Promises made

The agreements we make — spoken and unspoken — ground our lives, especially in times of uncertainty

Last night I had my first non-family, non-neighbor guests in my home. There’s a bit of backstory to this one (as there usually is). Last Sunday I was preaching from the Newer Testament lectionary text, Hebrews 12:18-29, where the author speaks of a God who is shaking things up, but a God whose kingdom is unshakeable.

I shared with the congregation that I am praying — and invited them to pray with me — for God to shake us up for new spiritual vitality: as individuals, as a congregation, around us in our communities. As I encouraged my listeners to open themselves to God shaking us from the status quo, I proclaimed the faithfulness of a God who is unshakeable. That is to say: being shaken up can be jarring, but it need not dismay us. Good comes out of these times of spiritual disorientation and provocation.

Having learned that it’s been years since the congregation has celebrated a baptism or welcomed someone new into membership, I narrowed my preaching ask. Who will be our next new member? Who will be the next person to be baptized? And I went on. Lord knows we preachers can be unduly loquacious at times.

Early in the week, just hours after my sermon, I received an email from a young couple in the congregation: “When would be a good time to talk with you about having [child’s name] baptized?” I was, of course, overjoyed to be firsthand witness to Love’s response to ardent prayers seeking a spiritual shaking.

So last night I welcomed the couple and their adorable young child into my home. Usually I have these kind of conversations in the church office, but logistically my home was a better meeting place. We watched a short video together explaining the United Methodist understanding of baptism and discussed what we had heard in the presentation. The parents are bright, thoughtful and engaging. They understand very clearly the nature of this sacrament, the holy promises they will make on behalf of their child and the assurance of a congregation’s loving support conveyed through their corporate promise to journey through life with these young parents.

I obtained the data I required — birth dates, godparents’ names, emails, addresses — and we established a baptismal Sunday date. Typically in my church office this is where the pre-baptismal meeting ends. I stand from my desk, the parents tuck their baby into the carrier and we walk to the door for goodbyes.

But, blessedly, last night was very different. Our conversation flowed naturally and meaningfully. I learned about their lives — very young by my aged standards — their aspirations, their interests, their preferences. They learned some about my life — my years spent as a parent, my wife whom I wished they could have met, my invitation that they allow me to be their pastor and walk with them in their lives’ journeys.

We chattered and laughed and shared our lives together in a lovely, disarming way in which the chronological years between us collapsed into an evening of shared interests. Baby, who had been contentedly sleeping for most of our conversation, opened her eyes and smacked her lips. Her very attached, insightful parents knew it was time for a feeding and a diaper change, and then it was time for them to go home. I walked them to door, turned on the outside lights and bade them farewell.

Walking into the house, I glanced at my clock. It was 9:30 PM. We had spent nearly two-and-a-half hours together: it was the longest and most meaningful pre-baptismal conversation I have had in over thirty years of pastoral ministry.

I paused in my darkened living room, my thinking spurred by the earlier conversation about baptismal promises. I’ve made promises in my life, as have you. Some of those promises have been public and life-binding. More than three decades ago I promised to serve God and neighbor through the vows of ordination. Nearly thirty years I promised before a crowd of over three hundred people to love and cherish, honor and defend, until death do us part, my wife. Over the years standing before a baptismal font with my spouse and my own children, I promised to love and nurture them in faith.

So many promises, so much fulfillment. With promises there comes uncertainty (“Will I really be able to do this?”), but without promises there is little possibility for firm grounding in our lives. We don’t make promises because we have already kept them, we make promises because in so doing we indicate our deep-seated intention and honest desire to be faithful to Another and to others.

Sometimes I have a little talk with Claudia after an especially grueling or delightful day. Last night it was the latter. “Wow, wasn’t that a great night? I know you would have enjoyed it, and I just miss you so much. Thank you for helping me understand just how delightful these kinds of conversations can be. I only wish you could be here to enjoy it with me. Wish you were here.”

And then I walked to my bedroom, readied myself for sleep, turned off the lights and slipped into my queen-sized bed, alone.

But not really.