Let's write about the fun of reading children's books again!

I have read "Charlotte's Web" by .E.B. White at least three times. 

I read it aloud to my two sons when we were in transit living in my sister's apartment in Winnetka, Illinois, and they had not yet been enrolled in the elementary school. One time, I read an excerpt when it was my turn to give an inspirational moment at our weekly Rotary meeting. I started to cry when I read Charlotte's goodbye to Wilber.

Why adults should read more children’s books an essay published in the Boston Globe by Zach Przystup.

You’re never too old to believe in magic. Zach Przystup is the author of the Substack newsletter "Ask Your Father", where he writes about parenting, family life, sports, and technology.

C.S. Lewis wrote, “Someday you’ll be old enough to read fairy tales again.” It looks like I’ve reached that day.

I just turned 40, and over the past couple of years I’ve read some 20 children’s novels by the likes of Daniel Nayeri, Roald Dahl, Dave Eggers, Katherine Rundell, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Louis Sachar.

The binge wasn’t intentional. It started with introducing my old favorites to my first- and third-grade boys.

I got curious about what’s out there for kids today, and then I was enjoying myself so much that I got around to some of the classics I had never read, like “The Hobbit” and “The Chronicles of Narnia.” Some of these books were among the best I had read in recent memory, or ever, really. 

And it sure is nice to be able to finish something in a few days.

That’s rarely the case with adult fiction. With its penchant for weighty drama — murder, betrayals, affairs — it all can get, well, a little depressing.

The thing is, children’s literature also ponders the big questions — how to deal with unfairness, what makes a good life, and what happens after we die — but usually in a way that’s inspiring and less long-winded. As my favorite writing professor would charge: “Get to the pith!” (IOW, get inside the issues.)

Children’s novels excel at getting to the pith. Just consider: You’re wrongly thrown into a juvenile detention center and ordered to dig holes in the scorching sun alongside a ragtag group of youth vandals. What’s your next move? — “Holes,” Louis Sachar. A strange girl parachutes in from a magical portal and says she needs your help to save her world. Do you go? — “Impossible Creatures,” Katherine Rundell. You’re a valued member of an island’s animal community (you’re a wild dog), but one day that community changes forever. Do you stick it out or leave behind everything you’ve ever known? — “The Eyes and the Impossible,” Dave Eggers.

Children’s books also remind us of an essential truth: The magic, adventure, and boundless possibilities that we naturally grasped as kids are all still out there.

We badly need this reminder because as we get jobs, start paying mortgages, and get bulldozed by domestic responsibilities, the magic tends to die.

That’s why we need “James and the Giant Peach.” A good children’s yarn chips away at our jaded exteriors by helping us to look at the world the way we used to as kids, with a sense of wonder, awe, discovery, and playfulness that are all worthy of the life we’ve been given. They remind us of who we were and ask whether we still believe in the things we used to.

We’re a grown and grizzled Peter Pan; these books take us back to Neverland.

After reading “Holes,” I visited my parents at my childhood home. As I sat playing with my boys in the front yard, I suddenly thought to show them the dirt patch under the great oak tree where I used to dig for gems as a little boy. They eagerly fetched a spade, started digging, and found all kinds of treasure. It was a full-circle moment of play and discovery inspired by an excellent children’s novel — an excellent novel, period.

The morning commute, the endless dishes and laundry and schedule shuffling — they aren’t going anywhere. But, if we remember how to look, we can recognize that our daily lives are still shot through with plenty of magic. Can anyone who has visited a national park deny that fantastical realms exist❓ 

Can anyone who has a child deny that wondrous creatures exist❓ 

I think that’s what C.S. Lewis was getting at.

Here’s some parting advice from Roald Dahl: “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” Children’s books invite us to read and believe again. Who knows what we’ll find❓

Let's report about religion news

Writing about religion is not a monolithic or uniform subject. In  other words, "religion news" is inclusive of spirituality and faith, as well as reporting about the challenges faced by people who choose to practice a religion, or not: 

Echo essay by Daniel Burke*, published in America Magazine, the Jesuit magazine: 

Review: Reporting on religion can be dark. But we need people on the God Beat more than ever.

When people asked me why I chose to be a religion reporter, they usually got one of two answers. One was my official response; the other was the truth.

The official response ran something like this: Religion is a force that moves billions of people, for better or worse. You can’t really understand our world without understanding religion.

That’s true, but it is not why I became a religion reporter. The real answer was more personal. I was on a quest for the truth and saw journalism as the means to a free, or at least modestly subsidized, education. I think this idea was stolen from Pete Hamill, who advised young writers in New York to apprentice in one of two story-rich fields: driving a taxi or journalism.

My plan worked at first. During my nearly 16 years as a religion reporter, including the last eight at CNN, I learned more than I could have hoped. But over time, the stories other religion reporters and I tackled grew darker: religious violence, racism, Islamophobia, anti-Semitism; the lies, crimes and casual cruelties of the Trump administration; the rise of QAnon and demise of truth; the Catholic sexual abuse crisis; and, of course, the pandemic. 

Moreover, people’s pain, and anger and confusion seemed fathomless, institutions hopelessly self-involved and religious leaders willfully blind and enthralled by politics or fame. 

In any other era, such a beat would be challenging. For me, in our relentlessly online culture, it was deflating. By the end of my time at CNN, I was a beat reporter.

I thought about all of this while reading The God Beat: What Journalism Says About Faith and Why It Matters. The anthology of 26 essays is edited by Costica Bradatan, a religion editor for The Los Angeles Review of Books, and a professor of humanities at Texas Tech University, and Ed Simon, a staff writer for the literary site The Millions and author of several books about religion and morality.

In their introduction, Bradatan and Simon say they are most interested in what Simon dubs New Religion Journalism, a literary movement that they argue was given life by Killing the Buddha, an online journal of religion writing for “people made uncomfortable by church.”

Like New Journalism, the movement heralded by wizard-suited Tom Wolfe in the 1970s, (and before him, by Matthew Arnold in the 1880s), New Religion Journalism prioritizes the personal, including the reporter’s subjective experience in the story. 

More importantly, argues Simon, New Religion Journalism questions the “theism/atheism” binary and displays the “full ambiguity and ambivalence of belief.”

That ambiguity is explored in Leigh Eric Schmidt’s deeply researched essay, “Monuments to Unbelief,” which guides readers on a short jaunt through 19th-century atheism and introduces characters like the miraculously named Octavius Frothingham.

In “Amma’s Cosmic Squeeze,” Erik Davis muses about the title character’s trademark gesture—a hug—as a “quietly subversive transformation of traditional South Asian worship” as he stands in a Disneyland-worthy line awaiting his sacred embrace. But Amma, who has hugged more than 26 million people, is not only about silent subversion, Davis reports: “During her massive fiftieth birthday celebration in 2003, which was inaugurated by Indian president Dr. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam, Amma cranked through a stadium full of devotees for twenty-one hours straight, while a scoreboard racked up numbers well into the five figures.”

Cool scene. But, as I said, these are dark times, and many writers in The God Beat address topics like death, hatred, abuse and decay.

In “Will Anyone Remember Eleven Dead Jews?” Emma Green ponders the paradoxical satisfactions of an archivist in Pittsburgh, who was charged with collecting artifacts from the worst anti-Semitic attack in American history. 

Likewise, Shira Telushkin’s essay, “Their Bloods Cry Out from the Ground,” is a powerful meditation about the murders in 2018, of those 11 people while they were worshiping and the task of those left behind. 

Telushkin explores the work of the chevra kadisha, the Jewish burial society charged with collecting different kinds of remains. They slipped quietly into the crime scene, scraping blood from walls and floors, burying their martyrs just as Jews have done for millennia.

The best essays in The God Beat are like this—quietly reflective, deeply informed, subjective but not solipsistic (aka "egotistical"). Instead, they combine an insider’s knowledge with an outsider’s practiced observation, transcending the limitations of both third- and first-person writing.

As a one-time Catholic, Patrick Blanchfield brings an insider-outsider perspective to his essay on the Catholic Church’s sexual abuse scandal, written in 2018, a few weeks after a grand jury report in Pennsylvania described in detail decades of soul-crushing sexual abuse committed by priests against children. Blanchfield raises a question that perhaps only an ex-Catholic would voice. Namely, is there something inherently Catholic about the Catholic abuse scandal?

“Whatever the problems of ‘society’ more broadly, it is impossible not to see in these horrors a very particular Catholic feature: tropes, however twisted, of penance, mortification, and punishment, concepts and ritual items wielded as tools of abuse,” Blanchfield writes. “These priests, in other words, did not just rape children using their hands, mouths and genitals. They also raped them using their faith.”

Prophetic advice for the victims of clergy abuse.  

Behind this rhetoric lies the force of truth. I have heard many victims of sexual abuse by clergymen recount how their abuse and lost innocence amounted to “soul murder,” as Blanchfield titles his powerful piece.

The essay reminded me of another, coincidentally published on the same day in America. Kerry Weber, an executive editor at America, wrote about the questions she pondered, as she read the Pennsylvania grand jury report while her children napped. “I have found myself truly afraid of what it means to ask and to allow my children to be part of the church,” Weber wrote.

Reporting for CNN, I had been chasing the “hard news”—counting the victims, tracking down perpetrator priests, trying (and mostly failing) to hold bishops accountable. Weber’s voice—singular, plaintive, coming from within the fold—whipped my head around. Behind all the hard news, this is what the scandal has wrought, I realized: a mother afraid to raise her children in the church she loves. And that is a story that needs to be told.

*Daniel Burke is a contributing editor at Tricycle: The Buddhist Review. He previously covered religion for Religion News Service and CNN.