A Story Worth Living: Jerome W. Berryman’s Work and Play

Jerome Berryman’s life work—or better said, his life’s play—is a many-faceted gem that shines brighter with each angle of apprehension. One needs to view his work and play from multiple sides to fully appreciate its beauty. It celebrates the joy of living in God’s world; it offers profound psychological insights, deep liturgical resonance, and glimmering theological truths; it offers an all-too-rare example of children’s agency in Christian theology; and it changes those who are exposed to it. Honoring this legacy is, therefore, a bit daunting, especially for one like me without a substantive background in religious education. Nevertheless, Berryman’s development of Godly Play and his friendship have been distinct blessings in my life, personally and professionally. What follows is an autobiographical account of how my appreciation of Godly Play has expanded over time, how some of Berryman’s warmth and quirkiness are expressed in Godly Play, and how Godly Play has resonated with my own children and my vocation as a parent and theologian.

But first I must offer some disclaimers and clarifications. There are many things that I am not. I never took a Christian education class in divinity school; I have not received training in the theory and methods of Godly Play; I am not well versed in the significant secondary literature that has emerged in the wake of Berryman’s pathbreaking approach to children’s faith development; and my entrée into an appreciation of Godly Play is doubtless colored by my own experiences as a white, straight, cisgender male of relative privilege, a class of people that has typically paid the least attention to children. I am a constructive theologian by training, a Reformed Christian by choice, and a husband and parent who marvels at the unique paths that our two children have carved and at their unique beauty as children of God. And there is something deeply mysterious, wondrous, and captivating about childhood that continues to call me. This, in part, helps explain why I have coached so many youth basketball practices, volunteered for so many Vacation Bible Schools, and have continued to reflect theologically on childhood over the years. Children call our attention and change us. They call us to relationship, reorient our world, and invite us to inhabit that world differently. Berryman knew these truths as well as anyone on the contemporary scene. For that alone, we owe him thanks.

Children as Agents, Players, and Storytellers

Christian theology has a decidedly mixed history in interpreting children, attending to (or ignoring) their personhood, and considering their witness as means of grace, a history that Berryman admirably charts in Children and the Theologians.^[1] Despite Gospel vignettes in which Jesus uplifts children as examples for adults, much of the tradition considers children to be on the way to something. They are, for example, on their way to grace and in need of redemption (Augustine), on their way to responsibility (Aquinas), or on their way to conversion (Jonathan Edwards). Though some theologians depart from a view of childhood in which the relationship between adults and children is one-way (with adults modeling for children the way of growth), these cases prove to be exceptions rather than the rule. Luther’s notion of children as God’s “little jesters,” Horace Bushnell’s heralding of children’s play as a foretaste of Christian freedom, and Karl Rahner’s focus on children’s openness to mystery are notable because they are different from the dominant chords in that history.^[2]

My first appreciation of Berryman’s work, therefore, was that it highlighted children’s agency. Here, at last, was an understanding of children that valued children not primarily for who they might become, but simply for who they are. And who they are, in part, are agents and meaning makers blessed by God. One way children express agency and meaning in the world is through play. Play, according to Berryman, is “re-creation,” a “life-giving act” that “makes us young when we are old and matures us when we are young.”^[3] These are some of the opening words of Godly Play, a book that has become standard in seminary curricula. Berryman attends to both the structure and spontaneity of play in this opening chapter. For play to elicit joy and wonder, it occurs within boundaries, rules, and goals. Without a modicum of rules, play becomes frustrating. Children know this instinctively; rigged games trigger an immediate sense of unfairness. But structure to a game does not stifle creativity. Within structure play flourishes, a flourishing where children can instruct adults: “Playing takes place in the intermediate and overlapping area of experience between the ‘me’ and the ‘not me.’ This area is a place of spontaneity. . . . The significant moment in such experiencing is when the child or adult at play surprises himself or herself with a glimpse of the true self.”^[4] In play, children (and adults) respond to God’s creativity by becoming creators themselves. Play brings something new into creation, whether a tumble in the grass, a catch of a ball, or the construction of an alternate world or imaginary friend. Play, Berryman notes, opens us anew to God, self, others, and nature.^[5] “This book is more interested in playing itself than in turning play into a teaching device. To make play instrumental is to turn play into work. . . . [This book] is about teaching the art of playing so that one can come close to the Creator who comes close to us and even joins us when we are playing at any age.”^[6] Berryman holds play as sacred, as a primary religious impulse in children that gives them access to the patterns of the Christian story. Through play, children are incorporated into that story while also making it their own. In Berryman’s approach, children do not passively receive the story (as if growing in faith amounted to an assent to the story as “true”) but engage the story by becoming storytellers themselves.

This narrative aspect of Berryman’s work was another facet that I found important in my first exposure to Godly Play. I found it captivating for two reasons: (1) Stories make us human; and (2) Christian faith is knit together not only by credal statements but also by stories (primarily, the stories of Scripture) told and retold across the generations, stories worth a lifetime of revisiting.

I believe storytelling is built into the human condition. We are a species that has told stories—around campfires, in homes, in town squares and theaters—for millennia. Stories forge identity, entertain, and ground us in values that endure across time. One can learn much about a culture from the stories it tells. Storytelling is also baked into our care of children across time. It is enshrined in the Shema, one of the ancient affirmations of Jewish faith, which stresses that the people Israel are to keep commandments and “recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise” (Deut. 6:7, NRSV). It is reflected in the time-honored practice of bedtime stories. My own children got most engaged in stories when they became characters within them: “Dad, tell me a story about us sailing in a boat!” These stories came alive because they allowed my children to add their voices, to ask questions, to see the future as open to possibility, to forge their own identities. Godly Play does precisely this. Each lesson is grounded in a foundational story of Christian faith, engaged audibly, visually, and tactilely (reminding us that words are not disembodied but seek flesh), which then opens to wonder and creative response. The stories of Godly Play do not “end” with “the end.” Instead, they invite questions and wonder. They summon children’s voices to engage with, be shaped by, and even at times to argue with the story that has just been told. This is best glimpsed in the time for artistic responses that occurs after the time of wonder. Here, children’s agency and meaning-making are most visible. Here, they respond to and tell the story in their own ways. Surely this is an example of re-creation, bringing something new out of an age-old story. Storytelling is never passive in Christian faith, or at least it never should be. Faith is passed down or “handed over” (the root meaning of tradition) to the next generation through story. The story of Christian faith summons our lives, it invites us to see ourselves within it, and it calls for our voices as that faith is reclaimed, relived, and renewed in each generation. Berryman writes that Godly Play “contrasts talking about scripture and worship with being in scripture and worship.”^[7] The storytelling pattern of Godly Play is not simply a means of religious education for children; it is the rhythm of Christian faith itself.

Eucharistic Joy in Godly Play

I first admired Godly Play for how it centered storytelling and children’s agency. These aspects cut against the grain of many historical understandings of children in Christian theology by offering a holistic appreciation of who children are instead of valuing them for who they might become. My appreciation of these aspects of his work remains. But as I revisited Godly Play over the years, I noticed how it shifted my understanding of a central rite of Christian faith: the Eucharist. Godly Play, to state the obvious, mirrors and incorporates the main patterns of Christian worship across denominations: a gathering and welcome, hearing the Word, the people’s response to God’s Word, a feast, and a sending. Godly Play takes root because it incorporates these deep patterns that have endured over time. It shares much in common with the earliest records we have of Christian worship in the New Testament and the writings of Justin Martyr. The scaffolding of Godly Play, in this respect, is as old as the Christian faith. But what might be novel about Godly Play (at least for me) is how it initiates a subtle shift in understanding what worship is. Most interpretations of Christian worship draw on the roots of the term liturgy (leitourgia) and emphasize “work of the people.” Worship extols God’s work for us and summons our work in thanksgiving for healing the world. But in Berryman’s hands, another, neglected element is uplifted: worship as play. In this regard, Godly Play has consequences not simply for children’s religious education but as the entire people of God participates in all aspects of worship.

Thus far I have avoided defining the term play, since it is rather elusive. Defining play in words is more difficult than intuiting it when we see it. We might define play by contrasting it with its opposite, work, but that approach is also lacking. Instead of offering an exhaustive definition of play here, I will cite a few characteristics. Play is creative. Rather than mindless repetition (surely the definition of drudgery), play invites us to make something new and to renew ourselves and others. Play is imaginative. It summons our creativity to envision possibilities and to dream. Play evokes delight. It puts us in a posture of joy and thanksgiving, simply because one is at play. Play is focused intently on the moment. Play does not surrender goals—there is almost always a purpose to play—but it does not let the goal eclipse our attention to the game or our playmates. This is why, in play, we can become lost in the game, immersed in the moment.

Many, including me, have considered work to be the primary analogue to Christian worship. In these interpretations, the eucharistic feast is a key example. The elements of the Eucharist, bread and wine, are the products of human labor. Human beings take a gift of bounty in God’s world (wheat and grapes), apply labor to them, and create something new to give thanks to God and to share bounty with the world. Without human work, there is no Eucharist. This recognition, in part, is what is meant by liturgy as work of the people.^[8]

But Godly Play confronts us with the fact that worship is not defined, contained, or exhausted by work. If work is the only analogue for worship, then the gathering of God’s people week in and week out can become monotony. Godly Play evokes the characteristics of play that I note at the beginning of this section. It emphasizes creativity by encouraging the artistic and verbal responses to that day’s story. It nourishes the imagination in the time of wonder and as it invites questions.^[9] It places a premium on delight in the way it makes storytelling joyous. And it focuses attention on the moment as the story is told, as the worship leader focuses the community’s attention on the tactile elements of the story. Godly Play, in this sense, does not just “prepare” children for worship; it shows us what worship is—namely, turning our attention, in delight, to a God who delights in us. This is delight that summons our joy and our play. In this way, Godly Play recognizes that worship allows us to reconnect with who we are, creatures made in God’s image who delight in God, each other, and the world. Berryman movingly concludes his seminal work with these words: “Godly play is a way to keep open the opportunity for the true self to emerge in childhood and the possibility that adults may return to where they began and begin to grow again.”^[10] In worship, in play, we are welcomed home.

None of these insights relinquish the notion that worship is also the work of the people. Indeed, Godly Play might show us the true nature of “good work.” Work that is life-giving, creative, fulfilling, and meaningful is often hard to distinguish from play. Artists who become joyfully lost in their craft; teachers who communicate passion for their areas of expertise; parents who read with their children—these are examples of work and play. The Eucharist embodies these patterns of good work: Gifted by God, nourished at Table, formed by story, we rise from the Table to share this bounty with a hungry world. That is work, but it is also play, for eucharistic work evokes delight and thanksgiving, plunging us into the joy of the moment. Perhaps the most meaningful work of all resembles—and even becomes—play. In this regard, our children have much to teach us. Godly Play does not merely render worship playful for children; it shows us that play lies at the heart of worship. Berryman has shown us that the true work of the people is also play, and that this play gives life to the world.

The Person at Play

Every child of God is unique, but one could craft a persuasive argument that Berryman was more unique than most others. For this reason, I believe it’s impossible to separate Berryman the person from his legacy of work and play. His personal character found expression in a legacy where we continue to meet him even today. This is something more than a trite expression that “his spirit lives on”; it is a recognition that Godly Play is also an outgrowth of Berryman’s playful and quirky personality.

Berryman had high standards for himself and for others. Given the choice between a cheap option that cut corners and a more expensive route that exemplified quality, he would always choose the latter. When my seminary colleague invited him to a conference, Jerome made it clear that he would not fly to Austin via coach. Why suffer through cramped seats, a lengthy boarding process, and minimal refreshments (or none) when one could fly more comfortably at a greater cost? The extra dollars were worth it, because the point of the journey was not simply to arrive but also to savor the experience of travel. I am nearly certain that Jerome never flew with an ultra-low-cost carrier. So he flew to Austin, but not in economy class, arriving in better condition than anyone else who participated in the conference.

These high standards are reflected in Godly Play. Though I never heard him say as much, I’m sure he believed that much of the church’s ministry with children was conducted on the cheap: Put the youth in a basement room and throw a few pizzas at them for the evening; give the kids some old crayons and a roll of butcher paper; snacks will be stale Goldfish left over from last week; play that video from the 1980s—the kids won’t notice. But children do notice. They sense the difference between intentionality and an afterthought. From start to finish, Godly Play exudes intentionality. Many approaches to children’s religious education are marked by condescension, a perceived need to make the message of Christian faith more “accessible” to the youngest. Berryman’s standard is the rhythm of worship, a rhythm that does not need to be dumbed down but followed through its course. Children participate in these rhythms and are uplifted and held as full members of the worshipping community. In contrast to many forms of “children’s church,” Godly Play thus sets the standard high.

Another example of these high standards is evident in Berryman’s sensitivity to children’s liminal experiences. Many approaches to children’s nurture shelter children from the liminal. Children in this view are too young, innocent, or naïve to be exposed to topics such as death, freedom, meaning, and aloneness. But Berryman notes that “children do have an awareness of the existential limits to their being and their knowing and that they are crying out in ways we do not often recognize for the language tools to help them build a life that takes such ultimate concerns into consideration.”^[11] In worship, the community of faith expresses ultimate concern. When we cosset children from liminal experiences, we thwart their growth in faith. Godly Play, however, helps children grow in language for and apprehension of the liminal, in the stories narrated week by week. A high aim indeed.

In addition to embodying high standards, Jerome was also a patient person. Seeing him teach a Godly Play session was watching artistry. He could slow down or speed up in response to the pulse of the room; he took every child’s question or contribution seriously, and the children knew it. Repetition did not tire him; he moved according to the pace of children. Godly Play requires patience even as it enhances it. In a world where we are continually bombarded by words, Godly Play is not afraid of silence, the pregnant pauses that nurture learning. Those who teach Godly Play often experience the healing balm of slowing down. In a world that fosters anonymity, it prizes the names of each beloved child of God: the names of those in the story, the names of those telling and hearing the story. To participate in Godly Play is to take time to learn names.

But perhaps most memorably, Jerome was warm, caring, gentle, and kind. In conversation, he made you feel heard. He asked about your family and loved ones. He was a good and loyal friend. He kept in touch with an extensive network of colleagues across the globe. He knew that people were made for relationship. One’s first experience of Godly Play is often marked by a sense of being heard, an overwhelming experience of kindness and beauty, what Simone Weil called “the tender smile of Christ” for the world. To participate in even a few Godly Play sessions is to be exposed to some of Berryman’s kindness and warmth.

Godly Play in My Family

I conclude this essay by noting how Godly Play has affected my family’s growth in Christian faith. When we moved to Austin in the summer of 2001, we began attending a church where the children’s programming needed “a little help.” Before the sermon, children aged two to ten marched to a basement room for “recreation.” At the conclusion of our first worship service with this community, we picked up our daughter Grace, then age two, who was cowering in a corner trying to avoid the playground balls hurled by much older kids—not the most welcoming experience, to be sure. Almost immediately my wife, Molly, got to work figuring out better possibilities. Within a few months, she and others began a program that incorporated Godly Play, mostly shaped by Berryman’s co-authored work with Sonja Stewart, Young Children and Worship.^[12] Grace was one of the first children at our church to be shaped by that program, which began at a pivotal age and carried her through elementary school. Seven years later, our son Finn benefited from the same program. Molly and I were regular teachers and volunteers. We learned to tell stories with the tactile figures, to organize the sessions according to the rhythms of worship, to attend to each child’s voice, to wonder with them, to marvel at the words of their mouths and the creations of their hands. Those were undoubtedly the years our children were most engaged in church. They felt heard. Their nurture in the Godly Play classroom encouraged them to join the children’s choir, to participate in musicals, and to value their own voices. I have no doubt that Finn’s passion for art (which he is currently studying in college) was ignited by Godly Play. Likewise, Grace’s confidence in her own voice is rooted in the way her questions were honored all those years ago. During those early years, our children were excited to go to church, even when it meant staying for four hours.

I wish I could say their enthusiasm continued beyond elementary school. But it did not. Something that was present for them in Godly Play became less of a presence in the years that followed. I don’t think they felt as heard. Something was missing and they knew it. One hope I have for the future is for more churches to adopt approaches to youth ministry that mirror the kinds of engagement that Godly Play evokes from children. Regardless of how that occurs, however, the foundation established in Godly Play is still present in adolescence. After hearing the stories at an early age, being enveloped in those stories, and knowing that the stories summon our voices and honor our sacredness, those of us who have participated in Godly Play never leave it completely behind. The stories help make us who we are.

On the last pages of Godly Play Berryman hints at the point of his work/play: “What we are all called to do is to become artists in living. . . . The goal is to cooperate with life in love.”^[13] Godly Play orients those who teach and those who learn (and these categories always blend) in a story of divine love, graciously and profligately given to all—a love that shapes us to become more loving. That is a story in which all can take part, young and old; it is a story worth retelling and reenacting for as long as we live. Thank you, Jerome, for helping us hear and tell that story.