What I share today is from my heart. I want to share something tender, something holy from the heart of a deacon, father, grandfather, and god parent
Not long ago, someone shared their frustration with me. Children at Mass, they said—too noisy, too restless, too distracting. And I get it. We come longing for silence, for stillness, for that sacred hush where we can hear God whisper. And then—there’s a squawk, a cry, a cascade of Cheerios.
But let’s remember who we’re talking about. These are baptized children. Three years old and under. They belong. Not someday. Not when they’re quiet. Now.
At their baptism, we made a promise—parents, godparents, all of us. We vowed to help form them in the faith. And how we welcome them in worship reveals what we believe about worship itself.
Worship is not a product to consume. It’s not a performance to critique. It’s not a store where we browse for silence and take our business elsewhere if it’s not to our liking.
Worship is a family meal.
Worship is an encounter with the living Christ.
Worship is surrender—not perfection.
When the disciples tried to shoo the children away, Jesus didn’t say, “Come back when they’re quiet.” He said, “Let them come.” He drew them close. He blessed them. He made space for them—just as they were.
And Scripture gives us a stunning image:
In the book of Joshua, the priests stood in the middle of the Jordan River, holding the Ark. And they did not move—until the whole nation had crossed.
The strong waited for the slow. The sure-footed held space for the hesitant.
No one reached the far bank until everyone did.
That’s Eucharistic love. That’s Church.
And when Peter asked how often to forgive, Jesus didn’t say seven times. He said seventy-seven. Mercy without measure. Mercy that bends mountains and pauses rivers. Can’t our expectations bend too—for the sake of the little ones?
The Sound of a Church Alive
A baptized child is not a junior Christian. There’s no waiting list. They are the Church—right now. They learn the Mass by watching us. By seeing us kneel, sing, listen, return again even after we fail.
Their cries are not interruptions. They are the sound of a Church alive. A Church learning to speak.
The Catholic faith is not for hoarding. It’s for handing on—even to small hands still learning how to hold it. If we push them to the margins, they will believe they don’t belong. But if we hold space—if we stand in the river with them—they will learn how to cross with us.
How do we approach that noisy child?
Show them belonging - sit near a young family. Offer a smile. Your welcome teaches more than any homily. Offer them help by sharing a missal, sliding over in the pew, and turning chaos into communion. Be a model of formation because formation is mostly caught, not taught. Let them see you stay. Sing. Kneel. Return.
When a child’s voice breaks the silence, let it break open our hearts too. Let prayer replace the sigh. Whisper, “Lord, bless this little one. Teach me patience.”
Let their cry remind us:
The Mass is not mine. It is ours.
Not my peace, but Christ’s peace—shared.
Not my finish line, but our crossing.
Together.
Until, by grace, the whole nation has passed over.
Prayer: Until All Have Crossed
Lord Jesus,
You welcomed the little ones and stood still in the river
until the whole nation had crossed.
Teach us to wait with love,
to worship with mercy,
and to make space for every voice—
even the smallest.
Let our hearts bend with Yours,
our patience stretch with grace,
and our worship echo the sound of a Church alive.
May we cross together,
until, by Your peace,
all have passed over.
Amen.
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