I was raised Lutheran. We were very distinctly “middle of the congregation” people.
In the church where I was raised, the
baptismal font—a large, blocky, modernist affair—was in the middle of
the central aisle and the pews retreated a bit around it so a procession
could go past. We almost always sat on the right side, just up from the font.
This wasn’t a choice based on any sort of
theological insights around baptism, it was just what we did. I haven’t
been back to that church in years, but I suspect my parents still sit
in the exact same seat. There’s no label on it—but there might as well be.
On occasion I’d be at the very front with
the junior choir. We got the first few pews so we could file to the
sanctuary steps quickly when it was our turn to sing. But we all knew we
were in foreign territory: everybody knows you don’t sit in the first
few pews.
When I started going to church on my own,
I unconsciously and unreflectingly replicated this pattern with only a
few exceptions. During my wild rebellious college years, sometimes I
would radically break with all known tradition and sit on the left-hand side of the nave.
Once I became a father and the chief
child-wrangler, two new factors introduced themselves into how I would
pick a seat: 1) can I get out quickly if the baby starts squealing, and
2) is there enough room for me to swing the baby carrier?
You see, I’d discovered that if the baby
got fussy during church. If all else failed, I could put her in the car
carrier and then swing it gently to put her to sleep. I imagine there
are some parishes from my wife’s early ministry where I may be
remembered as the guy swinging the baby carrier in the back of the
church. Hey—it worked!
As my girls outgrew the baby carrier, and
I started having both of them in the service to deal with, I gave them
more freedom. They had no choice in whether they came to church or not,
but I tried to allow them more freedom in regulating their environments
once we got there.
I don’t remember how this happened, but
at one point, I allowed my girls to pick where we sat. To my surprise,
shock, and chagrin, my younger daughter—probably about three at the
time?—joyfully ran up to the very first pew on the left, directly in front of the pulpit and in full sight of the sanctuary.
I was rattled. Didn’t she realize that you weren’t supposed to do that? Didn’t she know that people just don’t sit there?
Worse, from my perspective, didn’t she know that this placement meant
that every single member of the congregation could see us and what we
were doing and if they were behaving and if I was being a “good” parent
or not? She
seemed to not be taking into account any of the crucial church seating
factors! You know—whether it provided anonymity and an easy escape
route!
Actually, she didn’t care about any of
that stuff. She wanted to see and hear and smell everything that was
going on. She wanted to immerse herself—and the rest of us—in the
full-bodied experience of church. And, I found that it was a lot easier
to take care of them if they could actually see and hear and smell what
was going on! They behaved better in the front than stuck in the middle
behind ranks of pews and walls of tall standing people.
Since then, I’ve made this a habit. I
always let the girls go into the sanctuary first. I always let them pick
the pew. Sometimes we do actually sit in the middle of the right side
(as God intended). But frequently in new places they’ll insist on the
front pews so they can get as close to the chancel action as possible.
Of course, that makes it tricky come communion time since if we—the
visitors and strangers—are the first ones, I have to figure out the flow
of communion on very little evidence. But again, that doesn’t seem to
bother them.
I have my habits and my patterns. I have
my comfortable places—literally. I have my own criteria for selecting a
seat in church. But giving my children the freedom to pick where they
want to sit has helped me see the limitations in mine. And, it has
helped them see—everything. Church done the way
we like it has lots of things to see and hear and smell. And they want
to be in the middle of it. They want to be able to access the action and
motion and pageantry. And we should let them.
We do best if we hinder not the little
children—if we don’t let our own concerns and baggage and anxieties and
habits constrain their engagement with the holy and the sacred in the
place of worship.
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