A VBS Dropout and a Mother’s Faith

Recently, my 11-year-old son attended Vacation Bible School at our beloved home church. He’s attended  in years past, and though his daily recaps usually focused more on snacks and games than scripture, he was always happy to go, don the matching T-shirts, and be part of it. I’d heard that something shifts between 5th and 6th grade, but I didn’t expect that shift to start with Vacation Bible School.

It began with Jon’s pointed critique of “those ridiculous Bible stories” and quickly turned into complaints about “singing baby songs.” When he asked if the story was about a zucchini in a tree, I gently clarified it was Zaccheus. We talked about how Jesus used stories—parables—to teach important lessons, and how sometimes you have to zoom out to find the deeper message. I reminded him that the songs were designed for a wide age range and had to be simple enough for younger kids. We went back and forth, and eventually, he told me he wouldn’t be going back. My heart sank. The place I most wanted him to love was becoming the place he resisted.

Still, he decided to attend one more day—because he genuinely liked the people. I bit my tongue and resisted saying, “Ha! The church is the people! I win!” He made it through four out of the five days, then chose a long-awaited playdate over the final VBS day. I had an  awkward “talk of shame” with our gracious children’s ministry director, letting her know Jon wouldn’t be there on Friday.

Throughout the week, I wrestled with the kind of parent I wanted to be. Should I insist he go, participate with a smile, and stick it out—like it or not? Or should I quietly step aside and let him retreat into whatever it is 11-year-old boys do in the summer? I didn’t exactly do either. And if I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure I made the right call.

When my husband, George, and I had Jon baptized in the United Methodist Church, we promised to raise him in the faith. But was letting him be a VBS dropout keeping that promise—or breaking it? Neither answer felt acceptable.

One of the hardest parts of parenting, for me, is finding that balance—introducing Jon to the depth and beauty of God’s love without becoming rigid or dogmatic. Before he was born, George and I agreed: we wanted Jon to choose his own path when it came to religion. Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t quietly cheering, “Come on, Methodists.” George, who is Greek Orthodox, brings a different lens—one that ultimately also says, “God is love.”

Now that Jon is entering middle school, his doubts and questions are bigger, sharper, and more persistent. And we’re walking a much finer line. How much can we encourage Christianity before it becomes something he resents?

And that line just got even thinner here in Texas.

Senate Bill 10 now requires classrooms to display the Ten Commandments. As Representative James Talarico, a seminarian at Austin Presbyterian Theological, put it: “I worry that these kinds of bills will actually create a new generation of atheists who think our religion is more about power than love.”

Here I am—trying not to “over-Jesus” my kid, while our state attempts to force-feed Christianity in public schools. What hope does my gentle, inclusive version of faith have when religious messaging is mandated by law? What’s compelling about a religion when its central tenets are reduced to government-issued wall decor?

So where does that leave me?

After some reflection and a fair bit of frustration, it leaves me in the same place I was eleven years ago when Jon was just a whisper in my womb. I wanted him to know love—deep, unconditional, abiding love. I wanted him to know that God is love. And there is no force more powerful in this universe. 

When we as Christians allow the government to “church” our children, we risk far more than kids who do not want to go to church. Depending on the culture of the school district and surrounding community, they may be taught distorted versions of Christianity—zucchini in a tree, anyone?—but worse still, they may come to believe that God’s love has limits. That it’s conditional. That only the “good ones” make it to heaven. 

For a child already standing on the precipice—questioning their worth, their identity, and whom they can trust in their own community—nothing is more tragic than the suggestion that God might not love them exactly as they are. 

Even if I wanted to, I could never stand between Jon and God’s love for him. Even if Jon is a Bible School dropout, God still knows him, sees him, and loves him just as he is.

I need to get out of my own way and trust that God’s love—for Jon and for me—is bigger than any messiness I bring to the table. Bigger than VBS resistance. Bigger than state legislation.

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Dear God, thank you for trusting me with this child. Teach me to trust that You have known both of us since before we took our first breaths, and that You will never lead us astray. Encourage Jon to ask the hard questions, and give me the grace and wisdom to answer them in a spirit of love and justice. Move our lawmakers to honor the many ways people find you, rather than insisting on only one. I ask all this in Your loving name.
Amen.