Many years ago, in my first position as a priest. I served a very small congregation in South Georgia. Long-time members welcomed transient ones from the Air Force base down the road. We loved it when these families arrived, even if we knew we would have them for less than five years. Their children especially brought bright energy to our small fold.

One Sunday, people came forward to the altar rail for communion as they do every Sunday. The organist played softly as each person kneeled and held a time of reflection as they waited for me to give them bread. Generally, we hold a solemn space for prayer during this time. Occasionally, people smile and say “hello,” but otherwise, Episcopalians like to stay quiet as they receive the body and blood of Christ.

A family new to the church brought their four-year-old forward, him dangling off of his mother’s arm as they stepped forward and knelt. He watched his parents bow their heads and put forward their hands and he did the same. I could see his eyes cutting around the rail to see others to ensure he did it right. I placed the host in his hand, and he giggled, then took a gulp of wine from the chalice bearer. His parents took his hands and turned from the altar to return to their seats. They had taken about two steps when we all heard the most glorious belch usher from the little boy.

Needless to say, no one could hold the silence as we all giggled. I thought he offered the most marvelous affirmation of the satisfaction of communion with this boisterous burp.

Another time, at this same church, a nine-year-old came forward with his mother. Sometimes, we give people a small round host that we bless first at the altar, but sometimes, we give a piece of the larger host that the priest breaks during the prayers. I gave the mother one of the small round hosts and the son a piece I had broken off the priest’s host. I watched him frown a little then look at his mom’s hands before looking back at his own.

After the service, the mother came to me smiling. The son had seen his piece broken from the priest’s host and thought I had robbed him of a whole piece of Jesus. When they returned to their seat, he looked at his mother, disgruntled, and said, “Did you only get half too?!”

Ask any pastor and they will tell you story after story of children in church. At the heart of all of mine, you’ll find a little disciple of God who takes their faith very seriously but holds it lightly. The kids who play during the services and move around often contribute surprisingly deep insights during the children’s sermon. The ones who fidget while they acolyte then beautifully explain the purpose of each fixture used in the communion service and the theology behind it.

A friend took his daughter to visit another church one Sunday that did not allow children to take communion. Their family knelt at the rail and the priest passed over his youngest child, merely placing a hand on her head for a quick blessing rather than giving her communion. My friend reported that the whole drive home, his daughter complained about the priest denying her access to the thing that made the service feel holy and meaningful.

While I respect every parent’s decision regarding when their child may receive communion, my heart aches when a child puts their hands forward to take a piece of bread from me but their parents pull their hands back and shake their head. Inevitably, the child looks at me questioningly and a little dejected as if to say, “Why does everyone else get this, but I don’t?” Those children understand better than many adults the importance of the bread I offer them on God’s behalf.
I’ve been known to preach on Matthew 18:1-3 from time to time:

At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, ‘Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ He called a child, whom he put among them, and said, ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.

Adult mature and lose their playfulness and sincerity in their faith. Often they become more concerned with looking at the part rather than living it. For many, worship can only look solemn and quiet, with no room for play or laughter or joy. Communion becomes a habit rather than a discipline and they forget to leave their offerings of sadness, heartache, concern, and heaviness at the rail. They forget too easily the most basic of lessons that Jesus loves them and praising God includes revelry and rowdiness.

One Sunday, one of our chalice bearers came to a young man who attended as a guest of a friend. He watched as his friend and his friend’s family dipped their fingers in the chalice full of wine after taking the bread. He had failed to see that the others kept the piece of bread in their hands, choosing not to eat it when the priest gave it to them and, instead, had dipped the little piece of bread in the wine. This young man popped the host in his mouth as soon as he received it and then saw the cup coming his way. Not knowing what the others had done when they put their hands in the chalice, the young man dipped his three longer fingers in the wine and wiggled them. The chalice bearer did a magnificent job containing their laughter.

Underneath these stories and others lies a sincere faith and desire to worship well. One minute, children can quietly reflect on the importance of receiving communion, then hold the space lightly enough to stand on the pew and dance during the closing hymn. They find seriousness in their solemn and exuberant responses to God.

When did you last play in worship? Or put yourself in the position of not knowing the “right” way to worship but made it up as you went with as full of a heart of reverence as when you knew exactly what to do?

Lent arrives in a few short weeks and I give you this challenge: Don’t make it a chore. Let the seriousness with which you approach Lent be that of the youngest disciples. Find a way to frolic in your discipline, be ebullient in your praise, and fastidious festive in your fasting. Don’t give up chocolate or commit to reading that “spiritual” tome that has sat on your nightstand for ages. Instead, take up play in the practice of your faith. Give God access not to your solemnity but to your wonder this season. Don’t wait for God in the silence you always say you’ll set aside for him, but in the din of merry-making as you relocate your creativity and amazement.