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Your kindergarten teacher has called us in to discuss, amongst other things, her concern over your insistence that you have Super Powers. She informs us that you believe you can see in the dark. That you claim to have cat eyes that magically imbue you with the ability to see better in the dark than the average mortal. I swallow a grin. Your father looks at me with that “I told you this would come back to haunt you” look of his he reserves for when my parenting style rounds back to bite us.

“It seems that your son has a fantastical sense of self and frankly this concerns me,” she begins. “In fact, he seems to believe that you share his gift as well!” she concludes, eying me.

I don’t like your teacher. She is shrill—prone to exaggeration and hysteria. And I certainly don’t approve of any teacher who thinks having a fantastical sense of self is a deficit. How anyone could see your best asset as a deficit is beyond me—not viewable with see-in-the-dark eyes!

I fight back my urge to laugh, “That would be entirely my fault. You see, when he was quite young (as if you are ancient now!) I thought it would be fun if we had Super Powers. So I did a little inventing—call it whimsy! Perhaps it was misguided, but in general, I think our son is as grounded as most five year olds can be,” I explain. She is not amused. Your father is torn between feeling outraged at being dragged to yet another pointless parent-teacher conference and being chagrined that my whimsy has become the topic of yet another pointless parent-teacher conference. I can’t help but wonder, what’s the harm? Give me some credit as a parent—it’s not like I told you that you could fly. This falls into the same category for me as Santa or the Leprechaun who visits us every year.

Even now you are beginning to suspect something is up. It is only a matter of time before you “know” the “truth” about dear old St. Nick. Only a matter of time until you voice the question, “If I stop believing in Santa does that mean I don’t get presents?” (Yes, I will answer, with a twinkle in my eye!) But until then, I am committed to keeping what’s left of the specter of childhood alive and well for you. There is something about that naiveté I want you to be able to embody well enough that you will remember it when it is long gone. Hence the Super Powers.

The question that haunts me is, “What’s the harm in believing in something despite the fact you know it might not be true?” For, the moment is coming when you no longer believe in Santa. When you know, despite your assertions to the contrary, that you can’t see in the dark any better than the average 9 year old. What will happen then? Will you stop believing just because you can no longer label it “truth?”

Will head win out over heart?

And what happens when the questions of “truth” are larger and more is at stake? Can you hold in tension the faith of your childhood with the knowledge that comes with being a critically thinking adult? This is what I want you to know and understand. To know so well it is a part of your very person-hood. To have felt that belief in the core of your being; so that despite your learning and knowledge you still have footing for faith. It will be a new kind of naiveté, that takes into account all that you know to be true and yet still makes room for the magical, the whimsy, the mystery. For God is both immanent and transcendent. And to know God is to seek God with all that you are—your mind, your body, and your heart. Believing and knowing can co-exist, they need not be mutually exclusive. You can claim the truth of what cannot be claimed as “truth”—it just requires a little faith.

I know I cannot spare you the questions nor the pain of living within the ambiguity. I can only assure you that as you try to live into the paradox of faith that God will indeed meet you there. That between faith and knowledge, belief and truth, God is present. I look forward to the day that you look at me and say, “Remember when we used to believe that we had Super Powers?”

“Yes,” I will answer you, “ I still believe!”