On Innocent Eucharistic Bystanders
Kids and families belong at Mass. So do empty-nesters, unmarried people, and childless people. Let's belong there together.
You know those stories and memes about families boarding a plane with a baby or a toddler and giveaways for nearby folks? For those who haven’t traveled with a little one in their charge, it can push even the least humiliate-able among us toward the edge.
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In these stories, the parents will distribute little goody bags to those seated around them. It might include some snacks or treats, maybe a pair of ear plugs, and note from the family, or even “from the kid,” with a tongue-in-cheek apology and thank you. It’s their way of trying to preempt the frustration or anger of these innocent bystanders to the calamity that may unfold as the tiny human embarks on this flight.
The very-online-discourse that follows these sometimes viral stories would oscillate wildly, as such discourse is wont to do.
The support would come: families need to travel, too, and it’s nice to think of others who didn’t choose to travel with little kids; it’s a conversation starter and small gift that can help smooth out or prevent conflicts before people get salty.
Then the criticisms would fly, too, from these others: I didn’t choose to fly with kids, and this fun-sized candy bar doesn’t change my annoyance at being near them; don’t try to apologize or butter me up because you know your kid is going to raise hell; figure out a way to keep your kid quiet, or maybe take a car or train next time.
Then there’d even be the meta-discourse: don’t apologize for your kids, just bring them and people can deal! As if confronting simmering problems that both sides are likely keenly aware of can never be a good thing… (Though I admit this put-my-head-down-and-parent and cross my fingers that others are chill is mostly my strategy with my kids on planes.)
While good conversations need to cover lots of ground and various angles, these little comment-section debates can lose the thread. That thread, I’d say, is that families and children need to travel by plane sometimes, and we all need to find our ways to accept and work with this as we travel, whether as parents of small children trying to optimize the transaction or co-passengers finding an understanding of it.
And that’s kind of how I feel about kids at Mass sometimes.
I hear and read stories about people’s awful experiences being scolded at Mass for their kids’ irreverence — criticisms of kids who can’t sit still, can’t stay quiet, or can’t focus on the readings or the Eucharistic prayer. I hear and read stories of some communities’ exceptional hospitality — pews with cards that welcome families and offer directions to nursing rooms, bathrooms, and quiet areas; hospitality ministers who offer special worship aids or assist with choosing ideal seating; Eucharistic Ministers who pastorally meet and bless pre-first-communicant children during communion.
As these stories of derision and affirmation swirl, I hope those who struggle to find comfort around kids at Mass as well as those who proudly bring their kids and/or embrace the proximity of others’ kids don’t lose the thread. That thread, I’d say, is that families and children need to be at Mass, and we all need to find our ways to embrace this as we pray at Mass, whether as parents of small children or simply as fellow Christians.
Kids need to be at Mass, and kids should be at Mass. Except for contagious illness, parents should never think twice about bringing their kids to Mass, especially not by discouragement from others’ real, supposed, or perceived annoyance! (I suppose we can debate the merits of “cry rooms” another time — it won’t shock you to learn I’m not a fan!), but even cry rooms are at Mass.)
This past Sunday, I was at Mass with all three of my kids and my dad, who wanted to join us while my wife was out of town. The two big girls were very into their trusty kids’ worship aids, but they were very high-need — questions about the activities’ directions, ostentatious desires to share their progress, confusions about getting wrong answers, and more, all while we grown-ups were doing Catholic calisthenics and juggling a nap-vetoing-six-month-old.
We were in the second-to-last-row, about where we usually are in our church, and a middle-aged couple was right behind us. Though I never made eye contact or heard them say anything, my mind auto-completed some supposed thoughts of theirs as our activity swirled and our gazes rarely pointed toward the sanctuary. As they knelt down behind us and their arms leaned onto the top of our pew in prayer, I even loaded up my hypothetical reply to their supposed frustration that maybe you shouldn’t sit in the back row if you want to really focus.
In reality, all I received was patient smiles.
As I gave up trying to soothe my baby and handed her to grandpa for waking time, I tried to signal to him to unwrap her swaddle. He didn’t notice, so I signaled my oldest daughter to signal him. She didn’t notice either. So the man behind us tapped my dad on his shoulder for me and pointed him my way, without my even begging for the help.
When we reached the Sign of Peace and I finished crawling over church bags and kneelers and spilled crayons to greet each family member, I next turned around to these neighbors. As he shook my hand, the man said as his Sign of Peace, “You’re doing a great job.” Then as she shook my hand, the woman just said, “Peace, Dad.”
I just laughed at myself and my crooked operating system. In their Christian charity, they made my morning.
And in their simple gesture, they modeled what we can do for one another — all of us for every neighbor, but particularly innocent Eucharistic bystanders to parents and families and little kids at Mass. Abide in the communion together. Pay witness to the mess and joy and turmoil and laughter. And, when it’s not intrusive or presumptuous, offer the little bit of help that we might need and may not think to ask for.
I don’t necessarily want you to reach in and attempt physical touch as a means of calming my riled child down. I do want you to hand me the crayon my 4-year-old inadvertently rolled under your pew.
I don’t necessarily want you to advise me on how best to manage their energy. I do want you to smile, wave, and laugh as the kids catch your eye, or even affirm my kids (or my wife and me) if you have it in you.
I don’t necessarily want a long lesson on parenting. I do want to hear your stories of your spouse or partner, your kids, your days busting it to Mass, and how you can identify with the commitment we’re making to being here together as a family.
A friend joked, “A church that isn’t crying is a church that might be dying.” I think that might be true demographically.
I’d say instead, or even more so, any local faith community where its members are not in sync in their communal worship or their community life — especially in the ways that help everyone feel welcome as they are to strive to pray together — is fractured and disjunctive. A church that isn’t journeying together may be drifting apart.
When you see families and kids at Mass, whether it’s smooth sailing or a struggle, whether it’s quiet calm or cacophony, don’t be afraid to affirm, encourage, or compliment them — if for nothing else, than for their witness in showing up and being there together. I can attest that each positive comment can go a long way.