So faith, hope, love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
Perhaps you’ve seen us, dear reader, ensconced within that glass tomb, not yet cast out into the cold world, but plagued by the frigid air that rushes through the open door that must remain open, for the functional parishioners that actually step out of the mass for a logical, rational reason, and are then permitted by their children to step back in. Oft times, I will be wearing one small child affixed to my face, like an alien succubus from a Ridley Scott movie, another one wailing, seemingly strapped to my left leg, and a third at the fingertips of my right hand as I barely latch on to his collar as he makes a break for it. That’s my son there, trying to baptise himself again with the little font of holy water we bless ourselves with on our ambitious, optimistic entry to our beloved little church.
We usually make it in for a time, for a moment of silent prayer, a desperate dash to the confessional, and an opportunity to glance furtively at our beloved wives and nod, silently, knowingly, that this may be the last time we see each other til the liturgy has concluded. On the rare occasion, we make it through the old testament reading (good start), the responsorial psalm (my goodness), the epistle (could this really be happening?), even the gospel (sweet Jesus, thank you). Then, the blessed rarity, that mishap of fate, that incredible moment when you hear (gasp): the homily. The insight, the history, the etymology, the spiritual implications, the personal application - a boon, a balm, a salve, and somehow, every time, exactly what we needed to hear.
But more often than not, it’ll be the narthex, with our beloved screamers, ranters, wailers and wanderers, seeking to preserve the reverence and sanctity of the mass by ‘taking out the trash’ as they call it - by which I mean my own rambunctious children of course. And God bless them, for a period there we had to good - perhaps too good - hearing every reading, every homily, being present for the consecration. Perhaps the risk was that we took it all for granted. But alas, no longer, dear reader. We were blessed with four little ones in the space of four years, just over four years after the birth of our twin boys. The delicate ceasefire was broken. We really can’t complain. Statistically speaking, of our eleven children, the bulk of them are remarkably civil, reverent and helpful in mass. We’ve even reached the promised land, where our oldest children and both enthusiastic and earnest in their desire to hold and help the little ones.
But alas, time in the narthex, is a parent’s duty more than a sibling’s, and it is there that you’ll find me most Sundays. It’s still a step up from the dreaded ‘crying room,’ the pariah’s purgatory of any parish that has relegated children (and the future of Holy Mother Church) as redundant, bothersome and unwelcome quirks of a humanity we once championed better than most. But the narthex still carries its own risks. For one, there’s the constant temptation to peer in, longingly at the warm, peaceful congregation and ask yourself - what do they know that I don’t? It must have come from the homilies you missed. What do they have that I don’t? It’s a poisonous and wretched temptation to set yourself aside from your brothers and sisters in Christ and decide that they have it all figured out, whilst you haven’t even started. It’s when a healthy humility tips into doubt, despair, shame and self-loathing. Clearly, they have a prayer life, a social dynamism, a network, a creative verve, a personal history, an insight, a strength and a unity that you’ll never know, you’ll never understand.
And the contrary temptation of course, is to peer out in the other direction, into the street, to see the cars driving past, the amblers, the children at play, and again set yourself apart and feel a swelling sense of pride that at least you are keeping the sabbath holy - here at mass, giving to God what is God’s and (obviously) dying to self in a Christ like sacrifice that perhaps, rivals that dark day upon Calvary when you count how many Sundays you’ve spent like this. I assure you dear reader, I jest, but the temptation to spiritual pride is just as dangerous as despair, and it’s a fine line we must walk, we dwellers of the narthex.
Just to witness the liturgy, to hear a fragment of the scripture, to make that desperate gambit for Holy Communion no matter what chaotic contribution your toddler makes to the reverent ambience, is a blessing. To be baptised, to know, to love, and to serve Christ, however poorly and humbly we can, is a great and terrible blessing for us all, carrying of course that ominous responsibility captured in the truth that: of those who have been given much, much will be expected. We must take solace in the knowing nod and smile of the beleaguered fellow father or mother in the narthex with us, grappling with their own beloved brood, knowing that we render all we can to the beautiful children our Lord has entrusted to us, in the hope that one day we won’t just make it through the mass from start to finish - but that as St Paul assures us: when the perfect comes, the imperfect will pass away. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became a man, I gave up childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood. So faith, hope, love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
So Lord, let love abide, even here in the narthex - nay, especially here in the narthex, that we may know and love you all the more when you see the time is fit to fold these mortal frames. I’ll be waiting, for you, Lord, above all else. Don't bother searching the pews. You'll know where to find me.
