Hey, I’m Addison. You’re reading Bigger Than Me—a bi-weekly field guide to advancing the Kingdom of Heaven. If someone forwarded you this, you can sign up or keep scrolling to jump in.

“Go ahead and start without me!” Phoebe chirped, crouched over her shoelaces. “I’ll catch up!”

Rachel set off at a steady jog. Not too fast, not too slow. Controlled. Respectable.

The park was alive with the usual spring buzz: newspapers rustling in the hands of people on benches, the muted hum of passing cyclists, a few couples enjoying their lunches on blankets. Nothing out of place.

Rachel kept her stride even, glancing back briefly to make sure she wasn’t leaving Phoebe too far behind.

Then it happened.

A sudden shout cut through the calm.

“Come on!” Phoebe yelled, bursting into view. “That’s not running! Let’s go!”

Rachel turned just in time to see her.

Arms flailing like Kermit the Frog. Legs flying in every direction. Face lit up with a childlike grin running as fast as she could.

Phoebe passed her at full speed.
No filter.
No form.
No shame.

Rachel froze mid-stride, jogging in place as her body tried to keep pace, but her mind begged to disappear. She could feel the eyes on her. The unmistakable burn of being watched.

She reached up, brushed her hair out of her face in a useless attempt to shield herself, then lowered her gaze and tried to jog on like nothing happened.

It’s a perfect sitcom moment.

The setup, the twist, the social fallout, the awkward confrontation, the heartfelt resolution. Classic Friends. The kind of thing you laugh at without thinking too hard.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Underneath the laugh track is a truth most of us recognize all too well:

Why was Rachel so embarrassed?
Why is it so hard to be unfiltered, playful, or even childlike in public?
Why do we care so much about looking “normal,” even in front of strangers we’ll never see again?

Phoebe didn’t just run differently. She ran freely.

That freedom, the kind most of us outgrow, is exactly what Jesus calls us back to.

This verse is not a metaphor.
Not a suggestion.
Rather, a command.

A return to something we lost:
The identity given by our Father alone.
Freedom to live as His kids without shame or judgment.

And yes, that includes being silly.

The Command: “Become Like Little Children”

This is one of the most jarring things Jesus ever said:

“...unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” - Matthew 18:3

Not you should.
Not it would be helpful if you could.
But unless.

In other words, childlikeness isn’t a bonus feature for the extra-spiritual.
It’s the very starting point for knowing God.