What Baptism and Confirmation Meant to Me

This might be a controversial thought:  I believe my confirmation means more to me than my baptism.  Or rather it was through my confirmation that I learned what my baptism means.  But it is also true that I am not finished learning what my baptism means.

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked what my baptism means to me.  I have a clear understanding of what my baptism means in terms of the Episcopal Church's Baptismal Covenant, and actually, the entire liturgy of baptism is incredibly rich as a teaching tool.  The question, however, was what my Baptism means to me.  That was a more difficult question.  This may actually be a common issue among people who move from one denomination into another.  Sometimes we have to make sense of our baptism in a new theological setting. I wholeheartedly believe the precepts of the Baptismal Covenant, but I was not baptized according to it.   So the issue turns into a question of belonging and identity and it took some intentional work to adopt a new understanding of baptism.  This was made easier by the fact that the Episcopal Church's understanding of the sacrament encompasses more in terms of Christian duty…and the range of meaning attached to baptism is also broadened.

Baptism can have a myriad of meanings, and the experience affects people in significantly different ways.  In my studies this semester, I was directed to an ecumenical document from the World Council of Churches that detailed at least five meanings of Baptism: 

1.      Participation in Christ’s death and resurrection

2.      Gift of the Spirit

3.      Incorporation into the Body of Christ (the Church)

4.      Baptism as conversion, pardoning, cleansing

5.      The sign of the Kingdom, initiating one into the people of faith and into the reign of God. 

None of these meanings are exclusive.  Neither should one be considered more important than the others.  It seems to me that baptism is ultimately a mystery, so trying to lock down to one meaning of baptism does injustice to scripture (from which these five meanings are derived) and to the work of God.  The best part of this list is that it makes the implicit parts of the Baptismal liturgy explicit.  Just for fun read through the Episcopal baptismal liturgy; you’ll find all of these ideas in either text or symbol. 

What I mean when I say that joining the Episcopal Church widened my understanding of baptism will take some biographical work.  [Disclaimer:  I am writing about my personal experience as a Southern Baptist before I reached the age of eighteen.  I acknowledge the experience was limited in that I wasn’t paying very close attention and I was only in one congregation with short visits to other congregations.  I do not wish to pretend that I have a deep understanding of Baptist theology.]

I grew up in a Southern Baptist household.  Baptists hold to the doctrine of believer's baptism, meaning that baptism is only for those who can make a profession of faith of an understanding of God's plan of salvation.  I remember taking the walk from the pew to the pulpit during the altar call. But I also remember talking to the preacher before the service and making the sinner's prayer for Jesus to “come into my heart.”  This is difficult to remember from so long ago, but salvation seemed to me to be only a matter of loving Jesus and avoiding pain and burning of Hell.  I was baptized the next Sunday by full-immersion. Notice that this understanding of baptism only corresponds to meaning four listed above: “baptism as conversion, pardoning, and cleansing.”  I never had a sense of participating in Christ’s own death and resurrection, or that the Holy Spirit was an expected gift.  I understood being grafted into Christ and sharing in the Kingdom only in the sense that I would be going to heaven… and I would not recognize the concepts using Kingdom language. “Body of Christ” may have been a stretch.  Once again, I probably do not have a sufficiently varied understanding of the Southern Baptist denomination’s theology of baptism, but the other meanings listed above never seem to be made explicit.

From about the time I was thirteen to seventeen, I found myself “backsliding,” but it is also accurate to say that I left the denomination because of conflicting worldviews and a conversation with a racist preacher. Since I had been taught to think that the Baptists had Christianity uniquely “right,” I didn’t see much use in faith through any type of organized religion or denomination. I became a pretty good deist.

Through those years, I rarely thought about my baptism or what it meant. When I did, baptism stayed attached to asking Jesus to come into my heart—a personal thing. But I wondered if it was a once-for-all thing. Could disbelief nullify it?  Are sins performed after Baptism also covered?  If baptism can be nullified by one's actions, does one get rebaptized? Other people I know doubted the sincerity of their own conversation experiences—and if one’s salvation is uniquely tied to the strength of that experience, any doubt in the experience breeds anxiety. Along those lines, is a ten year old really able to understand baptism as much more than fire insurance? 

I found myself considering joining the Episcopal Church around the time I was twenty-four. Since my baptism is valid, I did not need a re-do. I would instead be confirmed. The theological rationale of confirmation is that one makes a mature profession of faith, which I felt that I may have needed from a baptism when I was ten years old and simply scared of Hell. It is also when the Holy Spirit bestows charism on the confirmand. By my call to ordained priesthood, that notion seems to hold true for me.

During catechesis, I understood that baptism is a complete rite within itself, needing nothing further for completion. While my sense of justification was secure, I found my confirmation to be a completion of the work that my earlier profession of faith and my baptism started. Until joining the Episcopal Church, I understood my baptism to be only about me, about my soul, about my relationship to Jesus, about my salvation from Hell. When I was confirmed—and in so doing affirmed a Baptismal Covenant that was not only about me and God, but about other people and my relationship to them through community—only then did it feel like I started to understand the breadth of meaning of my baptism. And so baptism means more to me now, after confirmation, both in terms of my relationship to God through Jesus and the Spirit and in terms of greater sense of Christian duty to the Church and the rest of the world. 

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A few loose thoughts about Confirmation:

I can’t stress enough how important Confirmation was for me, even if liturgical scholars rightly note it is something of a sacrament in search of a theology.  To make the long story short:  As parishes grew in the Western Church, the priest became the head of a local church.  The chrism that the bishop used to do immediately after baptism became what the bishop did when he occasionally visited.  Confirmation (the last act of baptism) had to wait until the bishop came around and became its own rite. It developed from more ecclesiological issues than theological. That does not mean that that confirmation is useless.  Now, priests perform chrismation after baptism, and confirmation is an act of making a mature profession of faith in Christ and affirming the promises made in the Baptismal covenant, which may have been made on their behalf in infancy.

Because Confirmation meant so much to me I hold that confirmation should be a choice initiated by the child, teen, and adult…as opposed to the notion that that it is important and every other 7th grader in the church is doing it. Even if this means holding off for years.

I liken the danger of forcing confirmation to be like going through an arranged marriage.  Parents and/or clergy tell the person that confirmation is important or that they will understand/love it later.  If we would not tell a bride the same thing, we should not tell it to our children.  Many a justifiable resentment to the Church seems to start here.

If we were to try silence in prayer, we may discover that the discomfort we feel are the dark parts of our soul rising to consciousness. Our failings, our senses of inadequacy, our regrets come to the fore because we have deliberately chosen to no longer drown them out. It is difficult to sit with these thoughts for long, almost unhealthy to do so. But in a context of prayer, we hold ourselves up for our own introspection and we also hold ourselves up to God. These are aspects of our human condition that we would rather hide from God, from others, and from ourselves. Yet it is better to acknowledge realities, and in the presence of a God and Spirit who is willing to follow us into the depths of our being, the very core of our soul. We will find God forgiving and understanding. Once we get past our discomfort with ourselves and learn to rest in the love and presence of God, the conversation can begin.

I wrote and preached these words this summer.   They certainly held true tonight.

Sometimes the mystical experience is not the blinding white light of joy.
Sometimes the mystical experience is the Holy Spirit convicting you.
Or maybe it's the Holy Spirit letting you do the work of conviction.
But then, there is a reason She is known as the Comforter.
Because it felt like a dark buoyancy.
Forgiveness, love, and comfort.
The womb of God.
Thanks be to God.

On Love of the Poor and Reading the "Old Stuff"

"Do you think that kindness to others is not a necessity for you, but a matter of choice?  That it is not a law, but simply an exhortation?  I used to wish this very much myself, and supposed it to be true.  But that “left hand” has instilled fear in me, and the “goats” and rebukes that will come from him who raises them to stand before him: condemned to be in this class, not because they have committed theft or sacrilege or adultery, or have done anything else forbidden by the Law, but because they have not cared for Christ through the needy (14.39).”

This social justice quote is brought to you today by St. Gregory Nazianzen, from his 14th Oration "On Love of the Poor."  It was preached sometime between 367-371 AD.  It is probably the best sermon I've read on the Christian duty to the poor in terms of theological rigor, rhetorical skill, and pastoral intensity. 

It should be no secret that Matthew 25 is my favorite chapter in scripture, and that surely colors my view of this sermon.  In a reference to the parable of the sheep and the goats at the final judgment (Mt. 25:36-41), Gregory (following Christ in the parable) identifies a halfhearted attitude toward the poor with the goats, who did not care for Christ through the needy (and so go to everlasting punishment). “If you believe me at all, then, servants and brothers and sisters and fellow heirs of Christ, let us take care of Christ while there is still time,” by feeding him, clothing him, offering him shelter, and honoring him by service to the needy (14.40)” 

Theologically, the sermon is carefully constructed and touches on the nature of Christ's incarnation as both fully human and fully divine. Christopher Beeley (a professor at Yale) notes that “Gregory’s oration stands out among the other Cappadocians’ by the degree to which it links the love of the poor with Christ and the doctrine of the incarnation.” One could then go further and assert that by linking the care of the poor to the incarnation, care of the poor is also a component of a Christian’s sanctification/deification. While contemplation and scripture reading are certainly important to spiritual life and deification, all can seem to be for naught without tangible love for Christ though the care of our neighbors. The allusion to Matthew 25:36-41 is also powerful in its acknowledgment that Christ truly shared a fully human nature; in so doing helping the needy, indeed any human, is a service to someone sharing the same human nature of Christ and ourselves, and potentially His deified nature. It is to act both in imitation of—and obedience to—Christ, who fed and healed many in His own ministry.  In so doing, we gain a greater understanding of Christ and God; we come to participate in Christ and God toward the in-breaking of the Kingdom. 

To speak of both pastoral intensity and rhetorical skill:  Gregory is known for his rhetorical abilities, and with good reason.  Translation does not always show the brilliance of speech, but in general his writing (preaching) flows easily from point to point; he also does not shy away from unpopular points. This particular sermon was given on a feast day, probably to a well-off congregation, and he mentions that it is precisely because it is a feast day in the Church that he talks about the plight of the poor. 

"The wail of their begging offers a counterpoint to the sacred singing within the the church, and a miserable dirge is produced, in contrast to the sounds of the Mysteries.  Why must I depict all their misfortune to people celebrating a feast day? Perhaps it is that I might stir up some lament in your own hearts...(14.13)"

Gregory asks whether a Christian’s joining of the royal priesthood does not give a duty to help.  Gregory takes his congregation on a tour of a dinner party reeking of opulence and gluttony (and it seems like they all knew the type of party he was talking about), before bringing a call to repentance.  “Shall we not finally come to our senses?  Shall we not cast off our insensitivity—not to say our stinginess?  Shall we take no notice of human needs (14.9)?” 

Part of the study of history is coming to know that things very rarely change.  Gregory confronts reasons people give to not help the poor, reasons that are as familiar to us as they were to Gregory:  some people deserve to be poor, they brought it upon themselves, There is "not enough", or it's a punishment from God.  Gregory will have none of it. In fact, in the face of these objections, service to the poor is necessary so that we might "restrain those who have such an attitude towards [the poor], and [that we] might not give in to their foolish arguments, making cruelty into a law turned against our very selves (14.35)."

Here's the point:  The "social justice" stuff that is pilloried by some is not a new-fangled way to be Christian.  It's as old as the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament, the Early Church, and the Patristic period down to our time.  

And it isn't optional.

___________

Confession: I've been lax in my own duty to the poor this semester.  I managed my time poorly and in ways that made it difficult for me to participate in the work that I've been given to do by God.  I will remedy this.
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This summary does not do justice to the Oration, which is lengthy, yet worth reading and re-reading.  The translation of oration 14 that I use is from Brian Daley’s Gregory of Nazianzus (London: Routledge, 2006), 74-97.

On Written and Unwritten Prayers

I often field concerns that I may be locked in a “dead style of worship” with no personality or heartfelt sentiment.  It is true, the solemnity of the more formal written liturgies seems to invite the claim that there is an absence of the Holy Spirit or meaning.  It is true that the stereotype which portrays formalized written liturgies as rigid and cold developed from a kernel of truth.   Liturgy can all too easily fall into a mindless routine.  To deny that this inattention is possible in formalized liturgies is to be guilty of not paying attention.  Such spiritual dangers are real.  But the kernel of truth is often too readily enlarged and turned into an oblique attack on denominations that use written liturgies.

I came from an evangelical background into the Episcopal Church, so I saw this sentiment often.  I still see it and hear it.  The default conception of a written prayer seems to be that if a person recites it, they do not really mean it.  It is thought that the prayer did not come from the heart.    The problem is that to judge one's preferred method of  prayer as better or worse than the other is to try to judge another person's conscience by trying to discover if they really "mean it."  Or worse, it is assumed that those who read prayers must not mean it.  We are accused of simply following "dead letter," but the people who say that do not realize that by speaking a written prayer, we who use written prayers give the prayer a voice and a power and a life that isn't apparent on the page and ink. 

There needs to be a middle way that acknowledges the place of both written prayer and extemporaneous prayer.  In traditions that worship from a written liturgy, both of these types of prayer are needed.  

The first thing that must be done is to break down the false dichotomy and the assumption that written prayers cannot be heartfelt, or that extemporaneous prayer is always heartfelt...and vice versa.  I've seen people who pray by written prayers who mean it it deeply, and those who don't.  I've known people who can pray extemporaneously and deeply mean it and I've known people who can fake it---and will admit to faking it.  I don't think either method of praying is better than the other in of itself; it is a matter of what works in a particular situation.

I'd like to mention how I came to appreciate written prayers.  When I started coming to the Episcopal Church, I greatly appreciated that there were written prayers that I could turn to.  I didn't feel like I knew how to pray (now I realize that prayer is prayer, regardless of a 'right' way...groanings and sighs can be a prayer).  So to turn to a written prayer that matched what I wanted to say to God was a gift to me in times when I didn't know what to say.  I continue to use the written prayers to form how I pray extemporaneously. The prayers form me and guide my relationship with God.  Still, I am not eloquent in speech.  I find it easier to write a prayer than to speak it.  (Perhaps I will do what a friend of mine did...she decided to do her chaplaincy at a hospital without using written prayers so that she would be better at extemporaneous prayer.)  Once again, we need to know how to pray meaningfully in both ways.
 

There is also an argument from tradition, for there is something valuable in praying the same prayers that Christians have used for hundreds of years, sometimes over one thousand years ago.  Then there are the psalms, which Jesus prayed.  It gives us a connection to all who have come before and those who will come after, all of whom we will meet in the End.  In using these written prayers, I also know that I'm joining millions around the world at any given time in the same prayers, and that gives me a keener sense of the body of Christians, Catholic and protestant, around the world.  If the prayer happens to be beautifully written, we also experience joy and delight in praying it and hearing it. 
 

In the end, I think God delights in our desire to be in God's presence, however we choose to get there, in good faith.  It can be from our own heads or from someone else.  The importance is whether the prayer penetrates one's heart and soul.  Of course, trying to judge whether that happens is a spiritually dangerous and prideful place to be.