This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

Editor's note • Robert Kirby is off today. This is a reprint of an earlier column.

The quietest church service I ever attended was a Catholic Mass in San Antonio. In a cathedral the size of a super Wal-Mart were half a dozen people, two of them sound asleep and one a curious Mormon. I do not recall much about the service. I spent most of it gazing around at the saints and crucifixes, thinking, "This is definitely where I would come if a vampire were after me."

Compare that to the noisiest church service I ever attended — a revival meeting in Georgia, where the 500-plus congregation shouted and screeched. Not in unison or even in turn, but rather whenever the Spirit moved them individually, which was a lot.

To this day, I cannot decide which environment is more conducive to harkening unto the whispers of the Holy Spirit: Lollapalooza, a NASCAR race or several hundred Holy Rollers trying to get the Lord's attention.

When it comes to reverence, I was once more comfortable with the first experience than the second. Not because an absence of noise really means reverence, but rather because I was raised Mormon.

Silence is the LDS standard of reverence, or at least it is in theory. From a tender age, Mormons are counseled to keep quiet in church, to generally behave as if the Savior works the graveyard shift and is asleep in the next room.

The theory, well intended as it may be, stands about as much chance of becoming reality as a balanced federal budget. Most Mormon wards have way too many kids for silence to reign supreme.

This was something I had forgotten. Over the years, the demographics of our former Springville ward had changed so slowly that it was hard to say exactly when I started falling asleep during services.

Our first Sacrament meeting in Herriman was a wake-up call. Literally. In a congregation where children outnumber adults roughly 15 to 1, the dead would have a hard time catching a few winks.

Services started normally enough. A dozen people tops. Ten minutes into it, the families with kids started arriving. By the time the sacrament came around, the chapel was every bit as reverent as a soccer riot. The hooting, the screeching, the ballpark noise of small heads bonking hardwood pews — it sounded like someone using electricity to teach monkeys how to dance. And it was very cool.

Some faiths have separate worship services for adults and children. Jesus saying, "Suffer the little children to come unto me" does not necessarily preclude the idea of them doing so in a far-off and soundproof room.

Kid noise in church used to bug me back when I thought I needed to catch every word from the pulpit. I now prefer the yowling to most of what I am expected to listen to during a service.

There are, I suppose, some good things to hear from the pulpit, but it's been a while for a reprobate like me. I'll take the kids now.

I figure anyone who can hold a groin-stomping, mustache-yanking 1-year-old on his lap and still manage to glimpse God through the goo is finally starting to get the point of church.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.