She
She must have
noticed my books about the Bible on the table. If that wasn’t a give-away, surely the bow-tie was.
Whatever the ‘tell,’ she felt the inclination to ask: “So, are you like a pastor or something?”
Whenever I’m asked this question, I intentionally
delay my response. I do this not because I’m ashamed of either my faith or my status as clergy, but because I’m hesitant about what follows my answer: “Yes I am; a Presbyterian pastor,
actually.”
“Oh that is cool,” she
replied, as she continued wiping down the table.
“Like, is that the same as a priest? Because I am a Christian.
Actually, I was. I mean, I haven’t gone to church in a long time. Also my church is in Springfield. You
might know what it is. It is that really big one. I think the name is…”
She stood trying to
think of the name of her church.
“Oh this is awful and embarrassing.”
I assured her it wasn't. “I understand. There are a lot of churches
in Springfield.”
Stopping what she
was doing, she looked at me and said,
“You are right on that.”
We returned to the
tasks at hand: I went back to researching and “sermonizing,” and
she to sweeping and wiping surfaces, though not venturing too far from my
table.
Just as my coffee
was turning cold, the question behind her lingering presence emerged, “So, like, do you baptize babies? Like, I
have a child.” She gazed away from
me for a second, before adding: “This is awful, but, he is already 1. And I know his daddy would want
him baptized. I do too. But, like, where or how do I do that?” After explaining that they’re separated—that they aren’t even married— she
added that she wishes she could go to church
but
 |
| The Sacrament of Baptism, the sign and seal of God's grace and our response, is the foundational recognition of Christian commitment...[W-3.3600--Book of Order] |
she
doesn’t
have
a
church
home.
To her, because of
her "situation," she has nowhere to worship.
I sat with that for
a second as she continued to tell me her story.
But what stopped me
in my tracks; what made me hang that coffee mug just before touching my lips;
what made me both excited and sad was this question:
“So, if I want my baby baptized, like, how much does it cost?”
What an interesting
question.
This quandary
stopped me in my tracks, pondering the meaning and measurable “cost” embedded in this
sacred mystery, this sacrament of our faith.
So, what does it
cost?
I wanted to say
this: it costs everything.
Baptism costs time— not as a repetitive event, but through participation in a community
committed both to one another, and perpetuating the reign of God through acts
of kindness, mercy, and peace. It costs abandoning the lies society tells us by
believing in the good news that in life and in death, we belong entirely to God.
Baptizing your
child will cost you the assumption that you are alone in this life, but will
give you the security of knowing that you have gained a family, to teach, to
love, and to care for your child.
Her question made
me wonder how much the church (lowercase ‘c’) twisted this
reality for her. It made me wonder when community was replaced by transaction
where outsiders to our worship spaces feel like they need to “pay” for
the privilege of fitting in.
Baptism, as a “cost,” is
shared by the community. When your baby is baptized, we as your sisters and
brothers enter into covenant with you, and God, making this promise: “We are here for you. We will always be
here for you. Even if it means losing our lives for you!”
That is what I didn’t say.
Instead, I asked
her to clarify.
She meant money.
I told her the
truth: that most churches don’t charge, but welcome your participation in the life of the community.
She responded with
a suspicious, “Oh really.”
She cleaned.
I wrote.
Both sitting in that awkward silence before she thanked me for being so polite and helpful.
As she walked away,
she added: “Maybe I’ll come visit you some time.”
I took a sip of
coffee and said, “We would love it.”
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