Children as Sacramentals

by Dan Masterton

Catholicism can be distinguished by its seven Sacraments, the seven formal moments of ritual and distinct grace that mark various initiation, commitment, and healing. A big part of these Sacraments, and of prayer and liturgy, throughout our Tradition is sacramentals.

These are items that carry a significance symbolically without being themselves the Sacraments. Eddie O’Neill at SimplyCatholic.com captures it well: “Sacraments are outward signs that give grace to those who receive them in a worthy manner. Sacramentals, on the other hand, are sacred signs which bear a resemblance to the sacraments. They signify effects, particularly of a spiritual nature, which are obtained through the intercession of the Church.”

Personally, it makes me think of familiar items of piety like the rosary, things that come into play at Mass like holy water or the thurible and incense. As a longtime retreat director, I also think of standbys like cross-marked rocks, plain wood crosses, and even ritual fires as ways to invite prayer and reflection into ritualistic actions, using such things to bring participants into greater communion with one another and with Christ.

I think at the heart of this practice is the very Catholic notion that we ought to identify and utilize rich visuals and tangible items to help us understand the non-visible grace that we believe to be present and in motion. I think when we take the time to contemplate these sacramentals, it can strengthen our spirituality and help us more deeply engage in the Mass, in the Sacraments, and in a life of prayer.

When it comes to Mass, I find nourishment both in the structure of the Sunday liturgy as well as in embracing the space within Mass to prayerfully go to those places God may be bringing me. On my best Sundays, it’s a happy confluence of attentive presence and thoughtful wandering.

So take those ideals and add in two children, currently four and two years old.

On the whole, as my family has reestablished a weekly habit of Mass-going, after almost two years of very sporadic attendance amid this pandemic, they have been very well behaved. They’re not very loud; they don’t try to wander or climb too much; they quietly read or color or eat and intermittently show an interest in learning more about what’s going on. It’s about all I can ask for, and in those moments of explaining and sharing, I feel the full goodness of parenthood.

Our parish church, St. Francis of Assisi
(from their Facebook page)

The catch is that, while they are technically behaved, they are not exactly reverent. At points, I may be able to harness some reverence by drawing a little Mass-y coloring page for my four-year-old or lifting my two-year-old to see the priest or lector whose voice is booming through the speakers. At other points – more frequent points – their frenetic activity is a definite foil to whatever quiet and calm I might be otherwise seeking.

On a recent Sunday, here’s a few real things that happened while we were at Mass. While I stood and held my two-year-old, I closed my eyes to take a deep breath and find quiet prayer – she stuck her fingers in my eyes and manually opened my eyelids. Later, while again holding her, I decided that, instead of closing my eyes, I’d let my gaze drift up over the sanctuary to the stained glass window of the Holy Spirit – she grabbed my chin and yanked my gaze back to her. At one point during the Eucharistic Prayer, as I kneeled and faced the altar, she grabbed my arm to make sure I knew there were exactly two people in the pew across the way – she counted. Later, while I continued to kneel, she decided this would be the perfect time to force her way past me and her sister to retrieve snacks – let’s scale some family members!

It would be easy to get frustrated as these little interruptions pile up. And believe me, patience is a virtue I’m still relearning – and that these two littles are teaching me – just about every day. But for whatever reason, where I might get flustered or short-fused at home, it just doesn’t happen the same way at church. It rolls off my back more easily (even if not always), and I settle more quickly and ably into calm gratitude that we’re here together and that they’re receptive to it.

Ever since my kids were little, I’ve had a habit of sort of pressing my face against their heads and just breathing them in. Sometimes, it might give me a whiff of an as-yet-undetected dirty diaper or a reminder that it should have been bath night. Most often, it’s just my reset button. It’s the thing that dissipates my stress and nerves, that pares away the BS that accrues at the edges of my consciousness, and brings me back home.

I do it at home; I do it at church. Maybe there’s something biological here, but I believe there’s definitely something sacramental. Some sort of grace is streaming through their little pre-rational beings and coursing on to me, when I’m able to let it.

I certainly still dip my hand in the holy water and present myself for Holy Communion. But it’s neat to somehow have the moments of these little kiddos being such palpable vehicles of grace. The root of the word inspiration is “to breathe life into.” And that’s what these little breaths I borrow from them are.