THE BAPTISM OF ZOE FIONA CARROLL

For those of you who were able to be there, thank you, from our heart-of-hearts. And for those who were offering up prayers for us from afar, we thank you, too. Below is the sermon that Jonathan preached before having the rarest of privileges: baptizing our daughter. For nearly 8 months, at bathtime, we would talk excitedly about what would one day happen to her because of who Christ is, and because of how he wants to touch the world through her. We would pour water over her head and say, "This is what will one happen to you - to all of us - on the day of your baptism before all of your family-of-faith - your sisters and brothers in Jesus. And then, you will have been adopted, claimed, chosen, and named. Though you come with nothing but yourself to give, God chooses you and loves you beyond telling."

When the first (of three) splash of water poured over her head, Zoe looked at me with the most intent, knowing, gentle stare, as if to say, "It's happening. You said it would...and now it is. I trust you completely." And so it that God - once again - can be trusted to do and to be what God has always promised.

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Dear Zoe:

No words have been written, spoken, sung, or even prayed that can begin to articulate what it means to be standing behind this sacred desk speaking with you about the mystery of the love that your mommy and I so richly and beautifully have for (and lavish on) you. No words. Not even these. And yet, words – the truths behind them and the worlds they create – are all I have on this your baptismal day...and love. And so it is that with loving words – your father’s only instrument, his only tool in his life’s trade, I want to tell you a story...about you, about God’s outlandish love affair with you, about how I believe God will heal the world with compassion and grace through you, if only just a little, our baby girl.

It is with gladness-of-heart that I write this letter to you, that I offer this piece of myself for you. Throughout the course of your life, I will spend countless hours reading to you, telling you stories, inviting you into the many tales – woven and spun and continuously unraveling around us – in books, in songs, in prayers, and in our life together. In our stories you will always hear a common refrain: you, child, are loved beyond measure, and through you something beautiful is forever happening in the spaces you inhabit, in the place you will go. It is only fitting that on the day that marks the beginning of your learning how to rest in the arms of our God who pursues, I thought I’d tell you a story, your story. I should start at the beginning.

“God of God, light of light,” as the Nicene Creed has it “...for us and for our salvation came down from heaven...was born, suffered, crucified, dead, buried, rose again, and will come again for the quick and the dead.” That is not a theological idea or a religious system. It is a series of flesh and blood events that happened, are happening, will happen, in time and space and beyond them. For better or worse, it is a story. I remind you of that because it keeps our eyes on the central fact that the Christian faith always has to do with flesh and blood, time and space, more specifically with your flesh and blood and mine, with the time and space that day by day we are all of us involved with, stub our toes on, flounder around in trying to look as if we have good sense. In other words, the Truth that our Christian faith claims to be is ultimately not found, if it’s to be found at all, only in the Bible, and not in the Church, not in Theology. The best any of them can do is point to the Truth. Instead, the Truth comes True in our own stories, which, if you can imagine it, is actually God’s story, too. That is why it is absolutely crucial to keep in constant touch with what is going on in your own life’s story and to pay close attention to what is going on in the stories of others. If God is present anywhere, it is in those stories.

And God is present now. Though I can see you sitting in front of me now as I do Sunday after Sunday, and though you can hear my voice coming once again from the front of this hallowed room, this holy space, what is going to happen to you and to all of us today is different.

Today – surrounded by so many who love you – you will be baptized, adopted, claimed as God’s own, received just as you are by this our community of faith; you will be sewn into God’s family and flooded with God’s grace – all of it with the sign of water, by which you will be – as we have been – soaked, marked, accepted, included, and renamed. You may not always remember the goings-on of this day. Worry not. We will never let you forget. That is part of why so many people have gathered in our church today: to see, hear, and remember what happens so that when you need to be reminded of what this is all about you can lean into us; we will remember it for you. One day, we’ll need you to remind us, too. Everyone forgets every now and then. But not today. Today is different. Today, we all remember it and want to share it with you.

In the beginning was the Word...and the Word was God. And the Word was spoken, and – as the story has it – night and light and life appeared where before there was only nothing. This “life” that appeared was a gift – it’s a gift to live, to be alive, and to spend time with friends who make you feel more alive. It’s a gift called “grace” which is – among all words ever spoken – the one that hasn’t lost its flair. Grace is something you can never earn or merit or deserve or win; it’s always free, always unearned, always a gift from God. There’s nothing you have to do, nothing you can do to deserve it. That’s what a “gift” actually is. Grace is God’s saying to you, “Zoe Fiona, here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Throughout your life – from beginning to end - beautiful and terrible things will happen. No matter what, do not be afraid. I am with you. It is for you that I created the universe. Nothing can ever happen to you to change how I feel; nothing can be said, nothing can be done to separate you from me. I love you. And though you come bearing nothing to give, I love you anyway. I love you because you have nothing to give. I love you because I am love, and I can’t help myself. I am determined never to be without you.”

The only response to that kind of generosity is to say thanks, and to reach out and accept it – and the very voice we use to say it, and the very hands we extend to receive it are themselves gifts of grace. To God’s overtures of love, we promise our love in return; we promise to make the world a better, safer, kinder place. Life, love, family, faith, and all that is true and good about the world – it all finds its beginning with God who entrusts it all to us to make of it what we will. We’ve decided to take these gifts and make a family out of them.

So that we don’t forget what’s been done to us and what we’ve promised in return, every now and then, our family acts out this drama – as if on a stage; we practice the ritual; we celebrate with actions and symbols; we stand around this font, we recite our lines, and we move strategically from this place to that. We dip our hands in water, and we pour it over the precious heads of those whom God is claiming by act of the faith community. We make promises on their behalf. We avow ourselves to one another and to God. We say that just as God made a covenant with our grandparents, so God makes a covenant with us. And we respond – all of us – by making a covenant with one another promising that no matter what, we will never let each other go. We will always have each other. Always. And that, no matter what creeping separateness may come – separateness of distance or age, of class or culture, of politic or faith, of opinion or belief – no matter what may come to threaten the unity of our faith-family, we belong to one another, we hold on to one another, we care for, nurture, tend to, and comfort one another. And we promise to work out the details in the context of forgiveness, peace, and mercy.

That, briefly said, is what baptism is all about. It’s about God’s unconditional love for us before we even know how to ask for it, before we know how to say “thanks;” it’s about Christ’s invitation to join in his own reconciling, peace-making, and compassionate work in a broken but hopeful world; it’s about a finding comfort in the Spirit that is always creating within us life. I was five when I was baptized. My church then thought I might know a bit more about grace then than when I was newly born. Turns out, as a 31-year old pastor and theologian, I still don’t know all that much about grace, other than that I have experienced it in intensely life-giving ways.

I was, like, you, born into a loving, faithful, and covenant-making family. I slowly but surely grew to know how important that love, that faith, and those promises would become. And I would need those promises. Because just like you, I had a daddy once. And though I was only a boy, I lost him. It wasn’t his fault. Sickness and death are rarely anyone’s fault. It’s part of the cost of what it means to be human, to be us. Your daddy wouldn’t be the man he is had it not been for his own father who taught me, among other things, how to recognize a gift of God’s grace when I saw it. As a young man I saw her, met her, fell in love with her and am falling still. Grace takes many shapes. And I have come to know God, beauty, and mercy more richly and more deeply because of your mommy than ever I could have on my own. I love her like how I imagine God loves me. And I find my brokenness healed in her.

And then you came. Small, toothless, and wise. Healing embodied. You were born empty-handed, with nothing but yourself to offer and that was so much more than enough. We didn’t need you to say anything. We didn’t need your brilliance or your strength, your skills or your beauty. We didn’t even require that you open your eyes. You belonged to us. You were ours. And nothing could ever change that. Nothing. We love you. We accept you for who you are and who you are becoming. We are learning from you and with you. And we hope to teach you something, too. We have prayed for you and always will. We will work our fingers to the bone to see to it that you have everything you need, everything that is good and right and fitting for you. We will give up so much of our very selves to make sure you continue to sit up on your own, to eat new-fangled, brightly colored, vegetable purees without choking yourself. We will keep your diapers dry and clothing warm and your bed comfortable and your life as safe as we possibly can. We will try our best to let you be you. We will try to be patient with your trial-and-error teenaged adventures. We will try not to control you, but to teach you how best to breathe in everything that is beautiful and Spirit-filled in the world and how to breathe out what about this place is toxic and scary. We will spend time with you – a lot of time – learning who you are, letting you learn about us, laughing, crying, telling stories, and taking walks along the river’s edge. We will protect you with everything we have. We will love you until death tears us apart, God help us. We will try with everything in us to be like Christ to you.

Life like this – especially life with you – could hardly be more extravagant. Though you have never asked us the question, you may ask it one day: Why? Why do we make these promises to you, such a new, innocent, helpless, empty-handed little girl? Why do we covenant with you to do all of this for you? Because you belong to us. You are ours. We are yours. We made you. We love you.

I will never understand this kind of love enough to explain it to you. I can only show you. And I will spend my life doing just that. And in the same way, I will never understand God’s grace enough to explain it to you. I can only bring you here, to this place and with these people, so that together we can show it to you. We don’t want you to forget. And we don’t want to forget, either.

From now on – every time you sit in your little tub full of water at bathtime, every time you drink from your sippy cup, and cry when rain drops in your face...I pray that you will remember this day and all that it means; that you will remember what God has promised you through his church in this place; that you will remember your baptism and be thankful. Your mommy and I and all the rest of us will surely remember it, and we will tell you the story often: about the day when Jesus held sweet, baby Zoe for all the world to see and never let her go. Amen.