We Approach God

If we want God to approach us small, meek, and abandoned to Him, how then should we approach God? This question was uniquely impactful to discuss with these three men. As rehabilitated as they may be, they still need to command a certain level of respect to survive in prison. They also cling to a sense of control over their own destinies, much as we all pretend to do in our lives outside of prison. Surprisingly, this conversation resonated with them far more than I had expected.

So, how does The Little Way tell us to approach God? Saint Thérèse answers:

I searched, then, in the Scriptures for some sign of this elevator, the object of my desires, and I read these words coming from the mouth of Eternal Wisdom: “Whoever is a LITTLE ONE, let him come to me.”[1]

Simple: we approach God as an infant approaches her parents. That’s it. That is what God asks of us. In Matthew 18, Jesus tells His followers they must change and become like little children to experience His Kingdom.[2] In the next chapter, He invites the little children to come to Him—those same children He just instructed His followers to emulate.[3] Christ is clear: we are to approach God as small children.

We often enjoy complicating simple matters, especially us seminary students. But it really is that straightforward. This should be great news—and it was, as the four of us discussed it.

Speaking through the prophet Isaiah, God promises to comfort His followers as a mother comforts her child.[4] For all its reputation as rough and rigid, the Old Testament holds some profoundly tender and encouraging moments. This is one of them. In fact, I’d argue that the entire theme of the Old Testament is that of a mother longing to caress and heal the wounds of her child.

These verses were undoubtedly known by Saint Thérèse, but she had a moment of revelation where her heart fully embraced what her head already knew. She allowed the knowledge to make the eighteen-inch journey from her head to her heart. C.S. Lewis had a similar moment of reckoning about the forgiveness of sins. Writing to a friend, he explained:

It is astonishing that sometimes we believe that we believe what, really, in our heart, we do not believe. For a long time, I believed that I believed in the forgiveness of sins. But suddenly (on St. Mark’s Day) this truth appeared in my mind in so clear a light that I perceived that never before (and that after many confessions and absolutions) had I believed it with my whole heart.[5]

Like Lewis, Saint Thérèse allowed her knowledge to penetrate her heart. The simple idea of approaching God as an infant approaches her mother became a freeing thought—a moment of rejoicing. She wrote:

The elevator which must raise me to heaven is Your arms, O Jesus! And for this, I had no need to grow up, but rather I had to remain little and become this more and more.[6]

Or, as John the Baptist proclaimed, “I must become less, and He must become more.”[7] We are the infant; God is the Good Parent.

Before diving further into this illustration, I should make a disclaimer. Not everyone has a positive example of what a good parent is supposed to be. Many have never experienced a loving, present father or mother. This is especially true for those in prison.

Darrin Elliott only developed a relationship with his father after being sent to prison. He now feels fortunate to have this bond, something many around him lack. Fredrick Watson was raised by a single mother in the countryside, with no father to speak of. David Young has no relationship with either of his parents. His father was absent, and his mother struggled with addiction and a series of abusive relationships. David wasn’t raised by good parents—he essentially had to raise his mother.

Despite these twisted examples of parenthood, I was relieved to learn that these men understood what a good parent should look like. The absence or failure of good parents in their lives only highlighted this understanding. It reassured me that they could comprehend and appreciate our discussion of approaching God, the ultimate Good Parent, as an infant.

What does it mean to approach God as an infant? How does this manifest in our day-to-day lives and hearts? What does it ask of us, and what does it reveal about God? As my friends and I discussed, this idea offers a deep well of insight, as Saint Thérèse would put it, to draw from for the rest of our lives.

The first and most essential element, as Darrin Elliott pointed out, is trust. In a healthy household, children trust their parents without necessarily understanding why. Their trust is rooted in experience—being fed, comforted, and cared for. If you asked a child why they trust their parents, they likely wouldn’t have an articulate answer. They just do. That’s how we are to approach God: with simple trust.

Elliott recalled moments from his childhood in the Ozark Mountains of southern Missouri. Despite his later struggles and life of crime, he remembered being a young boy riding in his father’s truck, heading to Mr. Quick for a soda and ice cream. Though he couldn’t even see over the dashboard, he trusted his dad implicitly. He never worried about gas, the truck’s mechanics, or whether there was enough money for their treat. His trust was inherent in his status as a child.

That trust, Elliott noted, is the same trust The Little Way teaches us to have in God. We trust Him because we are His children.

Elliott also reflected on how this dynamic mirrored his early relationship with God. After encountering Christ in a county jail cell, he trusted that his soul was saved, despite his many flaws. He wasn’t consumed with earning God’s approval, even after receiving a life sentence without parole for an unspeakable crime. He simply trusted in God’s love. But as Elliott delved deeper into Scripture and gained knowledge, he admitted something that sent chills down my spine as a doctoral student: “The more knowledge I gained, the less I trusted God.”

I’m not anti-knowledge. I’ve spent most of my adult life in seminary. The goal, however, is not to wield knowledge as a badge of honor or display it as a diploma on the wall. The goal is to let that knowledge penetrate our hearts, melting and remaking us. Like Lewis and Saint Thérèse, we must allow our understanding to transform us into dependent children once again, in awe of our Father’s love.

David Young highlighted another passage from Story of a Soul that reads:

The heart of a child does not seek riches and glory (even the glory of heaven). She understands that this glory belongs by right to her brothers, the angels, and saints. Her own glory will be the reflected glory which shines on her Mother’s forehead. What this child asks for is Love. She knows only one thing: to love You, O Jesus.[8]

We discussed what this childlike attitude entails. A young child does not seek wealth or fame. Their desires are simple and pure: they want to be loved by their parents. That’s it. They do not crave respect or status. Their highest priority is the love of their parent, and they are confident in that love. As Christians, we are afforded the luxury of living with this same confidence, knowing that our greatest priority in life is to love and be loved by our Creator.

This concept can be hard to accept. We earn everything else in life—so naturally, we assume we must earn the love of our Father. David shared how prisoners struggle with this idea even more than those on the outside. Their entire lives in prison are dictated by a merit system. Basic needs like meals or hygiene supplies are earned through good behavior and can be taken away as punishment. Many prisoners spend their lives trying to prove they are not the criminals they were labeled to be, but society often refuses to restore their reputations. Everything they gain can be stripped away, and for most, their identity as “criminal” will never be erased.

For those of us outside prison, life operates in much the same way. We climb professional and social ladders based on what we can offer: intelligence, wealth, beauty, or talent. But one misstep can send us tumbling down. Our possessions, status, and opportunities are all tied to performance and can disappear in an instant.

However, there is one status that is constant and eternal: the status of being a child. Even if we have imperfect examples of parenthood in our lives, the status remains. We are someone’s child. At some point, to someone, we mattered profoundly. And when we remove the sin and imperfection of earthly parents and view this relationship through the lens of an all-powerful, all-loving Creator, our status as His children becomes unshakable. This status is not only consistent—it is eternal.

This is exactly how God wants us to approach Him: with the simple confidence of a child who knows they are loved.

Saint Thérèse captured this beautifully:

O my Jesus! What is Your answer to all my follies? Is there a soul more little, more powerless than mine? Nevertheless, even because of my weakness, it has pleased You, O Lord, to grant my little childish desires...[9]

For those of us who are parents, this truth becomes easier to grasp. We know our children do not operate on a merit-based system. Their status as our children doesn’t change based on their behavior. On their best days and their worst, they remain our beloved children. Yes, we may feel pride in their achievements, and yes, we may feel disappointment in their failures, but their status is never in question. Our love for them remains.

Shifting perspectives, let’s consider how a Good Parent views their child. What do we expect of our small children? Truthfully, not much. We teach and guide them, setting rules to protect them and others, but beyond that, we simply desire to enjoy their presence. We don’t come home from work expecting them to sit in silence for hours to earn our approval. We want to hear about their day, laugh with them, and watch them play. If our toddler breaks a rule, we don’t kick them out or hold their mistakes over their heads indefinitely. Our hearts melt the moment they sincerely apologize. A Good Parent delights in forgiving their child and restoring their relationship.

This is how God views us. Becoming small children in His eyes is not only beneficial for us—it is the proper place Christ wants us to be. Whether we are seminary students who’ve been reading Spurgeon since childhood, legalists whose faith is a checklist of rules, pastors overwhelmed by the burdens of leading their flock, or believers weighed down by their mistakes, God’s invitation is the same: come to Him as a child. Helpless, dependent, and secure in His love.

Saint Thérèse wrote:

As long as You desire it, O my Beloved, Your little bird will remain without strength and without wings and will always keep its gaze fixed upon You.[10]

I remember when my son was born, the nurses placed him in a warm bed while tending to his mother. I had a moment alone with him. He stopped crying for a moment, and in the quiet corner of the room, we locked eyes. I choked up as I introduced myself and whispered that I was his daddy and would take care of him. It was one of the most emotional moments of my life. I was in awe of him—not because of anything he had done, but simply because he was my son. (Admittedly, I later learned he couldn’t actually see me and was probably just staring at the nearest blurry object, but the moment still felt magical.)

Parents often have moments like this: holding our child close, locking eyes, and enjoying their presence. No words are needed. Just shared moments of love and connection. Why do we feel the need to complicate our relationship with God beyond this simple picture? Just gazing, enjoying, and being.

Sometimes, before waking my son for school, I’ll take a moment to rub his back or stroke his hair. In that instant, I’m not thinking about his behavior or the challenges of the day ahead. I’m simply loving him. I imagine God looks at us the same way. It doesn’t matter that we’re dirty—He knows the bath is coming. It doesn’t matter what challenges await us, whether we’ll succeed or fail, be honored or bullied. In those quiet moments, His love is unconditional.

This is the same love described in the parable of the Prodigal Son. The father doesn’t even let his son finish his excuses before embracing him and celebrating his return. Our God loves us in the good times and bad, in prison and out of prison, while serving Him or while rebelling against Him. His love is steadfast.

My friends in prison, despite their imperfect experiences with parenthood, resonated deeply with these writings by Saint Thérèse. They were thrilled by the idea of becoming small children, gazing up at the loving eyes of their Savior. No matter how blurry that gaze might seem at times, they trusted in the love of the Good Parent.

[1] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 208.

[2] Matt. 18:3

[3] Matt. 19:4

[4] Is. 66:13

[5] Lewis, The Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis, 151-152.

[6] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 208.

[7] Jn. 3:30

[8] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 196.

[9] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 193.

[10] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 200.