Baby Jesus' Travels: A Special Update

Over the past week, Baby Jesus has continued to make the rounds, visiting a new family each day. There are so many wonderful things he has done over the week that it is hard to say what his favorite memories are of time spent with new friends.

Everyone knows how exciting a birthday can feel, especially if you are still in the single digits! One family helped Baby Jesus to get ready for his upcoming birthday by making special decorations and even singing some Christmas songs to get into the spirit. There is nothing quite as nice as celebrating your birthday all month, and with a new family each day.

Baby Jesus has been so lucky. He has had lots of sleepovers and stayed up late, whispering and talking with his new friends because it was just too exciting to go to sleep. It's nice to have Baby Jesus spend the night because he helps his friends not to get scared in the middle of the night. He has also really enjoyed getting to play lots of fun games. One of Baby Jesus' favorite activities has been coloring. He really likes it when his youngest friends draw portraits of him, often in the abstract, and he doesn't even mind if a little of the colors miss the paper and get him instead.

Most of Baby Jesus' new friends are so sad to see him go to the next house. But, Jesus is always teaching his friends about sharing. He also promises to come back again... and we know he keeps his promises.

Baby Jesus' Travels: The First Week of Advent

Throughout the Advent season, Baby Jesus is traveling around the eastern shore, visiting members of our PCC church family. Baby Jesus (from our church nativity scene) packed stories, games, stickers, and a special prayer journal into his suitcase to share with all of his new friends, and he has been going to a new house each night. Each family that hosts Baby Jesus takes care of him, reads and plays with him, and has an opportunity to write special prayers for this holiday season into the Jesus journal. This is a time for many of our younger members to learn more about the true Christmas story and put hospitality into practice. Every family is encouraged to talk to their children about Jesus' coming, and pick out words the describe the meaning of Jesus' birth. Already, Baby Jesus has made quite a few stops and had numerous adventures.

Here are some of the highlights from the week:

Baby Jesus got to have a special lunch with a group of our younger children from the church. The rumor is that the lunch was an all-girls affair, but that Jesus was allowed to participate since he is so special.

Baby Jesus had a sleep over that included Chinese take-out food and lots of playing. Baby Jesus even helped to wrap Christmas presents to go under the tree. Baby Jesus was given a new blanket by one of his new friends so he can stay warm on the rest of his travels.

Everyone has wished that Baby Jesus could stay an extra night or two, and hopes that Jesus will visit again soon! Tune in for more updates later in Advent!!

Memory for the Future

For the past few weeks I have been putting together this year’s Advent devotional entitled Signs of Hope. Many of you received an email from me inviting you to be part of this project... in some instances over time, the invitation turned to be a little more like a plea for help and a little bribing and begging, but when the real deadline arrived, not the pretend deadline I put in the letter to trick everyone into turning their submission in early, we had the perfect number of entries. You can imagine the great temptation I faced, especially this week as I was visiting with family and friends and away from my computer. I had a WHOLE booklet dedicated to hope written by church members and the task of preparing a sermon for the first sunday of Advent, the day we traditionally celebrate hope. All I really needed to do this morning is stand up and read from the book. It would make a great sermon. Well, that was my plan B if thanksgiving festivities got out of hand. Putting this booklet together, reading your thoughts on hope and having quite a few conversations about hope made me wonder further, to have hope or not to have hope... that seemed to be the looming question. Some of us have known hope well, have felt it palpably pulsing in our veins, and can articulate it easily, while to others of us, hope has seemed a stranger, a gaping hole, an emptiness of something which has been promised but not truly given.

Hope is not just a word used within the hallowed walls of churches and theological communities. It is a concept which has even peaked the interest of science and in particular, neurobiology. Scientists and doctors argue that numerous studies have shown that having an anticipatory consciousness, the ability to imagine and anticipate and even hope for the future, is deeply imbedded in our neurobiology. “Imagining the future depends on much of the same neural machinery that is needed for remembering the past.”

Our memories and the way we understand the past directly impacts our ability to anticipate and imagine the future. One neurobiologist calls this, a “memory for the future.” Those who anticipate the future in the spirit of hope, even coming from difficult circumstances like living with HIV and AIDS, live healthier physical lives. Daily practices of hope result in better, brighter futures. Communities of faith have known this well for centuries, and now science is finally catching up.

Despite these scientific breakthroughs, I must confess when I read Isaiah and Psalm 122 this week, poetic words about a future time when all will join together on the mountain of the lord, praising God unceasingly, my thoughts wandered to the darker side of hope. I thought about hearing these words which speak of peace, of the abolition of war and violence, as a parent who has just lost a son or daughter in Afghanistan or the Sudan or Anacostia. Do these hope-filled words mean anything to one slain under fire or dismembered by a roadside bomb or hidden land-mine? To those who have been lost to the HIV and AIDS epidemic? To family members who have been left behind? In some moments, these passages make hope seem so far- reaching that it doesn’t belong in the present tense or even as possibility of what I might know in my lifetime.

I think about the tension of hope being here and now versus hope being a distant promise when I consider my brother who suffers from a debilitating mental illness which has brought great sadness to our family. For a long time, I have held hope at an arm’s distance. Hope was fine for a distant mountain and I had faith that God would make it possible, but not now, not today, or even in the near future. I could not begin to pray for his healing and renewal in the present tense because I was too afraid that an undesirable answer to prayer would be too much for me to bear. Hope would require me to open my heart, both to the wonderful possibility of his healing as well as the sorrow of his illness remaining the same. I knew that even entertaining hope for his healing would test my faith in God and God’s love for my brother. Therefore, I remained silent. Having any hope for the here and now seemed too difficult for me to risk.

Every year on the first Sunday of new school year, my university’s chapel choir sings a setting of Psalm 122, entitled “I was glad.” Over the seven years that I spent going to school and singing in this choir, I came to expect this song every opening Sunday. It was a kind of renewal for me, a reminder of to whom I belonged. After a long summer, venturing far from my home surviving the mud crawling at basic training or the grueling pace of internships in DC, this reunion with my church community in the chapel choir and our proclaiming these words together was an annual infusion of life and faith. “I was glad, glad when they said unto me, we will go into the house of the Lord.” The first phrase always required full sound and voice, all of us singing our hearts out. In that space which represented love of God and neighbor, the sacred connections of community, my heart would swell and tears would threaten to spill over onto my music.

As much as that song came to represent so much of what I loved during my school years, the first occasion I had to sing this song was far from a happy, hopeful time. Not even a week had passed since my parents had driven me to North Carolina, unpacked the rental van full of my important possessions all variations of the color pink, and driven away, leaving me alone in my freshman dorm. As excited as I was about the possibilities which were at my fingertips, gladness was far from my heart. As the choir belted out, “I was glad” I wanted instead to sing “I was sad.” My tears did not spring forth out of fullness, but from just the opposite, from my deep loss. I had no song in my heart that day, but those who surrounded me in the choir, as much as each one sang for herself, she also sang a little bit for me too. It felt as if this collective effort of praise was carrying me through my own weariness. Because they shared their song, including me in a proclamation of faith though I could hardly part my lips to sing with them, I was reminded of the hope which was present despite the darkness which had closed in on me.

In South Africa, the place that I best witnessed hope was during a funeral. In the township, the busiest place, Saturday after Saturday, was the local cemetery. Each week, thousands would gather around newly dug graves, and they would sing and give praise to God for an entire morning, dancing and clapping around the holes in the ground. Watching this scene and participating in it was the most hopeful thing I ever did. Despite the number of deaths, the seeming finitude, the children orphaned, the wails and tears that were shed, hope managed to emanate from the grave. In the face of death, the message of their songs, of hope in God’s promise of life everlasting through Jesus Christ, rang out louder than the evidence of what seemed to be. The promise of renewal was more significant than the reality of the coffin.

The curious part of this kind of hope is that it is made possible each week through the strength of the hope present in others in the community, those who have come to witness the funeral and proclaim promises of life. Through their song, a message of hope transmits to all who hear, even those who have no song to sing, no hope at all. The community’s singing is a reminder of the life which remains, the hope that still exists, even at this site which symbolizes that which has been lost. When these funeral goers have the courage to sing about promises of life in the midst of death, they reverberate hope into the community often depleted by illness and death. They pave the way for a memory of the future.

It is ironic that I learned how to hope in a graveyard. As I reflected on our gospel lesson though, I realized I should not be surprised. Jesus says, “The Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.” In the most unexpected place, where no real hope seemed possible, my own hope was born. It was the hour I did not expect. And, this is the truth which connects the gap between the hope of here-and-now and the eschatological promise of one day. We may not know the particulars, when or where or even how, but we have been promised and then reminded in the meal which we celebrate today, that our Lord Jesus is never tired of coming to our world. We must be ready and watchful, living the kind of lives which pry open our hearts and prepare us for encounters of hope which defy our reason and challenge us to trust what God has been promising us all along-- that he is here and continues to come.

As you meditate on hope during this Advent season, remember that you both pray and hope not as individuals but as a community which spans in every possible direction, young and old, the past and the future, and the here and now. Wherever you are, however you feel about hope, about faith, even about God, rest in this knowledge, the song of hope goes on. It has been sung from the beginning and will be sung until the end. It is a part of all of us, every facet of creation which has been formed and cradled by God. Some days you may be the one to lead the song and other days your song will be choked by tears, but every day, whether you feel it or know it, this song of hope will carry you.

I was glad, glad when they said unto me, we will go to the house of the Lord. Amen

This sermon was preached by Rev. Mel Baars at the Presbyterian Church of Chestertown on November 28, 2010

Time: A means to an end?

The other day, a group of students showed up at the bookstore, wanting to interview someone on the topic of success. They had two questions to ask: What is success, and by your definition, are you successful? The timeliness of their questions about success struck me later as I drove home, still pondering my own answers. A group of church members has been considering the subject of time over the past few weeks. Each of us, from different perspectives and for different reasons, have come to this weekly gathering, hoping, at least in part, to gain some sense of anchoring around the concept of time. Not to my surprise, the more tuned in to time I have become in these weeks, the more ephemeral time seems to have become. As one group member suggested, “It’s like trying to hold on to sand. The tighter my grip, the faster the grains escape between my fingers.”

In our world, time is closely woven with notions of success and productivity. For years, my greatest asset, in my own eyes, was my discipline around time. Depending on the season, a 5:30 wake up began a day that was packed to the gills with every kind of activity from work to pleasure. And, most often, these spheres would overlap. Always, though, there was productivity, something to show for my day whether it was an assignment completed, a scrapbook made, or items checked off the “to do” list for the upcoming charity event. It is interesting how small seeds are planted. I remember very well when my Hebrew teacher told me that the finished product of my translating was not the most important part of my work in her class. Instead, it was the process of translating that I should pay better attention to. Working with the text was a prayer in and of itself, not to be regarded as a means to an end and, certainly, not just another item to tick off my list.

The years I spent in South Africa marked a dramatic shift in my productivity and need for multitasking. At first, I tried to project my own conceptions of time onto the structures and people in my new community. I had clear goals in my mind and a path to achieving them. As the months passed and I honored my own expectations pertaining to time, I discovered that I was missing out on whole pieces of the culture and people that I was among. My time management and the rhythm of the community seemed to be mutually exclusive. If I wanted to move deeper into the fullness of my surroundings, I needed to loosen my schedule. I needed to let go of my need for productivity so that I could experience the life that was happening around me. If I didn’t allow myself to depart, at least every once-in-a-while, from the events I had planned, I was going to miss the moments that would be most transformative.

More importantly, with my attention split in multiple directions, I had a nagging sense that I wasn’t completely honoring the person or family that I had set out to care for. Their illness or loss was at the center of their world, but, for me, it was one of quite a few concerns that I was trying to balance. What I noticed was that I was only able to give my full focus when I made the choice to be engaged. Being present was an active decision, and I had to remember it to make the choice, not just once, but from moment to moment.

Years of social construction have instilled very deeply in me the need to use my time wisely and a drive to keep pushing for the next item on my list. When I have been given reason to pause, I have been humbled enough to see that my need for productivity is strangely self-centered. In a way, I know that I will never be able to fully move beyond it. Nonetheless, as I was trained to think and act in one way, new training over time can set a slightly different course for me. My definition of success has changed over the last few years, and I imagine it will continue to evolve as my training in practices of spirituality and holiness continues. For this, I am grateful.

Leadership is a privilege, so don't abuse it...

A few days ago, I received some unsettling news about a colleague in South Africa. He had stood up to his boss for justice, and in doing so, lost his home. Anyone with a heart would feel compassion for a person in this predicament. I was particularly emotional because I had encouraged him to speak out in the first place. Initially, I was crestfallen at the news, and then my heartache turned to anger. When I ran into a friend a few hours later, I confessed that I was going to sign up for martial arts so that I could inflict wounds on persons larger than me. It’s amazing how quickly one can loose sight of rationale and reason, especially when someone who is vulnerable and powerless is preyed upon.

For the past few weeks, wednesday night bible study has been reading from the book of Ezekiel. The prophet and his forty-eight chapters of preaching to an exiled Israel doesn’t always resonate with a modern audience, and I am not so sure that he was even popular back in the day, either. Nonetheless, after wading through repeating verses about winged wheels on chariots that seem to better belong in a horror movie than in the sacred texts of the Jewish and Christian faiths, I can’t help but recognize the timeliness of Ez. 34: The False Shepherds of Israel. If you haven’t even read it, it is worth your time, particularly in this season of elections. In this chapter, God rails against those who have been given power for leadership, religious and also political, and promises that the victims of their opportunistic greed will soon be rescued by God. The simple message: leadership is a privilege, so don’t misuse it.

I have mostly ignored politics in the last few months. If I am honest, I know that one of the reasons I have avoided politics in these months is that I have been too disappointed in the leadership I have witnessed over the last few years to give it a chance. And, as I have been living overseas in South Africa, my disillusionment has very little to do with politics in the US. For the last two years, I witnessed on a microcosmic level, how tyranny is bred. The recipe seemed easy enough: find a battered people, speak promises, no matter how empty they may be, ensure that no one around feels like an equal, make them believe that compensation for their loyalty is coming, and extinguish in whatever way possible, any voice of opposition. In my most cynical moments, this is what I feel I learned best in Africa, and not just through observing the government but sadly, also in the church. The truth of corruption has been a bitter pill for me to swallow, but I know that this abuse if not particular to Africa or any specific individual there. After all, there is a reason we have Ezekiel 34. Leaders, entrusted by God to guide and direct the vulnerable masses, have hardly ever lived up to the honor and privilege.

These days, streams of negative attack ads pervade every cable station. I heard this morning that over a billion has been spent on these “ads” during this election season. I find myself feeling ill over this waste. What are we thinking? I have yet to find one person who appreciates these ads, and yet with each election season, it just gets worse. If I have to hear one more threat about getting ready for 2012, I may go back to the martial arts idea. What about living presently and dealing with the issues of today? The ratio of “campaign” time to “actual work” time must be incalculable because of the gross imbalance. Is there any way to stop this train or are we truly forced into uncomfortable acquiescence of this unacceptable use of our precious resources? Therefore, when I come to Ezekiel 34, I read it even more hungrily.

To those false leaders, God says,

“You have not strengthened the weak, you have not healed the sick, you have not bound up the injured, you have not brought back the strayed, you have not sought the lost, but with force and harshness you have ruled them. So they were scattered, because there was no shepherd; and scattered, they became food for all the wild animals.”

But to the scattered flock, God says,

“I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep. I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, but the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them with justice.

Perhaps, my own wilderness has enhanced the poignance of Ezekiel’s message. And, to my surprise, it is not because I see this chapter as evidence that bad leaders will face the consequences of their abuse. Instead, these words remind me that those who have been led astray and left to be ravaged by some ill, are not left alone in their suffering. God’s promise to all those who have been harmed because of false shepherding lingers with me, even after I have turned the page. And so, at my wits end, whether at home where we drown in attack ads and talking heads or abroad where the carnage of greed is most visible in empty stomachs and sickly bodies, and when I can’t envision any other answer, I get on my knees in prayer. In moments like this, my only rest is found in God’s word.

This chapter is a reminder to any person who has been given the privilege of leadership, in the church or elsewhere, that the task of shepherding should never be taken lightly. For any of us, who either gladly or reluctantly accept the mantle of leadership, be watchful and listen well to these words, for the stakes are high and getting higher every day.

Here is the sermon from Sunday, October 17 - on Luke 18:1-8:

I can’t help thinking of the Chilean miners as we all watched in awe this past week as all 33 of them … against almost impossible odds … emerged safely from the mine. People around the world watched and cheered … and prayed for their safety… as we did last Sunday in worship and on Tuesday night at the Session meeting.
Was it the prayers that made the difference?
If that’s so, then what about the 20 Chinese miners who died on Friday in an underground explosion?
Or what about one friend who is declared cancer-free … and someone else we know and love who is not?
Does God really answer all our prayers this way?
For many of us, prayer is not like drawing answers out of a hat any time we want them. Instead it is more often a lifetime of asking, seeking, knocking, waiting for an answer and growing impatient … even sometimes angry … with the silence.
An elderly black minister read this parable and gave a one-sentence interpretation: “Until you have stood for years knocking at a locked door, your knuckles bleeding, you do not really know what prayer is.”[1]
So when the Gospel tells us not to lose heart, that God will answer our prayers and bring justice quickly … sometimes our own experience tells us: well, maybe that’s true … but maybe not.
There is a dissonance here for people of faith – and there always has been as prophets like Habbakuk and voices like that of Job wonder why it is that the unjust prosper and the righteous suffer.
The answer was … and still is: I don’t know. But be patient and trust and be faithful.
Which is never a very satisfying answer … at least for those of us, and I count myself among them, who want to have all our questions answered and problems fixed – as quickly as possible.
Which is why I’ve always liked this parable of the “persistent” widow. She knows how to get things done – and won’t give up until it happens. She is the Erin Brockovich of the 1st century … she could be the lobbyist for hungry children or unemployed workers or widows on pensions pounding on every door in Congress until she’s heard and justice is done.
There’s a great little story of Mother Theresa visiting Edward Bennett Williams – a Washington lawyer who at one time was the lawyer for Frank Sinatra and Richard Nixon (among other notable … and sometimes notorious people) and for a time he was the owner of the Washington Redskins and the Baltimore Orioles. Mother Theresa was coming to ask for a donation for her hospice in India – and Williams was not inclined to give it to her. So before she got there, he agreed with his partner that they would hear her out, then politely refuse.
Which they did – hear her, that is, then decline to give a donation … whereupon Mother Theresa said simply, “let us pray.” After she had prayed, she started over and gave her pitch for the hospice once again – word for word as before. And again Williams said no … whereupon Mother Theresa said again, “let us pray.” And Williams, exasperated, looked up at the ceiling and said, “all right, all right. Get me my checkbook.”[2]
Maybe that’s the widow in our parable. Someone who should be insignificant, yet who by her faithful persistence can change the mind of even those who are more powerful than she.
Even this judge. There is not a lot to like about this judge. He makes no secret of the fact that he has no time for God and basically doesn’t like people. By refusing to hear her case he violates every command in the Jewish Law where judges were charged with the responsibility of hearing all complaints fairly and impartially. Let alone there is in Scripture a clear expectation that special regard and protection should be given to widows, orphans and foreigners.
But our judge seems to have had no regard for any of that.
And by the end of the parable, he hasn’t changed his mind either. He has no more regard for God than he did before and he could still care less about anyone else – and he doesn’t mind saying so. He has simply gotten tired of this woman coming to his court every day demanding justice.
Now, Luke tells us this parable is meant to show the disciples they should always pray and not give up, which might lead us to think that if we simply pester God long enough and hard enough, our prayers will be answered.
But parables … and life … are never as simple as that.
Several weeks ago on the Fox Network’s hit series “Glee,” which is all about a high school glee club, they actually tackled the topic of prayer. The series loves a good satire – and they had great fun poking at our idea of God as a god who gives us whatever we want. The high school football star creates his own theology of prayer when he thinks he sees the face of Jesus in his grilled cheese sandwich and then imagines that Jesus magically grants his every wish. It was all very silly and had to make you laugh at ourselves and our own expectations of prayer sometimes.
But while they never really resolved the issues of prayer (how could they, really in a 1-hour episode of a comedy show?) – still I have to give them credit: …they did not hesitate to raise the questions that youth and adults have every day:
what happens when our prayers are not answered,
and what happens when they are?
What difference does it make when we believe in the power of prayer …
and even when we don’t?
We pray for peace … but the world hasn’t changed very much.
We pray for healing … but sometimes there is no cure.
We pray for direction … but find no clear answers.
We pray for our children … but that doesn’t guarantee we can protect them or that they will make good decisions.
Is it simply a matter of pestering God long enough and hard enough … or is there something more?
This is where I think it helps to hear again the message throughout the gospels: that we are to ask and seek and knock, we are to remember that if God’s eye is on the sparrow then it is also on each one of us. For the parable is not comparing God to the unjust judge. God doesn’t need to be pestered into paying attention to us. After all, Jesus has taught us to pray asking each day for what we need … for daily bread and forgiveness and for God’s will to be done.
If that is so, then Jesus here is simply reminding us that if even such a man as that judge will see that the widow gets justice, then how much more will God hear us and care for us and see that justice is done … even if the answer is long in coming … even if it is not what we asked for.
It’s not about having the right prayers, or praying for the right things … it’s not always even about asking for anything. But over time, prayer is about building a relationship with the living God, who created us and sustains us in love and who cares for every details of our lives.
In the end, all of our prayers – our complaints, our requests, our praise, our thanksgiving, our confession … all of it is part of our relationship with God.
Like the widow we keep asking, seeking, knocking until prayer becomes the ongoing conversation between us and the One who made us.
“Then,” someone said, when we have that ongoing conversation with God … “we will never come away empty-handed from prayer, because even if we wind up with none of the things we thought we needed, we will always wind up with God listening, attending and answering our prayers in ways we hadn’t [even] imagined.”[3]
When the author Madeline L’Engle was waiting for results from a biopsy, she says that she kept praying: “please, don’t let it be cancer. Don’t let it be cancer.” And she says her friends kept telling her that was the wrong prayer – it was either cancer or it was not and praying would not make it otherwise.
But she insisted that praying for it not to be cancer was what was in her heart, therefore it could not be a “wrong prayer.” She needed to pray as her heart needed to pray – nothing more and nothing less.
When the biopsy results came back and she learned her cancer was terminal, she wondered if her prayers had been wasted, but she decided:
“Prayer is love, and love is never wasted…. Perhaps there will be unexpected answers to these prayers, answers I may not even be aware of for years. But they are not wasted. They are not lost. I do not know where they have gone, but [she goes on to say] I believe that God holds them, hands outstretched to receive them like precious pearls.”[4]
I find great courage in believing that prayer is never wasted and I have come to trust in the fact that throughout our lives there are times we will struggle with faith and with God … because it is in our nature to wonder, to doubt, to believe, to question, to hope even when we know only long periods of silence and to trust even when we see only in part.
Maybe Jesus is telling us this parable not to show us how God answers prayer, but rather to show us how we are to live … in faith … like the widow, faithful enough to keep:
- praying
- to keep asking, seeking, knocking … and doing it with boldness
- never giving up, never losing heart
- and trusting that each and every day, in every circumstance – God is there, persistently seeking us. Always desiring goodness, wholeness, and justice for all creation.
Even for us. Even for you. Even now.
May it be so. Amen.


[1] Cited by Fred Craddock, Luke (Interpretation Commentary – Louisville, KY: John Knox Press), p. 210.
[2] Cited by Rev. Dr. Thomas Long in “Praying Without Losing Heart,” found at the website: http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/long_5101.htm
[3] “On God’s Case,” by Stephanie Frey, The Christian Century, July 13, 2004, p. 17.
[4] James C. Howell, The Beautiful Work of Learning to Pray (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2003), p. 31.

I will..... with God's help

In the wake of our church’s recent baptisms, I have been particularly grateful for my own baptism and that my parents made the decision years ago to present me before our church, formalizing the covenant between God, the church and its members. When I was home this past weekend, my mother brought out the extra-large Tupperware container of my childhood keepsakes. Somewhere wedged between saved birthday cards and pictures from the first day of kindergarden was the bulletin from my service of baptism, some twenty-seven years ago. As I held it in my hands, looking to see if there were any markers that the service was especially significant, I noticed that the liturgy focused on the communal action of the church body in the sacrament of baptism. My name wasn’t even listed. As personally important the service was to me, the emphasis was on the promises made by that congregation to raise me and direct me in ways which honored Jesus.

Perhaps, as I have grown to a point that I realize saying the words, “I will,” carries great weight and responsibility when asked of me, I wonder what those questions posed to a congregation during a baptism really require. Pondering this, my thoughts often drift to a friend I have from the church I attended during high school. Though her children had graduated from our youth group, she was one of the main adults that participated in our various activities from lock-ins to driving the van to camp every summer; we all secretly fought over who would get to ride with her. As we graduated and departed for college, the military, and other more distant horizons, I wondered if sheer geography would mean the end of her involvement with us. Ten years and many different zip codes have proven otherwise. And, it’s not just me who she has managed to guide and nurture.

There were two girls from another family in our church who lost their mother when they were very young. When their father remarried, they were lost in the shuffle, left in many ways to weather their lives alone. Over the years, I have marveled at the significant and palpable ways that this friend has walked alongside these girls. She has helped them move house, buy cars, struggle through difficult break-ups, stay in school, and learn how to manage adulthood. There have been ups and downs, frustration, tears, and, on many occasions, also heartwarming joy. I ran into one of the girls while I was visiting my hometown, and she commented that whenever she encountered a challenge which seemed more than she could handle on her own, this friend was the first person she thought to call.

I don’t know if my friend was present when these girls were brought before the church for their baptisms. I can’t help but imagine, though, that every time she has said, “I will,” to those questions, whenever they have been asked of her, she has taken them to heart. Certainly, her actions, her willingness to be enmeshed with so many of us, live up to those promises made, again and again, whenever baptism is celebrated. My friend is not the only person I know who has lived out these vows with intention. She, along with others who have said, “I will,” and on many days remembered, have been enabled to act through the grace of Christ.

Ultimately, it is the church as a whole, a community of both givers and receivers, that upholds the baptismal covenant. None of us acts alone. When we say, “I will,” we do so knowing that God has gone before us, is there with us, and will continue to be present until the end of time. As we are woven further into a community of faith, we are reminded that in our binding, with God and neighbor, we live not through our own power, but as a part of a larger story. Being baptized does not ensure that God will love us more deeply, for God’s love for each of us exists regardless of baptism. This covenant is, however, a reminder of a promise between God, the church, and its body, which names aloud God’s sign and seal over us.

As stated in the baptismal liturgy found in the Book of Common Prayer,

There is one Body and one Spirit;

There is one hope in God’s call to us;

One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism;

One God and Father of all.