Waiting

Today, in the sanctuary of the Akron Christian Reformed Church, in the Advent season of waiting, Miles Moses was baptized. He was the quietest baby I have ever seen. Water-washed, handed around the community, and yet settled in himself like a miniature prince, born for blessings. On this first Sunday of Advent I wish to be that secure. In all truth, I am. There is nothing that can separate me from the love of God. From my very first gasping breath, God adored me. The Holy Mystery of the Universe cherished the angry-reddened face and the insulted screams of my birth cry. The Mystery which we call God massaged my stubborn flesh into being and then promised to comfort each cry thereafter.

The Mystery which we call God does not condemn. The Mystery which we call God washes over all chafed and tender life wounds to soothe our burns. But on this first Sunday of Advent I forget the security found in such grace. I enter the sanctuary with an anxious, furtive gaze. No longer an innocent babe, my distracted eyes dart from mess to mess, the piles of debris left over from battles I have had with myself over the past 50-some years. My mouth is dry, my breath is jagged from hurling insults and cries - more at myself than at my neighbor. I know that I have played a role in the carnage. My hands are sore and bloodied from the combat. I am both condemner and condemned.

Baptismal waters flow on this first Sunday of Advent. They stream down Miles Moses’ forehead. He accepts the water like it’s his birth rite. And while the pastor is blessing and breathing over this baby, parading him around the sanctuary past all the weary people with their own piles of wreckage, this infant calmly waits for his mother’s arms again. He is secure enough to know he will return to her. A meal will come. A warm bath will be drawn tonight. A soft crib will be ready. Advent is such a season of waiting.