In the movie Matilda, the
character Bruce is only known for his Augustus Gloop-esque gift of devouring
chocolate cake.
But in the musical Matilda
(which I must say moved me so deeply that I am still pondering it over a month
after seeing it in London), Bruce Bogtrotter does much more than pound back
pastry.
The first half closes with him escorted to “chokey,” which is not so
much a funny closet of bent nails but rather a place where children are abused
psychologically to be governed by fear.
When the second half opens, it is Bruce who takes the stage alone.
Exhibiting PTSD symptoms, he sings in a faint voice of the dreams he has about
growing up. Lyrics that would sound silly anywhere else instead hit with
intense pain. “When I grow up,” Bruce sings, he will be tall enough to climb
trees, and smart enough to answer life’s questions, and strong enough to carry
all the things “grown-ups” carry.
More children join him. Boldly they promise together, “when I grow up,
I will be brave enough to fight the creatures that you have to fight beneath the
bed each night to be a grown-up.”
The song grows in strength, swelling into this cry for courage among
youth.
Then the sound quiets; the stage lights dim.
Miss Honey walks on, fully grown-up, and fully lacking the courage the
children have named as their goal for adulthood. She meekly repeats the same
line as the children, convincing herself that she can be brave…she can be brave
enough to fight the monsters of life—an abusive Trunchbull and the selfish
parents of a neglected child.
What becomes clear in Matilda
is that a gap exists between the dreams of children and the reality of the
grown-up life. It is the children who are the heroes of this story, and it is
the adults who look like young humans needing development. The children dream
of strength and brave; the adults act as immature bullies or timid cowards.
“Mind the gap,” the British say everywhere, concerning themselves with
spaces between trains and platforms. Two years ago, I watched my wife write “mind
the gap” when she was asked to describe her vocation. I never asked but always
wondered what she meant by playing with that word choice—mind the gap between
economic classes? Mind the gap between God’s dreams for the world and our own
intentions?
Since seeing Matilda in July,
I’ve been thinking about a new gap to mind: the gap between what we dream for
our futures as children and the actual life we lead as adults.
I write this at age 24. To the outside world I have cleared some of the
normative hurdles that signify I am now in the class of “adulthood”—I am
married…I have a full-time job…I have a home with a yard to care for and trash
to roll to the street.
But I watched Bruce dream boldly of always becoming, and I find my own youth roaring to life within me. I want
to hold on to my childish ability to imagine the impossible. I want to be in
constant evolution, to continue to molt even when my body stops growing taller.
I want to recognize that the bravery it takes to fight the monsters of
life—fear, or bullies, or loneliness, or selfishness—this bravery never just
happens but is a daily decision to do something that scares you, to take the
leap of faith, and then watch the magic unfold.
This is true magic of Matilda—not her ability to make newts move or
chalk write, but her ability to convince her community to yearn toward bravery.
In seminary and especially now as an intern pastor, I am often standing
in places where I feel too young and not grown-up enough. I am 43 years younger than the median age of
the members of the congregation where I serve. I am the called person standing
in hospital rooms, or helping to lead marriage ceremonies, or proclaiming God’s
unconditional grace and love for the world….and I feel so young sometimes.
But I look to Bruce and Matilda and the other brave children who are
everywhere, and the anxiety about my age turns into a joy. As I navigate the
gap between the fictional, created worlds of child and adulthood, I am no
longer seeing the world as split between young and old.
Instead, I am thinking about the Mary Oliver question: what is it I
want to do with this one wild and precious life, and how can I always be becoming toward that?
