Claimed for Christ, Claimed for One Another

Two years ago, today was Holy Saturday.  And for the first time since we had kids, we got the whole family dressed up and headed to church for the Easter Vigil.  The reason we ventured out for this late night and long service with a four, three and six-month old in tow was to get said six month old baptized. 

Layla's baptism was absolutely amazing!  Despite the squirrely three and four year old, it was a beautiful night of prayer, community and sacrament.  In fact, it was one of the most profound Sacramental experiences I have been blessed to be a part of.
 

Let me see if I can share the story....

Our parish community has a special tradition at baptisms.  Beginning in the baptistry of the church, before the opening song, the child to be baptized and their parents are asked what they ask for their child, asked what name they give their child, and then the priest makes the sign of the cross on the baby's forehead, claiming them for Christ.  This is the way of the Rite; but what makes our community's practice a little different is that next the parents and Godparents, followed by the entire community (represented mostly by those on the ends of the pews along that center aisle) are invited to do the same.  People young and old reach out their arms, beckoning the parents closer so that they too may trace a cross on the infant, marking them for Christ, as the family works their way up the aisle during the opening song.  It is a ritual of welcome.  And thus begins the Mass of thanksgiving.

I have always found this beautiful and profound.  That we ALL help claim the child for Christ.  That we ALL claim responsibility for helping raise the child in the faith.  That we ALL, as claimed children of GOD ourselves, participate in the grace of the Sacraments of one another.

But on this particular night, for this particular baptism, it felt even more beautiful.  Even more profound.

Perhaps it was because it was the Easter Vigil - the whole of our Salvation History told from darkness to light.  Perhaps it was because of the extra full church - all those hands to welcome and claim my daughter for the faith.  Perhaps it was the light of the Easter candle - the symbol that had just been dipped into the holy water, symbolizing the impregnating of our lives with the Holy Spirit, now leading my husband as he carried that newest presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives who would soon also be immersed in the water, throughout the church (this special night we didn't confine the procession of the child to the center aisle!)

Or perhaps it was because of the song sung in the background - the Litany of the Saints (which gets me every time anyways!), calling upon all those holy men and women who have gone before us, as those holy men and women sharing the presence with us claimed our new little one to be a holy woman of the future.

But whatever the reason (or because of all of them), two years ago I was struck by a whole new level of beauty and profoundness as we carried our daughter up and down the aisles of our church, following the Easter candle to the names of the saints and martyrs, with the hands of young and old, friend and stranger alike, tracing the cross on Layla's forehead.

I cried at the profound sense of "She belongs to something greater than herself."

I cried at the profound sense of "We are church."

I cried at the profound sense of "We support one another." 

I cried at the profound sense of "How beautiful is the community - transcending time and demographics - that is the very essence of our faith." 

And while it's true that I cry at almost all baptisms, this night two years ago, I sat closer to GOD and my church than ever before, as I cried at this one.


But the story does not end there....


The next night, after eating too much food as we honored both Christ's rising and Layla's with a family party, the phone rang.  We almost missed it as we fought with the three and four year old to get them to stop splashing in the bath tub.  But never have I been so glad to pick-up the phone. 

The caller was my friend Trina.  Trina lives in Venezuela.  She and her husband, Deacon Oscar, are friends through our diocesan partnership with the diocese of Maracay, of which both Trina and I were the primary communication liaisons for our respective dioceses.  It had been a while since I had heard from Trina, as the situation in her country had been growing more and more volatile in numerous ways, and throughout it all communication was becoming a growing challenge.

But Trina wasn't calling with a work question or update on behalf of her diocese.  She was calling with a personal question and a message on behalf of herself and Oscar.  She was calling to ask how Layla's baptism went, and to wish her welcome to the church!  

As we talked, me sharing how beautiful I found the Liturgy and sacrament were and her sharing how they had been praying for Layla in their home and parish that morning, I was once again overwhelmed.  

We had carried our daughter up and down the aisles of our church, while the incredible power of solidarity had carried her all the way to Venezuela.  We had followed the Easter candle to the names of the saints and martyrs, while the Light of Christ had led this holy man and woman into our lives.  We had offered her forehead to the cross-tracing hands of young and old, friend and stranger alike, while Christ was offering her to the hands of the church - all peoples, all races, all locations and walks of life.  

I hung up the phone, and I cried at the profound sense of "She belongs to something greater than herself, or even us."

I cried at the profound sense of "We are church, across borders."

I cried at the profound sense of "We support one another, even amidst our own challenges." 

I cried at the profound sense of "How beautiful is the community - transcending time zones and all human boundaries - that is the very essence of our faith." 

And while it's true that I've been known to cry at bedtimes from time to time, this night two years ago, I sat closer to GOD and my church than ever before, as I cried at this one. 

That night, I tucked-in my squirrely three and four year old's and laid my six-month old down.  I kissed them all good-night, marking them with my love and claiming them for our church, for our world.  And I thanked GOD for the ways in which His Love had marked them and how His church and world had claimed them - welcomed them - to be a full, beautiful and profound part of it.


But the story does not end there....

Here I sit tonight, after having lit a candle at dinner to honor Layla's Baptismal Birthday, with each of us laying hands upon her and praying for the gifts we see in her.  Here I sit, after having tucked in my squirrely five and six year old and my two and a half year old, kissing them goodnight as usual.  Here I sit.  But tonight, like each night since April 4th two years ago, has been different.

My sense of church has grown.  My sense of community has grown.  My desire for my children as a part of it has grown.  Because of the Love, because of the solidarity, because of all the beauty, all the profound ways in which GOD worked in our life that Easter, because Layla (and Lilly and Adrian) has been claimed, marked, welcomed into something so much bigger, something beyond human limits, the story goes on.  "World without end, Amen!" 



* * * * * *
  
Sadly, that was one of the last times that I was able to speak with Trina.  The situation in Venezuela has grown continuously worse over the past two years, making communication and our partnership activities nearly impossible.  But she and Oscar remain a regular part of our family's prayer.  It is a small way, but still a way that we can be church for them, as they were church for us in such a powerful way two years ago.  And we pray for all our brothers and sisters in Venezuela (and invite you to do the same).  We belong to each other.  We support each other.  We are church.  

Prayer for Venezuela

O God, who sees within and beyond
the limits set by the human heart,
look into the hearts of Venezuelan leaders and people alike
at this time of struggle and division
and satisfy their need for compassionate truth.
Fill the hearts of both rich and poor Venezuelans
with a vision of mercy.
Show them ways to put aside violence
intended for control and intimidation.
Strengthen within them a desire for peace so strong
that the walls of division will crumble and be replaced
with openness, freedom and unity.  Amen.