Epiphanies
I was walking through a bookstore when I chanced upon a little girl reading a book. Her father was holding multiple paper bags and standing watch while sometimes reaching out for a book to browse.
The child, no more than 10 years old, would laugh out loud as she pointed at pictures. She would then pull her father closer by the hems of his shorts and say, “Daddy, look, this is funny!”
Her father, in turn, would ask her to read to him, which she did between fits of giggles.
It was a joyful sight to behold, and in such stark contrast to a little boy whom I saw during breakfast at our hotel. He ate his cereal while glued to a tablet, playing a cartoon. He did not greet his grandparents when they arrived, and when his mother took away his gadget, he spent the rest of the meal eating in silence while glaring at his parents.
These contrasting scenes came to mind as I listened to the homily of Fr. Frederic Rocha at Gateway’s Sagrada Familia chapel. It was Epiphany Sunday, and he contrasted the wise men from the East with the wise men of the temple, whom King Herod consulted when the Magi came searching for the Christ-child.
In Father Rocha’s words, the wise men of the temple relied on scripture and defined the coming of the Messiah through a set of strict parameters. The Magi, however, were seeking a God whose identity would not be boxed by preconceived beliefs; they were, therefore, open to the workings of the divine.
This openness also meant vulnerability, something mirrored in the Christ-child, who came confidently as a helpless infant—this time in contrast to Herod, who was insecure about his power. Jesus, like the Magi, was open to the weaknesses of humanity. It was this kind of power, this faith even in defenselessness, that became our brand of hope.
May we never be imprisoned by our boxes, Father Rocha said.
It was this reference to boxes that resonated with me, and how breaking out of our prisons might first mean questioning what it is that binds us (hence: Question the Box). But it also reminded me of the children whom I saw, because there seemed to be contrasting definitions of what a child is.
The child in the bookstore seemed to have been raised to find entertainment on her own, to be open to the world’s offerings, to be unafraid to discuss what she observed.
The child at breakfast, on the other hand, seemed to have been raised by parents so afraid to hear cries of impatience or witness signs of boredom. He had therefore been given a screen, so that he would not have to search for enjoyment on his own, let alone share it in conversation.
While the child in the bookstore was given space for the unexpected, the child at breakfast was taught, implicitly, to expect to get what he wanted. And yet in that seeming freedom of sitting back, relaxing, and watching, he, too, was imprisoned in a definition of a child as permanently helpless.
Research has indeed shown that excessive screen time for very young children has negative effects on their sleep (which their brains and immune systems need to recharge), social skills (which foster care and empathy), and learning motivation (which they need to navigate situations in which they must learn how to cope both intellectually and emotionally).
Beyond these direct effects, however, is something deeper: the contrast between parents. The father in the bookstore engaged his daughter in conversation. The parents at breakfast were eating silently, glued to their phones.
It was not merely a matter of who was staring at what; it was how the parents defined their roles in their child’s upbringing. One was active and saw their child as having agency; the other was passive and saw their child as needing assistance at every turn.
We’ve long imprisoned our children in boxes, often defining them as weak, blank slates that have to be spoken to in baby language or fed entertainment so that they aren’t bored. It’s as though we’re afraid of children who can speak up, reason, and find their own way in the world.
It’s these kinds of children who grow up to be people who listen to bells, whistles, and force rather than seek out sense. It’s these kinds of children who grow up to be voters trudging through life rather than citizens eager to explore what the world can offer.
Father Rocha talked about the wise men of the temple as waiting for a king who would fit their expectations of power and grandeur. The Magi, on the other hand, were seeking out a king. Their openness could be likened to childlike curiosity, which we are missing in our children—and which we are now missing in many adults who no longer delight in finding out new things, who do not question authority, who do not listen to sense, and instead seek out leaders who are insipid and temporarily entertaining.
We cannot blame mere gadgets when these same gadgets have taken away our ability to talk to the next generation. Our stories can raise our children far better than pretty images ever will. Our histories can make them the citizens our country sorely needs.
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iponcedeleon@ateneo.edu
