Kids in Church Cause Mass Hysteria

The inside of a house of worship must be the most confusing place ever to a child.

There’s water that you can’t play in, books without pictures and mysterious doors that no one ever opens. You’re never allowed to see what’s behind you, and the only thing you have to play with is your tongue and that’s punishable by severe pinching.

One of the problems is we never really tell kids what services are all about. All they’re told is to be quiet and not talk for an hour. They have no idea what we’re doing. When my son was 5 years old, I dragged him to confession one Saturday. Every time I inched toward the closed closet door, my son would start to say something and I would clap my hand over his mouth. Finally, the line started with me. I was next up when he said, “I don’t have to go to the bathroom. I went before I left home,” and bolted toward the parking lot.

There’s the plight of the 4-year-old who was in church on Sunday when the wine and wafers were passed out. His mother leaned over and told him that he was not old enough to comprehend the transubstantiation and that he was not allowed to partake in the Communion. Later, the collection plate came by and stopped dead in front of him. His mother again leaned over and tried to coax the nickel out of his clenched fist. He held firm and shouted, “If I can’t eat, I won’t pay.”

Faith is just a word to children. They don’t know what it means, how to get it, how to keep it or what to do with it. They just pick up bits and pieces of conversation and try to sound like an adult. A Sunday school teacher asked her class if anyone knew where God is. One little girl said, “He’s in the bathroom in the back of the church.” When the teacher pressed her for her rationale, she said, “My mother is always knocking on the door saying, ‘God, are you still in there?’ ”

Adults become different people in church. A few years ago, our son served his first Mass as an altar boy. He knew he was supposed to ring the bells at a certain time in the Mass, but he wasn’t sure when, so he rang them every time he passed them. After the service, the priest leaned over and said to me, “It was like serving Mass with Quasimodo.” Ordinarily, I would have roared and sent the story off to Reader’s Digest. I sat there like a mask of tragedy.

Church to a child is low-noise-level punishment, like holding your body in a vise and pretending to arrange your hair when they’re really pulling it. Church is lips that sing “Love the little children” at the same time eyes are saying, “You will never get another Oreo cookie for as long as you live.” Church is where everyone talks about joy and love and happiness, but when someone rings bells at the wrong time we’re afraid to laugh. Why?