When you compose for children

“From the very outset of his career, he appeared calmly indifferent to blame or praise. Those who knew him well believed that this was no pose but wholly genuine.” So reports Wikipedia of my favourite composer, Maurice Ravel.

Last night I took the train to the Philharmonic Hall to hear my favourite Ravel masterpiece, Ma mère l’Oye (The Mother Goose Suite), performed by the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by the Venezuelan maestro Domingo Hindoyan. I know the piece so well that I could probably whistle it in the bath.

I went with high expectations, and they were fully realised in a performance of great sensitivity and restraint—one that you will be able to hear for yourself on BBC Radio 3 on 10th March.

It’s one thing to listen through speakers or earbuds, but nothing compares with seeing an orchestra play live. From my seat at the front of the stalls, I watched in quiet amazement as the woodwind section shaped and sustained the haunting melody before me.

More to the point, this music feels “at my level,” because Ravel originally wrote Ma mère l’Oye for children, to be performed by children. In complete contrast, the final work in the concert, the Symphony in C by Paul Dukas, left me unmoved: to my ears it sounded like a collection of random ideas, with no obvious sense of progression.

Ravel’s suite, by contrast, draws on much-loved nursery stories and was first presented as a piano duet for Mimi and Jean Godebski, aged just six and seven. At its premiere in 1911, it was performed by two young pianists aged eleven and fourteen. The following year, Ravel orchestrated the work, and later that same year expanded it into a ballet.

For me, there is an added, deeply personal dimension. When my father died in 1993, I inherited his Deutsche Grammophon recording of this piece. Ever since, Ma mère l’Oye has been bound up with memories of my own childhood, carrying with it not only Ravel’s delicate magic, but also something of my father’s presence and love.

Writing for children, whether in words or in music, requires special discipline and humility. It demands imagination, patience, and respect. Like Jesus’ parables, the best writing for children uses plain language to carry deep meaning and lasting wonder.

But why bother? Faced with a choice between impressing the Parisian musical establishment and writing for the two young children of one of his few close friends, Ravel chose Mimi and Jean.

That choice feels close to the spirit of Jesus.

In his culture, children had very low status. They had no independent standing and were valued mainly for what they might become, rather than for who they already were. Often seen as a financial burden, they were, in ways that now surprise us, largely invisible and socially insignificant.

So when people brought their children to be blessed by Jesus, the disciples tried to warn them off. Mark tells us: “But when Jesus saw this, he was indignant and said to them, ‘Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.’” (Mark 10:14)

In the Kingdom of God, children matter. So Mark continues: “Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15)  Jesus identifies children as our model for relating to God: marked by trust, openness, dependence, and lack of status.

Then, alone among the Gospel writers, Mark adds this detail: “And he took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them.”

This was not symbolic. It was personal, tender, and public. He treated children as people of worth, not as interruptions, or as we sometimes do, as a nuisance.

Moreover, and this remains a searching lesson for the Church, Jesus spoke strongly about protecting children: “If any of you put a stumbling-block before one of these little ones, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung round your neck.” (Mark 9:42)

God takes seriously how the weak and young are treated. So what does Jesus’ love for children tell us about God?

It tells us that God values us not for what we achieve, but simply for who we are. He welcomes those who are small, overlooked, and easily dismissed. He delights in trust, openness, and simplicity. His kingdom belongs not to the powerful and self-sufficient, but to those who know their need and dependence.

Where society saw insignificance, Jesus saw importance.Where others saw inconvenience, he saw opportunity for grace.

And in placing children at the centre, he quietly and decisively redefined what greatness in God’s kingdom really looks like.

In composing Ma mère l’Oye, Ravel’s trust in simplicity, imagination, and innocence feels close to that teaching. He reminds us that depth does not require complexity, and that wonder is not something we should ever outgrow.