7YO: What if Korihor was a talking bat?
Me: (Trying not to laugh) Umm, what?
7YO: He would die!
Me: Oh?
7YO: Yep — because bats see with their ears, and they have to use sonar. And so Korihor couldn’t use any more sonar after he got cursed.
Can’t argue with that, can I?
My six-year-old son, a big talker, was a little concerned for Korihor when we read this story recently. He was also a little perplexed and skeptical as to how someone could die by being run over at a time when there were no cars. The parents (us) realized that we had never thought of this — a stampede of people maybe?
That reminds me of another story about a 7 year-old who asked religious questions. It’s written by one of my favorite professors in college, Jerry Harvey.
My daughter Suzanne has long been the gnostic of our family. For example, shortly after her seventh birthday, she returned from church services and confronted me with the question, “Daddy, what if God is a mouse?”
Being a college professor with a Ph.D. in psychology and having read more than a little in such disciplines as psychiatry, group dynamics, organizational theory, religion, philosophy, and physiology, I feel that I am reasonably well prepared to answer questions that deal with human behavior, management, and comparative theology. For reasons known only to God (or mice), however, I did not feel adequately prepared for Suzanne’s metaphysical onslaught. Therefore, trying to maintain the semblance of decorum required of any self-respecting father who doesn’t want his daughter to discover early in life that his wing-tip shoes cover feet of clay, I replied with what I thought, under the circumstances, was admirable calmness, “What do you mean, ‘What if God is a mouse?”
“Well,” said she, “if god is a mouse, aren’t we wasting a lot of time going to church? And even if we do go, shouldn’t we be putting cheese in the collection plate? A mouse wouldn’t want money.”
“Suzanne,” I responded, feeling my studious, self-assured facade beginning to crumble, “you can’t ask questions like that. You just have to accept the fact that God is God. I mean, you can’t bound around the house willy-nilly, questioning the existence of the One Who Put Us Here. You simply have to accept the fact that God exists and go from there.”
Then, experiencing a renewed sense of confidence — stemming from her puzzled stare — I went on: “Who do you think made the universe, the stars, the moon, and the planets? Who makes the rain fall and the sun shine? Who makes the grass grow and the seasons change?” Aware that I might be going a little beyond the bounds of philosophic decency, I decided to conclude my discourse with something a little more pragmatic and to the point, at least a point that I was sure a seven-year-old could understand, and said, “Who makes the cocoa beans that make the chocolate that goes into M and M’s? Answer that for me.”
“Mice, maybe,” she replied, totally unfazed. “They are pretty smart. You sure haven’t been able to catch the ones in our basement.”
I began to feel exasperated. Although related to me because of biology, this little snipper simply could not treat me and God in such cavalier fashion, so I decided to end the debate once and for all.
“Suzanne,” her name came out in my most authoritative voice, “I don’t want to hear you ever ask again, “What if God is a mouse? I don’t want you blubbering on about whether God is an orangutan, an armadillo or a potted plant, either. Questioning God’s existence is immoral. It’s communistic. What if everyone did it? things would get messed up. Why don’t you just drop the whole question and go play hide-and-seek with Megan?”
“Why?” she said. “If God is who He says He is, He wouldn’t mind us asking the question; and if He isn’t we sure ought to quit trying to catch the mice downstairs. We might break God’s neck in a trap. I think it would be better for us to find out who He is than to smash Him with that spring-like thing you bought at the hardware store.”
Mark, a really great story; a wonderful story.
It reminds me of my nephew. My older brother works the night shift at a police station. One night he was talking with my sister while my nephew was playing with some friends. My nephew had been watching a TV show about bats the day before. He is five. He turned to his friends and said “That is my uncle. He is nocturnal.” My sister and brother both started laughing. My nephew looked shocked, and turned to my brother and said “Well, you are!”