AfterWords | Tradition, Ritual, and Sacrament
AfterWords is a series of reflections by contributors as they share their personal experience of God in community at The Parish on Sundays.
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A 3-Minute Read
by C. Ryan Sprinkle
A few weeks ago, I was rummaging through an old, college era backpack. As I reached my hand into the bottom of one compartment, I felt a familiar metallic object. As my hand emerged, I saw in my palm a silver cross necklace. The silver had tarnished, but the date “05-01-02” was still visible in the middle of the pennant.
On May 1st, 2002 in a tiny rural country church in northwest Alabama, I hitched a ride to the Wednesday night church service with my grandparents. Typically, my parents and sister would be there as well, but my dad was traveling for work and my mom was at my sister’s softball game. As the service ended, I responded to the “invitation” and walked up the aisle between rows of pews to be baptized. Later that night, my mother called my dad and shared the news with him. He cried. His work as a father, he said, was coming complete.
In the church tradition of my youth, baptism typically occurred during young teenage years. The ritual always involved the total immersion into that “watery grave of baptism.” And while these fellow Believers likely would not use terms like “sacrament,” it was understood that the event was very much sacred. Twenty-two years later, my daughter’s baptism was entirely different but somehow completely the same.
The morning of Sela’s baptism, my wife, Lauren, and I clasped a little pearl bracelet onto Sela’s wrist. A small cross pendant hung between two white beads. Amidst the mad rush to leave and make the 9 AM service, I had the clarity of mind to slip my grandfather’s high school class ring onto my finger. In the minutes leading up to the baptism sacrament, I sent a text message to my family with a link to the Parish’s live Youtube page. (My dad was traveling, but this time for vacation.) In this tradition, I share with them, we welcome our children into God’s family as a promise of the work that is to come.
The ritual, while still different, feels familiar in the way that only something ancient can. The water is no different than what it was twenty-two or two-thousand and twenty-two years ago. The sacredness of the moment, marking a life and naming her as a child of God, remains true.
After the cross of oil is sealed on her forehead, I hold my daughter and kiss her temple. Tears well up in my eyes, and I am reminded of my father.
Want to contribute to AfterWords? From poems to paintings to a child’s drawing in Parish Kids, we welcome voices from those who call the Parish home. To learn more, email info@parishanglican.org
