take them – it was clear – but he wanted to know how much it was going to hurt.
He walked the line, little shoulders straight, step by step toward the altar, as he was told, as he saw everyone around him do, thinking he was going to be burned.
Blind faith – children are full of it, as well they should be. This child trusted his mother, trusted the other adults around him, trusted that whatever was going to be put on his head, be it hot, or very hot, would not be all that bad.
He did what he was told to do, trusting it was right.
We speak of blind faith as if it is a bad thing. And, sometimes it is indeed a bad thing: having blind faith in powerful people who do not have your best interest at heart is a bad thing. Having blind faith in people who have, in the past, proven to be liars, or manipulators, or power mongers is a bad thing. Blind faith, in people, is risky.
But, blind faith is something children need. They can’t take care of everything all by themselves; they can’t keep themselves safe all by themselves. They have to trust that someone else is tending to them. They don’t have a choice.
But, we do. We have to choose. And some days we have to choose blind faith.
Someone once said to me, you don’t trust God much, do you? And, shocked, I thought some days I don’t.
Trusting God is a choice we need to make actively again and again. Is it easy? My answer is no, but then I’m prone to mucking things up with complication and nuance.
I relearn trust everyday – on the good days.
Trusting God is faith, and it is always blind. I’ve seen people burned by other people, sometimes even in the name of God, but I can’t think of a single person I’ve seen burned by God.
God doesn’t hurt people on purpose, and doesn’t withhold love or protection from anyone, ever, for any reason. He won’t burn you.
