When we were raising our children, the holiest time of day for us was not the brief grace we muttered over our meals. And it wasn’t the time I spent in reading the Bible or studying theology. It wasn’t even that special space each morning for prayer and preparation.

The holiest time of day came at the end of the day when we tucked our kids into bed and read them stories.

Oh, the places we traveled during those holy times!

From the delights of Disney to the treasures of Mark Twain, together we entered into a whole new world, a holy world.

Through the stories we shared, our children learned much about the nature of the world, the meaning of life, even the work of God.

Good stories tell the truth. The truth of life and death, of joy and sorrow. They reveal the mysteries of the universe and the realities of the world. Surely this is one of the reasons why Jesus called us to become children again and why he spent much of his ministry telling stories.

When I read the story of Pinocchio to my son, there was never any real question over the actual existence of a puppet who came alive. There was no scientific inquiry or biological debate. All of that was set aside by him in order that he might discover the truth.

All kids do this.

They have been graced by God with the gift of transcending the reasonable and the rational and experiencing the truth.

The truth is not that a puppet comes to life and dances about a cobbler’s cottage. The truth is not that your nose will grow if you lie. The truth is that deception and deceit disfigure us and every kid knows and believes it. That is the beauty of story.

Why, I wonder, do we adults have such difficulty understanding this beauty...especially when the stories are found in the Bible?