ONE OF OUR articles this month encourages us to more intentionally incorporate the lives and wonders of children into our worship, which is a great idea, because if all the kids are in the sanctuary you don’t have to volunteer for child care.
But seriously, tapping the natural energy of the young would create a more holistic experience and open the door to a greater connection with the divine, assuming the divine has a short attention span and a constant runny nose and tends to giggle during silent reflection. Not to mention drawing pictures on the collection envelopes in the backs of pews. (If they don’t want children’s graffiti on those envelopes, they shouldn’t put them right next to those little yellow pencils, which the child invariably drops and, with cat-like speed, goes after it before the parent can grab him. A short time later, pencil in hand, the young one looks around under the pew but sees no familiar legs or shoes. He is lost, not unlike the sheep the preacher is at that moment talking about, the difference being that the parent now pulling the child backward by his feet is less the Good Shepherd of the New Testament and more the Vengeful God of the Old Testament who doesn’t give a crap about sheep. But I digress.)
A child-centric church is something I experienced firsthand growing up in the warm embrace of the Southern Baptist church. For me, Sunday was the best day of the week. There was no school, so no gym class with humiliating taunts from peers questioning my athleticism, no condescending teachers refusing to give credit for my book report on TV Guide (so much to watch, so little time, what with homework and all that).
Church was a place of safety and support, a time for the social outcasts of weekdays to finally feel appreciated and valued, particularly by the adults, who gladly drew us into the heart of the church, just as soon as they finished their cigarettes. (In those days, all have smoked and fallen short of the glory of God, although I think God cut you some slack if it was menthol.)
As a young child, I always enjoyed Sunday school, the crayon-based learning environment that taught me much about the Bible and its colorful characters, although most turned out to be brown. It was my crayon of choice since its universal unpopularity guaranteed it being the least-used in the box. Unless it was Noah’s Ark Sunday. Then you’d better grab it quickly so your parents don’t ask later why the animals were walking, two-by-two, into a purple boat.
ONCE A YEAR we had Children’s Church, a Sunday morning worship planned and orchestrated entirely by the young people. In the sixth grade I was tapped as the song leader, and a seventh grader—much older and wiser—was chosen to preach. The fact he was the preacher’s son had nothing to do with it, I’m sure, and I harbor no bitterness, nor will I even mention how much better I would have been in that role. I mean, the kid didn’t even open with a joke! Actually, I might have been the better choice, because that Sunday my song-leading skills became legendary, like Rasputin, only not in a good way.
Mimicking the adult song leader’s technique I had long observed, I used my right hand to mark the rhythms, at first conducting in perfect time, but soon veering off from the tempo to create bold new strokes into the air above the altar. Holding the congregation spellbound, I became Jackson Pollock, conducting Philip Glass.
The people seemed to slowly enter a trance-like state, something an unscrupulous hypnotist might have taken advantage of before removing wallets and other valuables from a benumbed audience. (And in hindsight, Children’s Church could have scored big for the offering plate that year.)
When the song ended and my arm finally came to rest at my side, the dumbstruck congregation sat motionless; you could have heard a pin drop. But it was a pencil, followed by the sound of a toddler being dragged backward along the floor, which stirred the worshippers back to the normal state of semi-consciousness.
The next year I received a special exemption from song leadership duties. Instead, they put me on child care.
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