Nearly every little toddler, in his first games of hide-and-seek, tries a hopeless ploy. He covers his own eyes with his hands, and then wonders why his parents can still see him, when he cannot see them. We adults can learn something from the toddler’s failure. All of us sometimes feel the temptation to hide from God. But as Jonah could testify, we never can hide from God; we can only hide God from ourselves. In our fruitless flight from God we become like silly little children, except insofar as we lack the toddler’s charm and his innocence.

The recognition that we all make childish mistakes is an important step forward in the spiritual struggle. In our relations with God we are all little children, and so we shall remain, regardless of the number of years we pass on this earth. From time to time we are exhorted to adopt a "mature Christianity," but we cannot recall a single great saint who took pride in his spiritual "maturity." On the contrary, the interior lives of the greatest spiritual writers—including those who were capable of profound philosophical insights—are generally characterized by a simple, child-like piety. And that fact makes sense to anyone who recalls the Lord’s warning (Mt 18:3) "Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."

Suffer the children

To learn another lesson from a toddler, take him into an old Catholic church, and watch his eyes grow wide with wonder as he looks around at the statues, the flickering candles, the frescoes, and the light streaming through the stained-glass windows. The child cannot articulate what he is feeling; he can only gape. But his expression is one of awe. And awe is the beginning of religious experience.

We cannot sit down and read the Catechism to our smallest children. They can learn nothing from the discourses of theologians. But even before he can carry on a real conversation, the child can glean a message from the hushed silence of the sanctuary, and the faint aroma of incense. He knows that the church is a special place, where something wondrous takes place. His understanding is incomplete, of course, but it is perfectly accurate.

Now take the same child into a modern church building with a bright, antiseptic environment, stripped of all the statues and candles that suggest an "old-fashioned" Catholicism. His reaction will be quite different. He may be comfortable or uncomfortable, according to the mood of the moment. But he will not be in awe; the building will have no special significance for him. If he is asked to stay for Mass, the child will squirm and fidget. Since there is nothing in the church to hold his attention, he will pester his parents.

Liturgy as education

Other experienced parents will confirm these observations, I think. There is a direct relationship between the ornamentation of a church and the behavior of the young children who are taken to Mass there; the most sedate children are found in the most ornate buildings. Are our children telling us something? I think so.

When a little toddler sits quietly in church, gazing in rapt attention at the statutes, can anyone doubt that his behavior is pleasing to God? He does not grasp the meaning of the Eucharist on an intellectual plane, and yet he is participating in the Mass at his own level. And as he participates, he also learns; gradually he comes to appreciate the mystery that is unfolding before him.

Adults who fancy that they already understand the significance of the Eucharist may feel no need for ornamentation in their churches, or for pomp and ceremony in their liturgical celebrations. But their stripped-down approach to the liturgy is inaccessible to children. There is both a sad irony and a grave injustice in the fact that, in the name of a more "relevant" and "inclusive" celebration, liturgists have deprived the youngest Catholics of their role in our communal celebration.