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Welcome to the 37th edition ofThe Wealth Letters, a crowdsourced anthology from people of all walks of life, on how to discover “enoughness” (the state of being & having enough) in a noisy world.
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The following is an excerpt of a chapter from an unpublished book that Marty Solomon wrote for his daughter Abigail, titled “She Giggled.” The chapter was penned in 2012 and posted to his blog, Covered in His Dust, on April 7th, 2015.
In the book, Marty writes about the lessons he learned from her childhood that guided his own walk with God. In the following excerpt of the chapter, “She Giggled,” Marty looks at how the story of Peter walking on water came to life from watching his daughter, Abigail.
To hear Marty personally read this chapter for his daughter, he does so here, in episode 116 of The BEMA Discipleship Podcast.
This chapter is an outstanding meditation on finding our “enoughness” (ultimately that we have enough…that we are enough in His eyes).
Marty is the host of the BEMA Podcast and author of the book Asking Better Questions of the Bible, which have had a great impact on the vision of this project as well as the letter I wrote to my two daughters on discovering “enoughness” (our call to rest, to trust the story that creation is good, and that we are enough).
And so, I am so excited to share this heartfelt piece with you from Mr. Solomon, written for his daughter, Abigail.
About Marty Solomon
After being born in a small, southern Idaho town and being raised in a fundamentalist evangelical community of faith, Marty pursued a sense of calling into the ministry. He studied at Boise Bible College and received a Bachelor of Arts in Christian Ministries.
Marty went to Israel for the first time in 2008 and it changed everything. Some great mentors pointed Marty in the direction of different academic voices who were pursuing Scripture through the lens of a historical, Jewish perspective—a perspective Marty was unaware of. Through each new lesson, the Bible began to make more sense, and the invitation to partner with God in pursuing the concept of shalom was becoming more and more compelling. He also saw an approach to discipleship where these young men possessed a fiery passion to become like their rabbi; or, as the rabbis would say, to be “covered in his dust.”
Marty now serves as the President of Impact Campus Ministries and has a passionate belief that the best way to pursue all of these dreams for changing the world is to work with the young adults who will be creating that world. He longs to help them see why the work they do every day is part of how God is putting the world back together. He eagerly desires to spread the news among college students that God is looking for partners.
I continue to be fascinated by Jesus’s exhortation to have faith like a child. There is something about the nature of a child’s understanding of his or her world that Jesus finds exemplary. It’s hard for me, if I’m honest, to actually consider a child being an example of faith. At best, I have thought of this lesson as cute — but certainly not packed with precious depth.
And yet, I guess I’ve interacted with enough of Jesus’s teachings to know better. As a Jewish rabbi teaching his disciples valuable and important lessons, I know that if a rabbi such as Jesus takes the time to set up a scenario and then uses it as a picture of spiritual formation, the listeners had better take note. Visible lessons from the rabbi are never intended to be empty — or easy, for that matter.
In short, I need to stop treating that lesson as trivial or something that belongs on the flannel graph.
Part of my experience as a father, as I continue to make valuable observations, has been to notice how much profound depth there is to this very lesson. As the story goes in one gospel, Jesus gathers the children around him. How long does this gathering and discussion take place? We are not told. I have always assumed that Jesus takes about twenty seconds to gather some kids up, looks at his disciples and other listeners and says, “Unless you have faith like a little child, you cannot enter the kingdom.” Then, I have always imagined him ushering the children away, so that he could proceed with his much more important, significant, and profound rabbinical teachings for the day.
But after watching children at great length, I have begun to question my chronological assumptions. Perhaps this wasn’t merely a two-minute lesson that day; perhaps it didn’t resemble the silly “children’s sermon” the pastor gives before the “real” message. Perhaps this teaching was much more profound than I realized. Let me just suggest another possible scenario.
Imagine Jesus and the disciples arose that morning, went about their typical duties, gathered in the synagogue for morning readings, and left for the day’s adventures. I picture maybe Matthew asking the question, “Rabbi, who is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven?”
I picture Jesus pausing, silently gazing off into the nearby village and, without a word, marching off in the direction of the houses. Jesus arrives on the outskirts of the village and sees a whole host of children, ten or fifteen of them, playing in a courtyard. He leads his disciples into the courtyard with the honored parents watching and welcoming him and his disciples, gracious to have such esteemed guests.
The disciples, of course, are watching, paying attention to Jesus’s every move as he scoops up a child and begins to playfully interact with the children. As a disciple, of course, your main duty is to mimic every move of your rabbi and so you begin to engage the children in horseplay, as well. I imagine Jesus and his disciples spending the day with the children — telling stories, playing games, maybe even taking naps.
As the day begins to come to a close, the family insists you stay for dinner. As you begin to recline in the shade of a nearby tree, Jesus speaks some of the first and only words he’s spoken to you all day.
“Watch the children.”
You watch and you recline and you eat. As the sun begins to set in the sky, Jesus calls one of the children over by name. He takes him and pulls him close under his arm and he looks around at all of his disciples, making eye contact with all of them.
“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself as this little child will be the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
I have discovered there are great lessons to be learned from watching children.
The Strength of a Little Girl
Not too long ago, Mom was at work and it was a nice day outside for a blustery winter in Idaho. It was just dad and daughter, so I took her to a local park. In a rare moment for this control-freak of a father, I decided I just wanted to let my daughter be. I wasn’t going to assume that toys or swings were what her entertainment of choice would be. I would watch her and keep her out of trouble, but I had this desire to see what she would do if she was left to be the captain of her own ship.
She had just learned to walk.
The whole experience of learning to walk was an incredible thing to behold as a parent. There are certain milestones you wait for in a newborn’s life — the first time she rolls over, the first crawl, the first tooth — but there is nothing that compares to the ability of walking.
There’s the sheer panic the parent feels when their kid isn’t walking as soon as their friends’ kid is. You begin to question whether or not your child is going to be okay just a few weeks after “all the other children are walking.” It’s an interesting thing, really. You don’t obsess over teeth or weight like you do for walking.
And I can remember the joy of seeing my child learn to crawl or mutter her first words. But nothing compares to the pure thrill of those first five or six steps. It’s an incredible high — a rush of adrenaline and cheering with the look of bliss and joy covering your child’s face. It’s a look that says they are having the ride of their life on their own two legs for the first time. It’s a look that says she is so happy to be the joy of her parents. It’s a great look.
But anyway, back to the park. She had just learned how to walk and walking was, as they say, the cat’s meow. She was on top of the world just walking around in the grass. I was here only to watch, enjoy, and keep her from disappearing into a sprinkler hole.
At one point in our afternoon she had walked off to the side of the park and down a very slight slope. I say “slight” from the perspective of someone who stands at 6’4’’, not as a one-year-old. I was actually quite impressed she had not fallen face-first on the way down the slope. Now, however, she had turned around and decided she was ready to make her ascent back up the hill.
What I witnessed next was simple.
But what I witnessed next I will never forget as long as I live.
This upward slope was a brand new experience for her; she had never encountered the physics of walking uphill. She attempted to take a step and immediately fell backward. The green grass was nice and long from a whole fall and winter season of no lawn mowers. She was unhurt. There was no need for Dad to step in. He could continue to observe.
She giggled.
She got back up (which is not an easy process for a one-year-old just learning to walk in the grass). She attempted to take a step…
She fell.
She got up. She attempted to take a step.
She fell.
She got up. She fell.
She giggled.
I expected to hear a cry or a whimper, but one never came. I expected to hear her whine and stretch out her hand to Dad for assistance. But she was just fine.
She giggled.
And she got up, she tried again, and she fell.
Without exaggerating, I can honestly say this process repeated itself a good twenty times before anything changed. Each and every time, she got up, she stepped, she fell. Every now and again, she would giggle.
At this point, she had begun to make some adjustments based on her newfound data in this one-year-old physics laboratory of sorts. She shifted her weight differently. She took her time. She placed her feet differently in relation to her body and the slope. She placed her feet, took a step, and took another step. She had remained upright.
She screamed a happy little girly scream.
She took another step — and fell.
She giggled.
O YOU OF LITTLE FAITH
There is a story in the gospels we all know quite well. It’s the story of Peter walking on the water. It’s an amazing story that fascinates us to no end. Our western minds are blown away as we consider the possibility of a man pursuing Jesus out onto the waves of the Sea of Galilee, performing such a miraculous feat to mirror that of his rabbi. It’s almost too much for us to believe. And then, just as we’re beginning to become skeptical, Peter meets all of the worldly expectations and succumbs to the failure we’ve all been wishing he would defeat as our representative. He wavers, he fails, and he sinks.
I’ve seen the look in too many people’s eyes as they read that story. It’s this look of hopeful disbelief, followed by a “that’s what I thought would happen” expression on their face (even if they’ve read the story a thousand times, I will see this expression or hear this tone). We then listen as Jesus scolds Peter’s faith — while we all readily put ourselves into Peter’s shoes and share his scolding — and we nod.
But there is so much more taking place in this story. Much has been taught about this story already, so I don’t want to be accused of plagiarizing anything. Ray Vander Laan had an excellent treatment of this subject in That the World May Know, a series put out by Focus on the Family (DVD 6, “In the Dust of the Rabbi,” Zondervan). Rob Bell treated the subject very well in Velvet Elvis(Zondervan, 2005). And another great and concise source of reference for this story can be found in the NOOMA video entitled Dust(flannel.org), among many others. I could not recommend these resources enough (or any others from these teachers, for that matter).
The first-century concept of discipleship was such that the most “successful” thing you could do in the Jewish culture, the thing they valued the most, was the study of Torah. One of the pinnacle experiences of the Jewish school system was being given the opportunity to become a talmid — or as we say it, a disciple.
If you thought you had what it takes as a student of the Torah, you would apply for discipleship under a rabbi. One of the greatest honors a boy could receive would be the acceptance of a rabbi to be his talmid. If a rabbi chose you as a disciple, he was in essence saying to you, “I believe you have what it takes to become just like me.” It was a great honor. So, the path of a disciple was a path of memorizing the rabbi’s teachings, taking on the rabbi’s set of interpretations, and — most importantly — becoming just like the rabbi.
This meant you spent all day, every day, trying to mimic the thoughts, actions, and teachings of your teacher. Some Jewish scholars say they have seen a rabbi proceed into a restroom and in his wake are ten or twelve young disciples.
You want to be just like your rabbi.
If your rabbi does it — you do it.
And you know that you can do it — because if you could not have done it, the rabbi would never have called you. The rabbi’s call is his affirmation in your ability and potential.
Peter finds himself in a boat that night with the other disciples and they end up encountering Jesus, who happens to be walking on the water. If Jesus is walking on the water, what does Peter want to do? He wants to be just like his rabbi.
“Lord, if it’s really you, call me out to you on the water.”
“Come.”
And Peter does. He walks on the water. It’s an incredible story. Peter is a true disciple.
And then Peter sinks. But why does Peter sink? The answer for many of us is that Peter loses faith; he sees the wind and the waves and he loses faith. This is correct, but as Bell asks: whom does he lose faith in? Jesus?
Jesus is not sinking. Jesus is doing just fine.
Does Peter lose faith in Jesus’s ability to help him walk on water?
Or, does Peter lose faith in himself?
Jesus rescues Peter, pulls him into the boat, and then asks, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?” Is this actually a rabbinical scolding of Peter’s failure to accomplish his task? Or is this question of Jesus actually driving at his belief in Peter?
“Peter, if you didn’t have what it takes to walk on water, I never would have called you out. You had everything you needed to do this! I believe in you, Peter! You can do whatever I call you to do. I will never ask you to do something you cannot do.”
Listen to what Bell says in Velvet Elvis:
So at the end of his time with his disciples, Jesus has some final words for them. He tells them to go to the ends of the earth and make more disciples. And then he leaves. He promises to send his Spirit to guide them and give them power, but Jesus himself leaves the future of the movement in their hands. And he doesn’t stick around to make sure they don’t screw it up. He’s gone. He trusts that they can actually do it.
God has an incredibly high view of people. God believes that people are capable of amazing things.
I have been told that I need to believe in Jesus. Which is a good thing. But what I am learning is that Jesus believes in me.
I have been told that I need to have faith in God. Which is a good thing. But what I am learning is that God has faith in me.
The rabbi thinks we can be like him.
TO HAVE THE ABILITY TO GIGGLE
I often watch my children and wonder when it was that I lost faith in myself.
Now, I’m not talking about a narcissistic faith that seems to elevate my standing in God’s created order and lacks humility. I’m certainly not trying to promote some humanistic worldview that seems to assert that the answer to our ills somehow lies within us. I truly and earnestly believe the hope for all of this world’s brokenness lies in the power of the resurrected Christ and the reality of Jesus.
But I’m talking about the faith in myself that recognizes I’m made in the image of God — the kind of faith that might actually be willing to believe there must be something worth loving and worth saving if God was willing to save it through the story of the cross.
I wonder, as I watch my children, how it was that my innocence was somehow connected with my confidence. (Boy, there’s another chapter or two waiting to be written, eh?)
Jesus tells me that if I were to watch children for a little while, it would probably do me some good — that if I cannot change and become like little children, the Kingdom will be out of my reach.
One of the things that I’m noticing about children is they have incredible faith in themselves. They know Dad is there and they know Mom is there and they know they are loved and they just want to play and smile and laugh and tumble.
It seems like later on in life, we begin to question all of those things.
Is Dad really there for me? Am I really worth loving? Can I really do this?
And we try to do the things we know in our hearts we were created to do. We step out of the boat and we begin to walk, but we know the wind and the waves are out there somewhere, just waiting to sabotage our one fleeting moment of weak courage. We try and we sink.
And we’re not surprised, really, are we?
We knew it would happen just like this. There’s no way we could ever walk on water. So we grab for our life preserver and we climb back into the boat and we hold our gaze on the floor and we take the scolding we knew we had coming. O me of little faith. O me the big doubter. It’s just another failed attempt to live out what God intends for my life. When will I ever learn? I should just get used to this and stay in the boat next time; it will save me the humiliation and the pain and the failure. It’s much safer and nicer here in the boat.
Yeah. Next time, I won’t be so silly.
I picture Jesus grabbing me by the chin and jerking my head up, waiting for my gaze to meet his. And with a divine sparkle in his eye, he looks into my soul — the soul he knows intimately because he personally knit it together — and says, “You can do this.”
I go back in my mind and remember my daughter on that slope.
Twenty times. Thirty times.
Ten minutes later, we have finally traversed the twelve feet that leads to the top of the slope. And she laughs and she giggles and she prances and waddles along the now-level ground and she is thrilled to be at the top and to run and play with ease.
Of course, she was happy to be at the bottom of the slope, too.
I’ve come to a new realization: I want to learn how to giggle.
Now, I would never suggest we trivialize sin for even a moment. I’m not saying that failure is somehow okay and God doesn’t care about our success. I am not one of the Jesus followers who seems to whip God’s grace around like it’s a “Get Out of Jail Free” card from the Monopoly game of real life. In fact, I’ve noticed it’s the very fact that I take my sin so seriously that I end up being incapacitated.
But there’s something here I’m supposed to learn about my daughter.
There’s something about that slope in the park that’s bringing me closer to the Kingdom of Heaven.
I’m tired of being immobilized by my failures. I’m tired of being the guy who knows there’s no way he can pull this off. I’m tired of having a laundry list of excuses. I’m tired of letting this stinking slope get the better of me. I’m tired of wondering whether or not my Father is there for me. I’m tired of trying to decide if I’m really worth being loved. I’m tired of worrying about what the world wants from me and expects from me and thinks of me and says about me.
And I can’t just snap my fingers and make the slope go away. My problems and my hiccups and my sins are things I’m going to have to deal with. I’m going to have to get over the problems that seem to keep me down. The Spirit of God is trying to complete the work within me that He started a long time ago. I have some falling to do, and I have plenty of getting up to do. And I have a salvation that needs to be “worked out with fear and trembling” and it’s going to take some effort.
But I wonder if God would rather sit in a boat and say, “You of little faith…”
Or if He’d rather sit on a park bench and watch His children learn how to walk. I wonder if He could actually sit back and enjoy Himself if we could learn how to fall and get up and fall and get up and keep believing and keep getting back up and keep refusing to give up because we’re going to make it up this slope and we’re just so glad to be with Dad and to be loved and to know that we’re okay.
I know that I love to watch my daughter learn new things and not be stopped by her failures.
I love to watch her giggle.
I want to learn how to giggle.
- Marty Solomon
Further Resources:
If you liked this piece by Marty, you may like the letter I wrote to my two daughters (Evelyn & Lillian) on discovering “enoughness” as Marty’s work on the BEMA Podcast greatly impacted my letter to them, as well as the overarching mission of The Wealth Letters…which is to help others discover enoughness
Thank you to Chris Barrett of Barefoot Studios for introducing me to the BEMA podcast, which in turn, allowed for this piece by Marty to be included in the anthology.
Thank you to Cheryl for referring a friend to The Wealth Letters…you are so appreciated! It is people like you who share this project with others that helps to put a smile on my face! Welcome to the Leaderboard Cheryl!
Thank You for Your Support
Would you consider sharing The Wealth Letters with a friend?
If you would like to voice record your wealth letter, you can do that easily by clicking here (your voice recording will then be sent to me directly, and I will transcribe it into written format for your review before publishing).
I always appreciate any feedback, ideas for letters, or just to chat!
Thank you for being willing to share your chapter for your daughter in The Wealth Letters Marty!