Jesus asked the master of the house to send his youngest child into the room. He wanted his followers to think about the unique qualities of childhood. It was a good way to focus their attention. Childhood is a universal human experience. But Jesus also understood that adults quickly forget what childhood is like. His disciples were grown men. They needed a visual aid to help them remember.
Soon a toddler stood before them. It was obvious he had no claim to greatness. No money. No job. No education. No experience. No authority. No priceless information. No pedigree. No physical strength to speak of. No royal title. No valuable possessions. No impressive body of knowledge. No plan. No academic degree. No skills. No special connections. No unique powers. No notoriety or fame. No resources of any kind. Matthew does not even bother to tell us the child’s name. In the who’s who of their day, the youngster mattered so little that he didn’t even have an identity of his own. In plain English, the lad was a nothing, a nobody—completely reliant on others to sustain, support, and nurture him.
The lecture began. “I tell you the truth,” said Jesus, “unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3,4).
It took a moment for the gravity of Jesus’ words to sink in. Suddenly there was a lot more at stake here than personal pride. It is impossible to trump words like unless or never. He had their attention. Eternity hung in the balance; this lesson was about their eternal future.
But it was the twice-referenced kingdom of heaven that gave them a real cause to pause. It was one of those major themes woven into so many of Jesus’ monographs. He was challenging them. They needed to see the radical contrast between the kingdoms of this world and the spiritual realm in which he was operating.
History tells us that some of the kingdoms of the past were truly remarkable. The Medes and Persians. The Assyrian Empire. Ancient Babylon. The Egyptian dynasties. Alexander the Great. The Roman Empire. The British Empire. The Mongolian Empire. The Holy Roman Empire. The Ming Dynasty. Each had its day in the sun. We still admire them. One excelled in law, another in military might. Some were political juggernauts; some, cultural giants. Others were known for technological innovation, trade, or organized government. Each left a footprint. And each footprint was eventually washed into oblivion by the tides of time.
We pursue another kind of kingdom in our day-to-day lives. Some of us invest our time and energy in the kingdoms of medicine or law. Or we make our marks in mass media, agriculture, the arts, commerce, technology, education, government, or the church. We carve niches, climb ladders, and set goals to build our own personal Babels. Our kingdoms matter. Each of us would like to have our day of greatness in whatever kingdom we’ve had a hand in building.
At a deeply personal level, many of us engage in the establishment of yet another very private kingdom. This kingdom is all about my talent, my career, my honor, my beliefs, my status, my image, my legacy, my influence, my ideas, my successes, my intellect, my perspective. It can also include my family, my church, my school, my job, my country, etc. We’ve been working at perfecting this kingdom most of our adult lives, convinced it will brand us with a public identity that is at once noteworthy and favorable. We protect this kingdom and flaunt it, enlarge it and control it, refine it and utilize it to bring glory and honor to ourselves. We will die for it if necessary. It is a fragile kind of kingdom that depends entirely on us. Without our constant attention it will quickly disintegrate.
The child standing there before Jesus and his disciples had no kingdoms to build, nor did he give even the most casual thought to such a lifelong endeavor. He was happy just to be, satisfied with the nurture, support, and love that his parents gave him. In this way he was genuinely humbled by his status as a child. He lived with assumptions: someone will help me; someone will protect me; someone will care for my needs; someone will do for me what I am unable to do for myself. These unspoken convictions shaped his entire worldview, including that part of his worldview reserved for dealing with conflict.
For a Christian, the power for dealing with conflict is faith. You and I need the humility of that child, trusting God to provide whatever resources we will need to replace hearts hell-bent on making war with hearts eager to live in peace. We need the example of God’s love for us (remember that we were born enemies of God) to move us to forgive people who have brought untold misery, heartache, and pain into our lives. We need that child’s confidence to rely on our heavenly Father to provide all that we need to sustain our lives so that we do not obsess over wanting. We need his humble integrity so that simple truth does not become distorted by our own self-serving point of view. We need his humility, which leaves the judging of the behaviors of others to the eternal Judge who has the authority to condemn wrongful thoughts, words, and deeds. We need to become like that little boy, completely satisfied with being a child of God and not the least bit concerned with lording over his adversaries. The age-old pattern that leads Christians into wrongheaded conflict can be overcome. But it will require the simple and humble faith of a child.
Faith trusts in Jesus to justify us before the eternal Judge. Faith clings to the Father’s promise to forgive when we have cursed a family member, destroyed a coworker’s reputation, slandered a neighbor, or harbored murderous thoughts toward someone who has hurt us. Faith pleads for God’s help and strength when temptation is stalking us. Faith gives us a reason to hope for a miracle to end our conflicts and restore the peace. Why? Because faith itself is nothing short of a miracle.
The apostle Paul knew about childlike faith. He once referred to himself as the greatest of sinners. That’s a humble perspective. But he also recognized that his strength to rise up and conquer the real enemy came from God. “I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses,” he wrote, “so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:9,10). When peace seems like a pipe dream, we not only need to recognize our weaknesses, we need to glory in them. Only then can we turn to God for the strength we lack.
Excerpt from Heart At Peace: Biblical Strategies for Christian Conflict, 2014 Northwestern Publishing House. All rights reserved.