Childish Things
The Theology & Sentiments of Baby Worship
by Chene Heady
My quarrel with Precious Moments products began early. My mother charted the course of my childhood on an endless series of Precious Moments Psalms calendars, and I hated every one of them. She hung each of the calendar’s incarnations in the kitchen, over the burn-spotted patch of yellow linoleum adjacent the oven.
So when, as an awkward ten-year-old, I dropped a set of dishes, a knee-high shepherd and his herd of dog-like sheep were smugly looking on. When, as an angst-ridden teen, I sulked over my black tea, a joyfully noisy toddler with a badly dented trumpet was standing over me in judgment.
I was a biblically astute, if not abnormally happy youth, and was perpetually annoyed at how our calendar simplified the Psalms. Never would I see a toddling David weep, “Out of the depths I cry unto thee, O Lord,” or “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Our linoleum tile, speckled black following a disastrous pizza reheating incident, evidenced a greater knowledge of human frailty than did these Psalms.
For this reason, I was more likely to look to the linoleum for spiritual encouragement than to the calendar above. The Precious Moments Psalms calendar has ever afterwards remained with me as the emblem of a problem, some mistake or misdirection in conservative Christian culture, which I felt but couldn’t properly name.
Diddle, Dum
When I finally came across a name for this problem, I was reading Barchester Towers by Anthony Trollope, the great Victorian novelist and postal reformer. The chapter titled “Baby Worship” begins with the liturgical service of the same name, offered by Mary and Eleanor Bold to Mary’s son, little Johnny Bold. Though Trollope describes the service in some detail, the relevant points follow:
“Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,” said or sung Eleanor Bold. “Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,” continued Mary Bold, taking up the second part in this concerted piece. . . . A regular service of baby worship was going on . . . and Eleanor was kneeling before the object of her idolatry.1
Now, Trollope was a model Victorian, but he was hardly a model Christian. He had a kind of civic faith, but drew no clear distinction between the Paschal and the Postal Services. I am always surprised when Trollope’s mild satire implies that there is such a thing as a theological error. Nevertheless, Trollope finds two theological defects in the Bolds’ worship—its devotion is misplaced and its words are without meaning—and most current Christians, I fear, would not have been able to find one.
My local Christian bookstore seems to be run by the Bolds. It sells 157 Precious Moments figurines (I counted; people stared), the Precious Moments Bible in both Protestant and Catholic versions, and inspirational works with titles like Hugs from Heaven. The Bolds’ call and response of “Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum” has, I realized, become an accepted rite of Christian worship. Thanks to Trollope, the mistake that nagged me had a name: It was Baby Worship.
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