Listen to Mother Margaret’s sermon here >
A few weeks ago on Pride Sunday, Russell T. was baptized at this font. The water was poured three times in the name of the Trinity. The oil of chrism anointed his forehead with the sign of the cross, and those familiar words were spoken: “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever.” A few moments before, we as a congregation had renewed our own baptismal vows. Welcoming this newly baptized member, the whole congregation was asperged with the holy water of blessing. (We as clergy make sure all of us in the congregation get at least a little bit wet.) It is always a joyous moment.
That day I was reminded of a baptism some years ago in another parish, this time of a little boy of about five named William. He knelt on a chair and bent his head over the font, got decidedly wet, and when it came time for the anointing, he lifted his head as the oil of chrism traced the sign of the cross on his forehead. Again the words were spoken: “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever.”
A week or so later, he came up after church, pointed to his forehead, and asked, “Is it still there?”
“Yes indeed,” I replied. “It is now a little bit further on the inside, so you just can’t see it when you look in the mirror. But it is always with you.”
Again, that beaming smile of belonging.
Christ’s own forever. That is what the Apostle Paul was getting at in today’s letter to the Romans. We hear the echoes and origins of those baptismal words, “sealed by the Holy Spirit,” when Paul writes, “For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God… You did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but a spirit of adoption.”
Adoption—as children of God, heirs through the Spirit of hope and the grace of Christ. This same Spirit is the seal marked within us in baptism, that of belonging as children of God, adopted into the household of God, to which all are invited and welcome. Easy words, but hard to live out.
This talk of “all are welcome” and “all belong” was not easy for Paul. His origins were as a persecutor of the new Christians. He worried about Judaism going awry and wanted things done according to his particular standards. These followers of Jesus, in his view, were not doing things properly.
You will remember, though, that Paul had a moment of conversion. On the road to Damascus, while on his way to carry out more violence, he was struck by a great transforming light. He gave up persecution to become not only a follower of Jesus but an apostle to the Gentiles. He founded communities throughout Asia Minor, Greece, Rome, and Corinth.
His message became one of welcome to all, proclaiming that followers of Christ could come from every people, culture, and heritage. In Christ there is no east or west, no slave or free, no male and female. Paul’s message is that each of us is claimed and beloved by God, adopted as God’s own by grace, not by biology or merit, not by class or education.
The invitation to become a new kind of community is ours to receive. Any spirit of fear or self-judgment we carry, whatever our history, is not a burden we need to bear. Being marked as Christ’s own is about belonging.
“Wherever you are on your journey, you are welcome here” is a mission we have claimed at St. Michael’s. The challenge, though, is how to live that out for others and for ourselves. Facing the world honestly and without fear is not easy for most of us. Where do we get the courage? How do we claim that spirit of adoption? How do we, as a Christian community, make that invitation of welcome real? How do we offer it to others?
The answer, at least in part, is right here among us.
Which brings me back to the baptism service and the promise the congregation makes alongside the godparents:
“Will you support this child, or this person, in their life in Christ?”
The response is always a resounding, “We will.”
Yet behind that liturgical enthusiasm is the knowledge that we may never have the opportunity to support this particular child or person. For all sorts of reasons in our mobile world, it may not be St. Michael’s that becomes this child’s church home, if any church at all.
So how do we make that “We will” matter? How do we make that spirit of adoption real, whether someone is baptized here, elsewhere, or not at all?
I see it happening every day in the life and ministry of this parish and community. The “Yes, we will” extends to everyone who comes through our doors, whether on Sunday for worship, on Saturday for a meal, or during the week for Russian or Chinese lessons, daycare at La Escuelita, theater, choir, or even the Neighborhood Action meeting on Monday nights.
Each of these ministries is an expression of your own “Yes” spoken at every baptism.
Our yes is as much about who we are as a community as it is about the individual who may never return to St. Michael’s a week or years later to ask whether the seal of the Holy Spirit is still there. It already is. It lives within and among each of us. Our promise to support one another as a community is lived out in our church, our neighborhood, and well beyond.
The spirit of adoption is who we are and what we give to others. We discover what Paul meant by being claimed and beloved by God as we ourselves are claimed, beloved, and adopted by others. In secular language, I suppose this is the equivalent of saying, “It takes a village”—a neighborhood, and yes, a parish.
A few examples come to mind, and I imagine you have your own.
Growing up, I had “another mother.” Everyone needs one—or another parent, a big brother, or someone similar. Not a replacement for our own family, but someone who offers a different perspective, perhaps without the same baggage.
My other mother was Libby. She stayed in touch until she died a few years ago and called every few months. Libby was a deeply spiritual woman, though not an Episcopalian. Her prayers were of the charismatic variety, full of praise music. Every phone call ended with, “Angel, let’s just talk to Jesus together.”
And we did, over the phone, a thousand miles apart, yet filled with the spirit of adoption.
My own mother was deeply spiritual as well, but in the Episcopal way, and the prayers of the Book of Common Prayer were just fine for her. I am grateful for that too.
My children had Grandpa Jack, who was the grandpa who lived nearby, though we had no biological relationship. He ran the church soup kitchen and often traveled on vacation with us.
Then there was Suzanne. Both of my girls sat with her in church because their parents were priests. She also did sewing projects and crafts with them, things their mother was not particularly good at.
That same village exists here at St. Michael’s in countless ways. Homework Help, where mentors become trusted adults outside a child’s own family—and which, thankfully, will continue—is one wonderful example. I see the spirit of adoption every time a child comes forward for a blessing.
And then there is the church directory.
I never thought of the directory as a tool for the spirit of adoption until one memory brought it to mind.
It was fifth-grade graduation for my daughter, time to clean out desks and head home for the summer. Amid the notebook paper, candy wrappers, old erasers, and pencils, I found a directory from the church where I was then rector.
“Miriam,” I asked, “why do you have a St. Dunstan’s directory in your desk?”
“Mom,” she replied, rolling her eyes as though I understood nothing, “you never know when I might need someone and you and Dad may not be around. I want to make sure I have the numbers to call.”
She understood it, even if she could not yet put it into theological language. At least in that moment, she understood the spirit of adoption, the seal deep inside that marked her, and all of us, as Christ’s own forever.
The invitation remains open: claimed by God so that we may claim one another as we support each other in our lives in Christ.
No matter where we are on this journey, we bear the cross of that baptismal seal, our mark of belonging as part of the Body of Christ.
Amen.
