So what if that's the only time they go to church
Every Sunday, it is the same, brief debate: how far toward the front of the church can we sit? Not shockingly, it’s the kids who always want to sit closer, yet it is those same kids (or, more specifically, their unpredictable behavior) who spur my husband’s nearly desperate need to sit farther toward the relative safety of the back.
Having no dog in the “where do we sit” fight, I watch the whole thing with the detachment of an anthropologist. I stay at home with these children; I homeschool them. I am with them 24/7, so I’m more or less unfazed by the random theological questions (“What makes Lazarus different in nature from a zombie?” or “If someone poisoned the wine before the Consecration, would the Real Presence neutralize it?”), bizarre requests (“I have a mosquito bite right above my butt, can I use your purse to scratch it so people behind me still want to shake hands during the Sign of Peace?”) and horrified realizations that somebody put mismatched shoes on the toddler (probably the toddler). I find if I view Mass with children as a sort of video game, it’s easier — the more cringe-worthy the behavior, the more grace I’m accumulating. Sometimes I can almost see the Grace-O-Meter floating there above the Crucifix, filling up exponentially with every request to bring an empty milk jug to Mass so we can “get enough Holy Water to last us in case of emergency!”
My husband’s inner life does not contain such coping strategies for Mass, however, and so toward the back we sit. It’s fine, really, and it’s just more incentive to get myself to daily Mass, where I can sit as close to the front as I want.
However, even my husband’s love of the backidy back is tested by seating options at the Christmas Eve Masses. Five years we’ve gone to our current parish, and five years we’ve found ourselves in the “no room at the inn” seating area. It’s in the back all right — the very back of the atrium, in folding chairs packed so tightly that none of the kids need to move to be sitting in my lap — they’re already there.
Since we have little children, the late Mass is out of the question, and I’m always too scared of possible Christmas morning mayhem to risk putting Mass off until the 25th.
So that leaves us with the 4:00 or the 6:30 Christmas Eve Mass, which always contains something roughly equal to the total population of my town. It’s hot. It’s loud. At least twice somebody’s fainted and an ambulance has been called. You can’t see Father, and you can’t see the Tabernacle, and expecting regular Mass behavior from the kids just seems pointless, based on the barely contained anarchy you see from the other kids crammed in the back.
I love it.
I always look around the parish at Christmas (and the similarly packed Easter Mass), and marvel at what I’m seeing. Oh, I know there are people who deeply resent the sudden swelling of the ranks during the high holidays, and derisively write off most of the people there as “CEO Christians”, but those thoughts never interest me. One, because I’m always reminded about the parable of the workers in Matthew 20, and two, because there is a far more interesting way to look at the situation.
I look around my temporarily full-to-bursting parish and I see hope. I see people who, for a hundred different reasons, don’t make regular Mass attendance a priority — but do for this day. I see people who probably only step foot in a church for weddings, funerals, and Christmas. I see people who never go to church at all, but are accompanying family members out of love (even if that love is disguised as obligation).