What If Spiritual Maturity Looks Like Dependence?

When Jesus says, “Unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven,” He is not speaking into a children’s sermon illustration. He is responding to ambition. The disciples are arguing about greatness. They are thinking in categories of rank, visibility, importance. They want to know who carries weight in this new kingdom Jesus keeps describing.

Jesus answers by placing a child in the center of the room.

That moment would have felt jarring in the first century. In our modern context, children are often sentimentalized — symbols of purity or sweetness. But in the ancient world, children had no social leverage. They were entirely dependent. They contributed nothing economically. They had no authority, no rank, no voice in public life. To tell adult men to become like that was not a charming metaphor. It was a direct challenge to their understanding of status.

The kingdom of heaven, Jesus implies, is entered not by ascending but by descending. Not by asserting power but by relinquishing it. Not by establishing competence but by embracing dependence.

The language He uses matters. “Unless you turn.” The word implies a reorientation, almost a repentance. It suggests that the default trajectory of the human heart moves toward self-importance. To become like a child requires a shift in direction.

And then He sharpens it further in Mark 10. When children are brought to Him, the disciples rebuke those bringing them. They likely thought they were protecting Jesus’ time from what seemed insignificant. But Jesus is indignant. “Let the little children come to me… for to such belongs the kingdom of God.” And then He adds a line that removes any possibility of softening the message: “Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”

Receive.

The kingdom is received.

That word stands in quiet opposition to the instincts we are trained to cultivate. From early on, we are taught to achieve, to build, to prove, to distinguish ourselves. Success is measured by independence. Maturity is defined by self-sufficiency. The world tells us that growing up means needing less help.

But the gospel tells a different story.

The gospel begins with inability. “All have sinned.” “None is righteous.” It begins with the confession that we cannot rescue ourselves. Salvation is not an accomplishment; it is a gift. “By grace you have been saved through faith… not a result of works.” From beginning to end, the Christian life is marked by reception.

Children understand reception intuitively.

A child does not earn their place at the family table. They do not negotiate belonging through performance metrics. They come because they are invited. They receive because they trust the one who invites them. Their dependence is not something they try to outgrow immediately. It is simply the environment they live within.

Somewhere along the way, adulthood convinces us that dependence is embarrassing. We begin to hide our need. We cultivate images of competence. We avoid admitting weakness. But Scripture repeatedly affirms that weakness is not a liability in the kingdom; it is the stage for grace.

Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians are startling. He boasts in weakness. He describes a thorn in his flesh and hears the Lord respond, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Paul’s maturity did not move him away from dependence; it moved him into a deeper awareness of it. “When I am weak, then I am strong.” That paradox only makes sense inside a kingdom where strength flows from reliance on God.

Children embody that paradox naturally.

They ask for help without shame. They do not hesitate to say, “I can’t.” They approach authority expecting provision. They do not carry the illusion of self-sufficiency.

And perhaps that is what unsettles us.

In Matthew 18, Jesus connects childlikeness explicitly to humility. “Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” Humility is not self-hatred. It is not diminishing your gifts. It is accurate self-understanding before God. It is recognizing that every gift is given. Every breath is sustained. Every opportunity is grace.

Humility dethrones comparison.

The disciples were measuring greatness horizontally — who is above whom. Jesus redirects their attention vertically — who is dependent on God. In the kingdom, greatness is not visibility but vulnerability before the Father.

There is something deeply revealing about how children forgive. Immediately after lifting up a child as the model for kingdom posture, Jesus begins teaching about reconciliation. Peter asks about limits — how many times must I forgive? Jesus responds without offering a ceiling. Forgiveness in the kingdom is not measured; it is multiplied.

Children often return to relationship faster than adults do. They may argue intensely, but they reconcile quickly. Pride has not yet calcified. Ego has not yet built fortified walls. Adults, by contrast, can nurse grievances for years. We protect ourselves. We rehearse offenses. We defend narratives about why we were right.

Childlikeness does not eliminate conflict. It shortens the distance to restoration.

And then there is wonder.

Children still experience awe. They are not yet dulled by repetition. When they hear that God created the universe, they imagine it vividly. When they hear that Jesus defeated death, they widen their eyes. When they are told that God hears their prayers in the middle of ordinary life, they pause in astonishment.

Adults, however, can grow accustomed to holy realities. The cross becomes a concept rather than a miracle. Forgiveness becomes expected rather than staggering. Access to God becomes assumed rather than treasured.

The writer of Hebrews presents access as revolutionary. Because of Jesus, the veil is torn. Because of Jesus, we approach the throne of grace with confidence. That language is not casual. It is seismic. Yet familiarity can erode awe.

Perhaps part of childlikeness is preserving astonishment.

Not shallow amazement, but sustained reverence. Not ignorance, but wonder anchored in understanding.

Children also ask honest questions. They do not curate their curiosity. They ask why suffering happens. They ask how heaven works. They ask whether God can do impossible things. Adults often silence questions for fear of appearing unstable or immature. Yet Scripture makes room for lament. The Psalms are filled with raw cries. Job protests. Habakkuk wrestles. Faith that asks is not fragile; it is relational.

Childlikeness includes trust, but it also includes honest engagement.

Theologically, dependence is not merely an entry point into salvation; it is the ongoing posture of sanctification. Sanctification — the process of being formed into the image of Christ — is not achieved through grit alone. It unfolds through abiding. Jesus says in John 15, “Apart from me you can do nothing.” That is not hyperbole. It is reality. Fruit does not strain itself into existence; it grows by remaining connected to the vine.

Children understand remaining. They understand attachment. They instinctively stay near those they trust.

Spiritual maturity, then, may look less like self-generated strength and more like sustained attachment to Christ. It may look like quicker confession when we fail. It may look like slower anger when we are wronged. It may look like asking for prayer instead of projecting invincibility. It may look like leadership expressed through gentleness.

For those of us in ministry, this presses deeply. It is possible to grow in strategic ability while shrinking in spiritual dependence. Systems improve. Communication sharpens. Vision expands. None of that is wrong. But if reliance on the Spirit becomes secondary to reliance on skill, we drift from the heart of the kingdom.

The disciples wanted to know who was greatest. Jesus pointed to the least.

That inversion remains uncomfortable.

In a culture that rewards platform and performance, Jesus rewards humility and receptivity. In a world that celebrates autonomy, Jesus calls for dependence. In an environment that equates maturity with independence, Jesus equates maturity with childlikeness.

What if spiritual maturity looks like dependence?

What if growth means deeper awareness of need rather than the illusion of mastery? What if becoming like Christ means becoming gentler, more accessible, more forgiving? What if strength in the kingdom is not control but surrender?

Children are not theological experts. They are not paragons of virtue. But they embody, in their dependence and openness, a posture that aligns closely with the gospel itself.

We entered the kingdom empty-handed.

We remain in it the same way.

Open hands. Open hearts. Unashamed need.

The world will continue to tell us that growing up means needing no one. The gospel insists that growing up means needing God more consciously, more intentionally, more joyfully.

To become like a child is not to regress into immaturity. It is to resist the drift toward pride. It is to remember that grace is received, not achieved. It is to lead from the knees rather than from the pedestal. It is to forgive more quickly, to trust more readily, to approach God more boldly.

Perhaps the reason Jesus places a child at the center is because dependence is not merely the doorway into the kingdom — it is the way of life within it.

And maybe the children among us are not only being discipled by us.

Maybe, by God’s design, they are discipling us — reminding us that the kingdom belongs to those who receive.