Several years ago, when I was a catechist in an Anglican parish, I had the privilege of working with an eight-year-old boy who wanted to be baptized. This was a common phenomenon in the parish where I worked. Congregants had come to the parish from other denominations, including some from the Anabaptist tradition. Many of the new Anglicans, receiving eager theological instruction on the primacy of the action of grace, baptized their infants. But others, with sound theological reflection about the importance of a confession of faith, wanted to respect the teachings of the Anabaptist tradition from whence they came. Because there were so many Anabaptists in this congregation, the experiences of infant baptism and of very young children receiving the Eucharist were spiritually and emotionally charged. Something that may have been taken for granted in a more culturally Anglican setting was imbued with the energy of new converts and the questioning energy of those who held back. There was risk involved. This heightened theological emotional energy was a powerful aid in engaging the mystery of the Sacraments.
One of the things that happened in this parish was that those children who had not been baptized came to the rail and watched those who had been baptized reach out their little hands and receive the Eucharist, while they instead received a blessing. The priest’s rule was that as soon as a baptized infant or child reached out their hand for the bread, the parent would be asked permission to include the child in the Eucharistic feast. Most parents said yes, with tears in their eyes. Those who had not been baptized had to wait and watch. In their watching, they seemed to grow hungry.
It was a powerful phenomenon; almost all of these children begged their parents to let them be baptized when their powers of perception began to develop. Some were rather adamant and forceful, insisting in the face of sustained opposition and doubt in their motives that they too wanted to participate in the feast. The parents were trepidatious; the request had come far sooner than they had anticipated. Was the request really a confession of faith? Perhaps not in the way that these parents had originally anticipated. But longing for something that is beyond our reach, and a sense of need to be a part of something larger than ourselves, is often the beginning of faith — and it drives our faith forward. I have enormous respect for these parents; they listened to the longing of their children despite their concerns. They acted in trust. They could not prove their child’s faith, but they trusted their child’s longing; they trusted the Church, and ultimately, they trusted in the presence of Christ in the Eucharist.
This is how a mother came to call the church and ask for catechism for her young son. I had noticed him often; he had a shock of unruly blond hair and a gentle, ethereal spirit. His mother warned me that he loved neither school nor formal instruction. Reading and writing work would not thrill him, and I would have to be creative. Despite the warning, or perhaps because of it, or because of the look I had noted in his eyes, I boldly arrived at the door of his home with two small red Books of Common Prayer to work through the catechism together.
He met me open-faced and ready. I don’t know what I was expecting, but his keen spirit impacted me. It was spring or fall, I can’t remember which, but it wasn’t cold enough to impede our ability to sit perched on the backs of big chairs in the spacious backyard that sloped down to the river. We could feel the wind while we talked — a third presence with us. He, like most children, seemed to like the feel of the old little book in his hand, and its strange lilt of language added to the enchantment. But it was a very difficult slog at first. I began to regret my choice of approach as his perplexity became obvious. As I read through the catechism now, I cannot believe how generous and patient he was with me as I tried to teach him the faith, stumbling through these incredibly important realities. He wanted to engage; he cared about our conversation. I could feel his eagerness to understand, but we couldn’t find an entry point where we could really discover a language that worked. I remember awkwardness, questions and answers, a polite talk — but we were not yet communicating about God. Then we came to the section on the Sacraments.
Catechist. What do you mean by this word Sacrament?
Answer. I mean an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace, given to us by Christ himself as a means whereby we receive this grace and a pledge to assure us thereof.
This struck a chord, and suddenly there was energy in him as we talked about the meaning of an outward and visible sign and an inward and spiritual grace. I remember none of the content of our conversation, but I watched his eyes widen, and he grew intense and focused. What had he perceived with his gentle spirit, while he knelt at the rail or sat at the back of the church watching? What was the light that had suddenly gone on inside of him? Even though I was struggling with what I myself could hardly express, I could tell he understood. He explained it back to me beautifully — not in concepts, but in his enthusiasm. He went beyond me, and he opened like a flower. Christ was there, in him.
He would be in his thirties by now, just as I was then. I remember that time of life being complicated and hard — so busy and stressful. I am indebted to him because the little boy he was shaped my understanding of the mystery of the Eucharist. He taught me by the way he trusted his longing, and thus he showed me how valuable the feast really was. His eager openness and desire to understand struck me to my core, and as I fumbled about, he revealed to me how crucial it was that I took our time together seriously and tried with all my might to find a way to convey this awe-inspiring truth, thus re-affirming the importance of theology and the fact that truth would always be a pursuit, not a possession. His trust in the little red book and his willingness to engage despite its difficulty taught me that within the sometimes-awkward forms of traditional language, miracles happen.
The truth came, the wind blew between us, the Spirit settled on him, and the most difficult concept in the whole catechism: “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace” made sense to him. Sitting on the backs of chairs in a yard that sloped down to the river while the wind of the Spirit blew between us, I was shown that what happens in the Eucharist is understood not in words, but by receiving the outward sign in faith and opening like a flower to the Godhead. I believe in the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, and I have been profoundly formed and exceedingly compelled by theological writings on this reality. Yet this little child’s reasoning faith beyond words supersedes all of it. The next Sunday, as I raised my hands to receive the bread and wine, his face flashed through my mind, and I was made more ready to receive God.
Does he still go to the Eucharist? What does he know now when he receives the Sacrament? Today I pray that as he participates in the feast of remembrance, that little boy and what he longed for are also remembered. I pray that he still opens like a flower, knowing Christ there within him. What about you? Do you remember what you knew of God when you were a child? Do you remember being at the rail with lifted, longing hands? Do you remember the outward sign in your mouth and the inward awareness of Christ’s real presence? What wisdom was there that you need now? I pray you receive it and pursue it for all eternity.
