A warm, lively candle flame burns in the semi-darkness of the church. All that can be heard is breathing, the crackling of wax, and a quiet voice trembling with excitement: “I do renounce…” A grown man standing before the font utters the ancient words of the renunciation of darkness, and his voice breaks. A moment later—silence, a reverent pause, and then the baby in the priest’s arms is immersed thrice in the warm water. A splash, a soft cry, and again light. Another person has been baptized. We often keep a small paper record of this day in the back drawer, taking it out only when necessary, like an archival certificate. We’re used to treating Baptism like an important family tradition, or, even sadder, like a checkmark in the “national identity” box. We’ve turned the universal Mystery into a ritual.
But let’s stop the hustle and bustle of our thoughts and ask ourselves the main question: What actually happened that day? What is the meaning of this strange, great, almost incomprehensible phrase we hear when the priest anoints a new member of the Church with Chrism in the sign of the cross: “The seal of the gift of the Holy Spirit?”
We often fall into the trap of a consumerist, almost pagan attitude towards the Sacrament. In the depths of our soul, many of us subconsciously consider Baptism a “spiritual vaccine” or insurance against troubles. Once I’m baptized, they say, nothing really bad can happen to me. And when sorrows, sickness, and temptations inevitably invade our lives, we’re surprised and grumble: “Lord, what for? I’m baptized!” But Baptism isn’t a magic amulet that eliminates the hardships of the fallen world. Christ never promised us a life free from hardships. He promised incomparably more: He promised He’d be with us both in water and in fire. Baptism isn’t a one-time deal or a guarantee of a comfortable existence. It’s the beginning of a great, sometimes painfully difficult, but infinitely beautiful journey of relationship between a man and God.
What, then, is the secret of this Indelible Seal? In the ancient world, a seal had two sacred meanings. It meant belonging and protection. When the emperor pressed his ring into wax or upon the shoulder of a slave, he was telling everyone: “This is mine. And woe to him who dares take it or damage it.” Something magnificent happens in Baptism. Imagine this moment: God, for Whom time doesn’t exist, beholds a man standing at the font. He sees his whole life at once. He sees not only this luminous moment, but also all the future falls, betrayals, and terrible sins that this man hasn’t even thought of yet. He knows that after so many years, this baby will renounce Him in his deeds, forget about church, or fall into despair, on the brink of destruction. And knowing absolutely all of this, God says at that moment: “Thou art Mine.” He puts His seal on it. And this isn’t some kind of stamp in the passport of the soul, but a kind of wedding ring that the Heavenly Bridegroom puts on the hand of His bride. And He’ll never be the first to take it off.
St. John Chrysostom, the great teacher of the Church, has some wonderful hope-filled words for us: The grace of Baptism doesn’t leave us, even if we wander from God to the ends of the earth. It’s like the light in the window of your father’s house. We can depart to a faraway, sinful land, squander all our inheritance, but this light will continue to quietly burn in our soul, waiting for us to come to our senses and turn back.
I’ve seen this hundreds of times over the course of my ministry. I remember one confession. A woman came who hadn’t crossed the threshold of a church for nearly twenty years. Her life was, according to her, “a draft that should’ve been burned long ago.” She came in terrible despair. She stood there, afraid to look up at the icons. Then she suddenly told me that in the darkest, most hopeless moments, when she had thoughts that there was no reason to live anymore, some unseen but irresistible force held her back from the very edge, again and again. She couldn’t explain it rationally. Seeing her penitent tears, I suddenly understood with piercing clarity, and said to her: “All these years, while you thought you were alone and abandoned, the grace of your Baptism was quietly, persistently holding you by the hand. That small spark which the Lord kindled at the font didn’t go out even under the ashes. God remembered you when you had forgotten Him.”
How can we, who live in vanity and worries, “recall” our Baptism every day?
First: Try to start your morning not by anxiously scanning your phone, but by briefly reminding yourself: “I’ve been baptized into Christ. I can put on the clothes of light that I was given on that day again.” And standing before your icons, start your day with prayer.
Second: When you’re annoyed by a loved one, a coworker, or a random passerby, try to stop for a second. After all, he could also bear the seal of the image of God. Perhaps his soul is also infinitely dear to God, as is yours.
And third: Don’t be afraid to go to Confession, thinking we’ll appear “dirty” before the pure God. That’s why the Sacrament of Repentance is called the “second Baptism” in the ancient books, because it’s a chance to wash your Baptismal robe. This is our opportunity to return home, where people continue to wait for us.
My mind returns again to that flickering candle by the font.
Dear brothers and sisters!
It doesn’t matter at all whether you were baptized in a deep, serene childhood that you don’t remember or you came to the font as an adult, burdened with the mistakes of the past. One thing is important: Heaven bowed before us that day. God breathed eternity into your soul and called you by name. And this love has no statute of limitations. May the Lord grant us the grace to live by Him, to breathe Him like air, to see by Him as by the only true light; that on the day of our final meeting with Him, He might recognize His indelible mark in us, and we might answer with trembling joy: “Yeah, Lord, I am Thine.”
