My Second Baptism

May 10, 2015

We're Presbyterian. We believe in only one baptism. I know this.

Someone tried to trick me during my examination on the floor of the presbytery when I was being ordained. They asked about re-baptizing. It was a stupid question. A very irritating question actually. Everyone knows, we get one baptism, an outward sign of an inward grace, a connection with our family in the Body of Christ. I answered it with flying colors, and the asker of the question was reprimanded lightly after questioning ceased.

But maybe it wasn't such a stupid question, because today, I was baptized again.

Today I had the honor of baptizing two little boys in worship. I keep thinking that the longer I do this, the more children I sprinkle with those holy waters, the fewer tears I will shed while doing it. No such luck. I cry during every baptism I perform. I cannot look at the face of a child, and name them "child of God," and sprinkle that water in the name of God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, without choking on my emotion. They're not sad tears, but full ones. And I think it's okay.

But this baptism was going to be a little different. These two little boys were older, 2 and 3, and full of everything little boys are made off, snips and snails and puppy-dog tails. When I met with these boys prior to their baptism, they literally climbed the bookshelves of the library and covered me in a fine layer of chalk dust, within their first 10 minutes of arriving. My top concern for this baptism was just to complete it, without one of the little stinkers leaping into the baptism font.

This was a unique baptism, not just because of the wrestling match I was certain would ensue.

It was a unique baptism, because their mother was young, 20, and single. The fact that she was here, and desiring this sacrament for her children was something holy. This young woman had grown up coming to this church, but had been gone for some time.

Only 15 or 16 when she left, she left home. She took to the streets, and it's hard to know what happened, but drugs ruled her next years.

Hers was a story I had heard often and regretfully in this church. It was told with downward cast eyes, and a shake of the head. She would return from time to time, our members would help her in every way they could, and she was gone again. She had broken hearts here, not least her own, and the tension around her most recent return was palpable.

What made this return different were these two little boys. They had two different fathers, neither of which she knew or stayed in contact with. These boys had prompted her to leave her life on the street, and seek help which she found in a halfway home and now steady employment.

From all appearances, it seems she's really trying to do better. And so I knew this baptism was more than a mother wishing her children to be incorporated into the Body of Christ. I knew this baptism was more than a few drops of water and heartfelt singing and rejoicing. This baptism wasn't just of the boys, but of this mother, still a child herself. She was baptized here once too, but she needed to be reminded that these waters still wash her anew every day. This congregation needed to be reminded, that our connection within these waters exists long after the font is dry. Everyone was needing to be touched by these waters again on this day.

And so the time came, and this young woman came forward with her two little boys, dressed to the nines in their little white suits purchased by one of our older members. A friend climbed the stairs with her, two young women in recovery, pledging to one another, these boys, and this church, to raise these children in the ways of Christ and Church. Too big for my small self to pick up without being awkward, I had the boys stand, and I knelt beside them.

Child of God, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. And I touched the younger boy's forehead with water, one, two, three times.

I moved to the older boy, already feeling my throat constrict around impending tears. But this boy, this three-year-old boy, was on his tip-toes looking over the side of the font. I knelt next to him, and explained what I was about to do. I was going to take some of that water, and touch it to his head. I would be saying some words while I did this, and those words meant that God loved him very much, and so did all of these people sitting here today. The water might be kind of cold, but it won't be very much so don't worry. He nodded that he understood.

And so I baptized him. But as I touched the water to his head three times, he responded.

I baptize you in the name of the Father...

...ouch!

...and of the Son...

...ouch!

...and of the Holy Spirit...

...ouch!

His responses were loud enough my microphone picked them up, and the congregation stifled a laugh.

Just when I was about to make a comment about God's family being a little painful for many of us to enter into, this boy did something else. He stuck is own hand into the font, and he reached up before I had the chance to stand, and touched my forehead.

I froze. In silent wonder I knelt there, looking at this little boy.

But all I could do was what I do best in baptisms, I cried. I hugged him, his brother, his young mom, and cried. And the congregation cried with me, and we sang, baptized in water, sealed by the spirit.

I recognized beforehand that this baptism was so needed, for the boys, but also for this mother and the congregation. I didn't anticipate needing it myself. But there I was, baptized by the hand of this child, God's child, and again by a congregation's tears of grace and redemption.

Like many presbyterians, I don't remember my baptism. I was a baby, and I have photos and tales, but I can never remember what it was like to feel the water in my hair. But this one, this is a baptism I'll remember. This is one that I can still feel, that will forever remind me just what the family of God looks like, just how powerful the grace of God is. And it was, and is, and will always be holy.