I have just stomped in from an otherwise lovely day celebrating our eldest child reaching double figures. Children being rather more sophisticated today than they were in the 1980s – when the local Happy Eater represented the acme of fine dining for a 10-year-old – my son had requested lunch at our provincial branch of The Ivy.
It has been many months since we at tempted going to Mass en famille (for complicated logistical reasons) so what a perfect opportunity, I thought, to go to the cathedral. The children could experience glorious sacred music and parts of the liturgy sung in Latin. We don’t get to hear this out in the sticks, where the liturgy tends to be pretty basic.
My sons, who have both made their First Holy Communion, are well-drilled in Behaving at Mass. Not so much my daughter, thanks to Covid; also, she is only four. A solemn Mass is still a big ask of all but the most preternaturally pious children who’ve reached the age of reason, so we had the grab bag loaded up with The Brick Bible and Usborne Bible Stories as well as a colouring book and felt-tips.
The first “Ssssh!” came a few moments into the entrance antiphon. Dismissing the sound as an abortive sneeze or a peculiar tic, I put it from my mind. My daughter, held up in her father’s arms, exclaimed joyfully and pointed at the candles and the purple vestments. As I smiled at her, the noise came again. This time it was unmistakeable. A rasping, aggressive “Ssssh!” Romy, oblivious, inhaled deeply as the thurible was swung on passing our pew.
“Mmm, smells lovely,” she said. It was terribly sweet, I thought. But immediately the sharp, nasty “Ssssh!” came again. This time, uncomfortable and anxious, I turned around. Two large ladies in late middle age stared fixedly at the altar not meeting my eye. My shoulders tensing, I put an arm around my son’s shoulders and stroked my daughter’s hair. How could anyone object to a young child delighting in the sights and smells of Mass? In any case, she was barely audible over the choir.
I settled her to some colouring. But now, every comment, question, tugging of my sleeve to show me something, elicited this nasty, wholly unnecessary “Ssssh!” Elsewhere, a toddler ran about and a baby wailed. So what? Horribly stressed by now and close to tears, I asked my husband to take Romy out. They went for a chilly 40-minute walk around the city streets. When I found them afterwards, her hands were freezing and she was crying.
The boys and I remained unmolested until one hissed at his brother not to look at him – brothers do this, I’m afraid. Before I could quietly chastise him, the vicious “Ssssh!” was spat at the back of my neck once more. It would have been less offensive had the two women not then carried on a lengthy conversation during a particularly beautiful motet by William Byrd.
Echoing the Gospel reading that day, where Jesus turfs the money-lenders out of the temple, the priest’s homily explored justifed and unholy anger. The last time I experienced justifed anger at Mass was when another judgemental old bag (in a different church) shot out a bony hand and gripped my son’s wrist as he walked back from Communion.
“You’ve got Jesus in your hand,” she declared, eyes bulging. White-faced and shaking, my son sobbed when we got back to our pew. “But I was just about to put it in my mouth, Mummy,” he cried. “Has he made his First Communion?” this woman demanded of me, as soon as Mass was over. “Yes, in this church,” I replied. “Weren’t you there? He did the first reading.”
That old bag caused long-lasting harm, and we’ve hardly been back there since. The priest is a kindly man and due to retire soon; you’d think that the bulk of his aged congregation would be more welcoming. And yet a friend with four young daughters who worships there has endured carping from old women (men don’t seem to be so censorious) when the girls cannot quite manage to sit in stony silence for the whole 60 minutes.
Hearing the gurgles and comments of babies and young children at Mass is a delight. Most parents are on the case and will remove a fractious child; years ago, my husband would frequently have to run out with a small boy under each arm. That was in an exceptionally child-friendly church in London attached to a primary school, with a high proportion of babies and toddlers in the congregation.
I don’t think we’ll be going back to the cathedral as a family any time soon. This makes me very sad. But however lovely the liturgy, anxiety and anger are not feelings I want to experience at Mass.
Might I suggest, for a future homily, the subject of those who would turf children out of the temple? As a colleague says: “The best, best sound in a Catholic church is the noise of wailing babies.”
(Photo by Getty Images.)
This article first appeared in the April 2024 issue of the Catholic Herald. To subscribe to our multiple-award-winning magazine and have it delivered to your door anywhere in the world, and receive our limited-time Easter offer, go here.
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