Sarah Riggio
13 April 2007
Mother to Son:
On the Eve of Baptism
In a few days my firstborn son, Micah, will be baptized in the Catholic Church. It was almost exactly two months ago that he entered this world and made our family of two a trinity, turning our little lives upside down and beginning what one friend called “a love affair beyond imagining.” I do love Micah—more than I thought possible. I love that, even as I attempt to type this reflection now, he is lying across my chest, burrowing his head into me, as if he’s trying to burrow back into my womb.
A significant manifestation of my love for him was the unquestionable decision to baptize him in the Church as soon as possible—a decision that my Catholic-convert husband wholly agreed with. We have many hopes and prayers for Micah. His name is one such prayer that we offer up. We long for our son to be a globally aware citizen of the world—to live out the words of his namesake, the Jewish prophet Micah, who told Israel, and so tells us what is good and required of us: “To do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God.” We want him to be kind and compassionate, especially toward the last and the least. We hope that he grows to know and love God, and God’s son Jesus Christ, and God’s Holy Spirit. But specifically, we want Micah to learn this in the context of the Catholic Church.
I was baptized in the Catholic Church over thirty years ago, receiving the light of Christ that has spiritually nourished me through my childhood years, into adolescence, through high school and college, and ever more now as I walk through my adult life. The Catholic Church is so deeply a part of my identity that I cannot imagine life apart from it.
I love being Catholic. I am one of the rare stories of a cradle Catholic where the faith imparted to me by my parents, grandparents, godparents, and twelve years of Catholic educators stuck and I never tried to un-stick myself. I don’t know exactly why as an otherwise average kid I actually liked going to mass, smelling incense, gazing at statues, clutching rosaries, reciting prayers of comfort, singing “On Eagle’s Wings,” lighting candles, marveling at stained glass, participating in Stations of the Cross, wearing ashes on my forehead, shaking hands of strangers in peace, dipping my fingers into fonts of holy water, eating paper-thin wafers, and drinking too-strong wine. And all of this always under the shadow of an enormous crucifix. When I think about it, I marvel that my story is not more like my siblings’ and my Catholic peers who were not as enthralled with these sacramentals—and the sacraments themselves—as young people.
I have often heard people say that Catholicism is an “adult religion.” Certainly 2000 years of tradition make for some ancient ways, but even more than this, there is a common belief that only spiritually mature individuals can understand and appreciate the complexity and enormity and mystery of the Catholic Church. Perhaps.
As a child I certainly knew nothing of St. Ignatius of Loyola and his spiritual exercises. I did not pray the Liturgy of the Hours, nor was I aware of the radical compassion of Dorothy Day, or of the Liberation Theology practiced by brothers and sisters throughout Latin America and the developing world. Catholicism was not a religion of mysticism or contemplation, of philosophy or ethics. These people, ideas, and revelations (and so much more) are all food for me now. And I can only guess at what will challenge and feed me as I continue to grow in my faith.
But what about childhood? Is the baptism of my son, and all infants, mere sentimentality in a pretty church building? Is it a nice gesture, an old throwback to tradition, a good excuse to gather family and perhaps throw a party? Can I only hope that a seed is planted that one day as a mature adult my son will access? Should I expect that the years between one and thirty are simply a wash? Are church buildings too cold and austere? Is liturgy too formal and complex? Are prayers too heady and rote?
I surely hope not! I am praying that this Sunday when Micah’s little naked body is dunked into the baptismal font and he is baptized by his deacon grandfather, and his forehead is lathered with the sweet perfumed chrism oil in the sign of the cross, and he receives the baptism candle that was once lit over thirty years ago for his mother, and he wears a brilliant white garment that his great-grandmother made for him before he even existed—I am praying that something REAL happens for my son and captures his imagination right from the very start. Not just that he carries on the Catholic tradition of his family for tradition’s sake, but that his identity can be rooted in the Catholic imagination in a way that brings him LIFE.
I want Micah to be able to feel welcome in all the Catholic churches throughout the world and to recognize the gift of being a part of this global community. I want him to be able to walk into those sacred spaces and know that he, too, can dip his fingers in holy water, and marvel at stained glass, and slip quarters into boxes to light candles and offer up prayers. I want him to be able to tangibly receive the presence of Christ in the Eucharist, as I tell him the story of this gift of love. I want him to be able to bring our pet beagle to church on October 4, as I tell him the life story of St. Francis, and how Francis loved God so much that he adored all God’s creation—especially those most in need. I want Micah to feel not only comfortable, but called to love the poor in the Catholic Worker houses, the L’Arche communities, and in the streets. I will tell him the story of Jesus and how he befriended the least of these, and hopefully together we can imagine a world of justice.
There is grace—a holy grace that captures our imagination by utilizing all our senses and calling us up into something beautiful and mysterious and palpable. I know I received this grace as an infant when holy water was poured over me. I cannot fully explain how or why, but I know that grace remains in me and has been in me since that special day. And now, as mother, I long to pass that grace on to my son so that his imagination will be enlivened by the Spirit of God. God is the giver of such grace, and I trust that God desires to place that grace within Micah as well. The Catholic Church shows me that this is not a crapshoot. I don’t believe that baptism into this Church is a toss of the dice with some wishful thinking that my son won’t stray and will turn out okay. I do believe God’s gentle hand will be upon Micah in a unique way from the moment of his baptism through all the joy and suffering of his life.
I suppose this, for me, is what it means to be Catholic. I believe that God does infuse our world with grace through ordinary things: water that is blessed and holy; oil that does truly spiritually anoint and heal; bread that becomes body; wine that becomes blood; vows spoken and rings exchanged that make two people into one; confessions said, candles lit, and sins absolved. These are not mere symbols or wishful thinking, but real things that connect us to what we long for in this world, and to the next. To be with God—how can we imagine this on our own?
I thank God that I am a cradle Catholic, a child of God, and a child of this particular Church. I trust that my son will receive this same gift through baptism—a gift he can open even now in his childhood, and hopefully will cherish through all his days.
