Every Little Detail Can Make the Heart Sing

Dear Isla,

This is a letter written before I baptize you on September 17th, 2017. Here is a letter for your eyes after many years have passed. And I’m writing first to say that baptism marks a time out of time—a reality Jesus called kairos.

Kairos is like that amazing time you heard your favorite song performed live by your favorite band. You wished the moment would last forever, right? But even when it was over, you carried the music with you as if it was written on your soul. Kairos moments make your heart sing.

I’ve already shared a few of these heart songs with your parents. I confess that I do not recall the exact date of their wedding; but I vividly remember kairos: the light shining from your dad’s face when he first saw your mom coming down the aisle; how your mom grinned when she bowed her head for the prayer; the way your parents slowly enunciated every . . . little . . . word of their vows; and their kiss, of course. But you, Isla, are likely a teenager when reading this and I’m sure you don’t want every little detail about your parents kissing!

So I’ll move on to another time out of time—when your mother was baptized next to your big sister, Harper, right here in this sanctuary. I remember how the water glistened on their foreheads, which were warm to the touch as I blessed them—in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. I’ll bless you, Isla, the same way. This is kairos—your mom told me after those baptisms that she would always remember. And I believe her. We carry such holy moments in our hearts. Time passes; the song remains.

You are just shy of four months on September 17th, 2017. So you, Isla, will rely on the memories of your parents, your sister, and your adoring gaggle of grandparents and other loved ones, including your church family. From the beginning, the church has baptized young children, in part, so that we adults would commit to remembering the old, old story of God’s love as it unfolds to new, new lives. So ask us about your baptism. Take note of what we remember, including the little details like what you wore and what the weather was like and whether you laughed or cried or kept a poker face as I paraded you around the sanctuary after splashing you with warm water from the golden bowl.

Every little detail can make the heart sing. It is my hope that, by the time you read this letter, you will have ample opportunity to witness other baptisms here at New Dublin Presbyterian. Ask questions. Question answers. There is much you can learn . . . But in this letter, I want to share with you what you have already taught me about God.

I remember well the day you were born and how your dad broke the news. I’m sure such technology is obsolete to you, but we used to send words to one another on our cell phones. We called this “texting.” So your dad texted that you were here and healthy. I had your name spelled out. There was a funeral that day for a church member named Virgie and, during the reception afterward, I told our church family that “Is-la” was born! Jim Cook, your baptism sponsor, looked at me funny, but I didn’t know the “s” in your name is silent—an important little detail!

The more I’ve thought about your name, I’ve realized that your “s” (though not vocalized) does indicate how the “I” should be pronounced. You are “I-la” (with the long vowel sound) because of that silent letter, which reminds me of the mysterious way that God is shaping and marking us, even in the times when we feel that God is silent. Isla, that’s not really my “answer” to troubling theological questions, as it is my hope—even when we can’t feel God presence, we can believe that God is still with us as surely as we know our own names.

On the day you were born, Isla, there was a funeral—a service we call a witness to the resurrection. You and Virgie and countless others across time were baptized into the death of Christ, which means that nothing in heaven or earth, nothing in life or death can separate us from the love of God. We claim this faith at the time of death; but nothing quite proclaims God’s unconditional love like the baptism of a child. You, Isla, have been a lesson of grace to me.

I visited you in the hospital when you were less than twenty-four hours old. Your mom had you in the bed, but she graciously let me hold you. At that time, I was glad to see you; and yet still grieving my friend Virgie. Just a few days earlier, I had been by Virgie’s bed in another part of the very same hospital when she had breathed her last. And there I was beside your crib, Isla, holding you as you breathed your new life. You made my heart sing and, some time later, I heard a Nicole Nordeman song about God’s presence with us: You’re here, you’re here; the only invitation that you need [O God] is the very air I breathe.

So it is with that lesson in mind that I give your watchword. This special verse of scripture, which I have selected just for you, will never change; yet may the words deepen for you over time. Your watchword is Galatians 6:9—Let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at harvest time, if we do not give up. Earlier in this letter to the Galatians, the Apostle Paul offers a powerful metaphor about baptism: As many of you as were baptized into Christ you have clothed yourselves with Christ. Your watchword is part of the climactic conclusion to this theology of baptism in which Paul tells us how to live in our Christ clothes. Remembering the grace of our baptism challenges us to love one another as Christ loves us. Read all of Galatians to find out more, but let me tell you that being Christ-like is hard work.

So let me end my letter by noting two assurances in your watchword: first, Paul is speaking to a group of people—if we do not give up. This is not the “royal we.” You and me and your family and our church family—we all need each other. Sometimes even the tiniest little detail can make all the difference. Like the tiny little baby in my arms.

And, secondly, that phrase translated as “harvest time” in your watchword is actually the word, kairos. Living like Christ is challenging, sometimes even exhausting; yet God is here. Even if God seems silent to you right now in your life, God is here as near as the very air you breathe. Remember that.

Isla, I pray that, after the right amount of time has passed, you have read this letter and even just a little detail or two has been helpful as you grow in your faith. I will say this for certain: on September 17th, 2017, at the kairos of your baptism, our hearts were singing with hope.

Your pastor and friend,

Andrew