Originally published 3/27/16
When are we supposed to pay attention in church?
As children we can't pay attention - it doesn't make any sense.
As teenagers we don't want to pay attention - it's boring and we don't believe any of it anyway.
As new parents we're managing children - trying to keep the babies from crying and the toddlers from talking loudly.
As middle-aged parents we're disciplining teenagers - they don't want to be there (remember, you didn't, either) and cop attitude the entire service.
Here's how my Easter Vigil went:
7:59 p.m.
Isabel runs up the walkway. She was supposed to meet us at 7:45, but was late taking a friend home from a party, then she couldn't get in the house, then there was a lot of cars, and she had to parallel park, three times.
8 p.m.
Isabel: How long is this service going to be?
Me: 2 hours. Have you had a snack?
Isabel: Yes.
We light the Paschal candle by standing around a fire in the back of the church, which is totally dark.
Isabel: This looks like a cult.
Me: Shush.
Everyone lights their candle from the flame of the fire. The first half of the service is by candlelight. There are five readings, which I like to call "A short history of the Bible," followed by a sung Psalm in response.
8:30: half-way through the first part. Her attitude is good; she's singing responses to the Psalms. Then she starts leafing through the program.
Isabel: Oh my gosh. How long is this?
Me: Shush.
Isabel: Can I leave before Eucharist?
Me: No.
Isabel: Look at Michael's candle. It's almost burned down.
Me: Read your program.
8:45: Still reading and chanting.
Isabel: Do I have to go up for Communion?
Me: No.
Isabel: I'm not going up for Communion. I'm going to sit here.
Me: That's up to you.
9: We've finished the readings. Now to Baptisms, Confirmations, Receptions, Reaffirmation.
Isabel: When do we blow out our candles?
Me: Shush.
Isabel: Look at Michael's candle. It's almost burned down.
Me: Read your program.
9:10: Michael's candle is still burning, but he has somehow tipped it over and dripped wax on his jacket, pants, and the floor.
Isabel: Look at Michael's pants.
Me: Shush.
Isabel: He's dripped a puddle of wax on the floor.
Michael: Shush.
Isabel: But you're dripping wax everywhere.
Me: Shush.
Isabel: Can I leave after Communion?
Me: No.
9:15: Finally, Easter has come and we get to blow out our candles.
Isabel: Can I leave after Eucharist?
Me: No.
Isabel: I'm tired, it's past my bedtime.
Me: No.
Isabel: I don't want to drive home tired.
Me: You're fine. We live two miles away.
9:20: Eucharist, which includes readings, a sermon and the Holy Communion liturgy, is just starting. Isabel points out there are 6 pages left in the program.
Isabel: You said this would be over at 10. It's not going to be over at 10.
Me: Shush.
Isabel: I am leaving at 10. That's how long you said it would be.
Me: No, you're not.
Isabel: I'm tired. I don't want to drive home tired.
Me: Then I'll drive your car.
9:30 I massage her hand through the sermon, something I'll acquiesce to get her to be quiet.
Isabel: Can we leave after Eucharist?
Me: No.
9:35: We share the Peace. Sinclair, a seminarian with a precocious and loquacious 4-year-old comes over to shake my hand. I have just swatted Isabel in the face with my program. He sees his own future flash before his eyes.
Me: It doesn't necessarily get better as they get older.
Sinclair puts his hands over his face: I know. I can't imagine what it will be like.
10 She turns toward me as if to leave.
Isabel: I'm leaving.
Me: No you're not.
Isabel: Yes, I am.
Me: You leave, and you cannot drive the car this week.
Isabel: It doesn't matter, you're leaving anyway.
Me: No, I'm not. I'm home for two weeks.
Isabel: I want to go. Can we go?
Me: No, don't ask me again, and shut up.
Isabel: That's rude. Don't say shut up.
Me: Shush. You're rude.
Isabel: But I'm tired. Can we leave after Communion?
Me: If you ask me one more time you cannot drive the car next week.
10:05 She grits her teeth through the Lord's Prayer.
Isabel: Can I leave after Communion?
Me: No.
10:20 Church is over. Finally.
Isabel: I love you mommy.
Me: I love you, Isabel.
Isabel: We'll talk about this when we get home.
Me: OK.
Michael wanted to know if she would be punished. For what? Being 16?
When a child is baptized in the Episcopal Church, the entire congregation renews its Baptismal covenant. We answer these questions:
Will you be responsible for seeing that the child you present is brought up in the Christian faith and life?
Will you by your prayers and witness help this child grow into the full stature of Christ?
Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God?
Let me tell you, there were a few minutes I felt like Satan was sitting in the chair next to me, but alas, it was a 16-year-old girl. I am responsible for seeing that she is brought up in the Christian faith, kicking and screaming through it all.
After all, that's what I did.
Isabel on her 16th birthday, left.
Thanks, Mom and Dad, for always making me go to church. My mom was the organist, so we were always at church. I remember being a teenager, squirming in church and being annoying that there were 4 more pages before we were done. I'm familiar with the emotion.
There have been moments in my life when I didn't go to church, and I certainly didn't act very Christian. But being a Christian who goes to church, and knows that God will forgive her and Jesus loves her gives me a solid foundation on which to stand, and a home base which to return. And I want Isabel to have that foundation and home. She has her own ideas about what a foundation looks like right now, and that's fine, and she can explore those when she's on her own. But, it is my responsibility to see that the child I presented 16 years ago is brought up in the Christian faith and life.
Right, just a gratuitous picture of how cute Isabel was when she was 4. That's here friend Patrick, the firstborn of my best friend, Laura.
So, Isabel, you can ask all you want, can we go home, can we leave after Eucharist, can we not go to church today. You can whisper all through church, you can tug at my arm, you can annoy Michael. You can annoy everyone around us. But you and I are going to sit there through church. Together. Yes, it's true that neither of us are listening because you're 16 and I'm your mom, still managing you in church. It's a little different from when you were five and you sat on my lap and put your head on my shoulder, but there's nothing I love more than managing you in church.
One day I'll be able to pay attention, but until then I'll gladly answer all of your questions. With "No" and "Shush."
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