When one of the most wondrous children on the planet comes to visit—my two-year-old granddaughter, Edda—the first thing she does is give me a giant, neck-wringing hug that blows away every cloud in my sky. And then she usually makes a beeline for the “May-Doh” (that’s Play-Doh in Edda-speak).
Edda loves Play-Doh, but not so much because she likes to make things herself, but because she loves to order me to make things for her. She parks me at the tray table we use for “May-Doh” art, sits down beside me, and begins barking orders like a Marine drill sergeant.
I can only imagine if she’d been in charge when some of the great artists of yore were creating their masterpieces…
“C’mon Michaelangelo, get that chapel ceiling painted! This is taking WAY too long! Leonardo, I told you to wipe that cheesy grin off Mona Lisa’s face! And for Pete’s Sake, Leo, the disciples at the Last Supper weren’t all sitting on the same side of the table!”
Yeah, Edda can be a real slave-driver alright when it comes to art. Until recently, her commands followed a predictable pattern. “Make a bed…make a bed…make a bed!” she typically ordered first. Then it was, “Make a pillow…make a blanket… make baby go night-night in the bed!”
I’d gotten the routine down and my efforts, though hardly awe-inspiring, were at least passable.
But Edda threw me a curve ball the other day. We had May-Doh baby sleeping peacefully on her May-Doh bed, with her May-Doh pillow and blanket, when out of nowhere, the pint-sized patroness of Play-Doh commanded, “Glasses…glasses… glasses for baby!”
“Huh?” I asked. “You want the baby to wear glasses?”
“Glasses! Glasses! Glasses!”
“Let me get this straight. You want me to make glasses for the baby to wear?”
“Okay, glasses, okay,” she said cheerfully. It’s funny how she morphs from drill sergeant to angel after her wishes are granted. She’s a lot like me.
Itty-bitty, May-Doh glasses for itty-bitty May-Doh baby—hmmmm, we were venturing well beyond the bounds of my sculpting abilities. But I tried, because that’s what grandparents do, and Edda was appeased.
But then she raised the bar again.
“Make a rocking chair! Rocking chair!” she bellowed. Sgt. Edda was back.
Then she went on a real tear: “Make Oswald! Henry!” (Characters from her favorite show.) “Make a doggie!” I thought my brain and hands might flame out as I frantically tried to keep up.
“How about a snack?” I desperately offered.
“Okay, snack, okay.” Whew, frenzy squelched.
It occurred to me later that some “religious” people think God is a bit like my granddaughter with her Play-Doh, barking out orders and constantly raising the bar. They frantically try to keep up with all the religious duties they think He expects of them, crossing their fingers and hoping it will all be good enough.
But God isn’t after religious busyness; He’s after our hearts. He wants obedience to flow from our love for Him, not from neurotic obligation.
There are too many people on the religious hamster wheel, when Jesus says, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest.” He’s not holding a heavenly checklist in one hand and a whip in the other. He doesn’t bully; He invites.
Declining God’s invitation has eternally tragic consequences, Jesus says, but He doesn’t force anyone to accept. He’s not a ranting toddler god. If we’re hauling “religious burdens” that feel too heavy, maybe we’re carrying things Jesus never asked us to carry. He promised, “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
The call of Jesus is a gentle whisper, a still, small voice, always bidding, “Come and follow Me.”