It always seems to happen when I schedule a baptism for a family that I don’t know very well. They’re late, and on a Saturday when I have so many things to do, the 11 am baptism has already led to other cancelled appointments and as the hour nears 11:30, if they show up at all I will be late for my own daughter’s birthday party. Calls to the cell phone go unanswered, and the voice-mailbox is full so leaving a message is as hopeless as everything else involving this baptism seems to be.

It began innocently enough with a phone call a couple of weeks prior. “Pastor, all of my children were baptized at your church, and now my son has a daughter of his own to be baptized. There are some health problems with the baby and we sure would appreciate if we could arrange the baptism when the baby gets out of the hospital.”

E-mails back and forth set the time and the date between hospital visits and the battery of tests. Appropriate questions are asked and answered: “Why do you want your child baptized?”; “She needs to belong to the family of God.”

The date had been set for Saturday, a small intimate family gathering. Everything was prepared, the brief baptismal service was printed for the expected crowd of around a half-dozen. And now nearing noon, I feel nothing but frustration at my own frailty for allowing myself to be brought into this mess. Finally the phone rings. Frustration turns to anger. Turns out I was confused – it is not the family that I thought it was who had had all their children baptized by my predecessor in ministry. Turns out they were confused, and now they were calling from the wrong church. “Pastor where is the church?” “You can park around the back and come in through the back doors.” “No, where is the church. We are here but all of the doors are locked, and we have about 60 people waiting outside.” “You’re at the wrong church.”

New directions are given. As more bulletins are copied there is anger at my lack of diligence that caused this mess.

One by one and two by two they arrive for a baptism that has now been moved to the gym because  another church uses the  sanctuary on Saturday afternoons.

Finally, all are gathered in the gym, around a font that seems as out of place as those who have showed up to the wrong church for a baptism.

And then it begins: “Proclamation . . . adoption . . . life . . . hope . . . Father . . . forever.” Words that mean a bit more to this child who like all of us has been born to die, yet who, according to far too many tests already taken, will die far too soon.

Water . . . word . . . oil . . . cloth . . . light, things seen and unseen. It is finished.

Tears of sadness mixed with tears of joy. Pictures, memories, hugs from tattooed, baggy-pantsed teens who respectfully took off their caps, smiles and laughter, and promises to keep me posted on the results of the testing.

Tears of sadness, mixed with tears of shame, and a deep and heartfelt gratitude that amidst so many uncertainties and failures, God brings order out of chaos, life out of death.