A BAPTISM SERMON: The Beautiful Chaos of Parenting - Sarah Curl

Genesis 21:8–21

When we gather for a baptism, we often picture the beautiful parts of family life. The photos. The smiles. The tiny outfit chosen with great care. Proud parents. Proud grandparents. A child being welcomed into the family of God.

What we don't usually put on the baptism invitations are the other realities: the sleepless nights, the cold cups of coffee, the arguments about whose turn it is to get up at 3am, the toys that somehow reproduce overnight and spread across the floor like an invading army, and the fact that nobody has been to the toilet alone for several years.

And yet all of that is part of parenting too.

Which is why I rather like that today's reading isn't a picture-perfect family story. In fact, it's a complete mess. There is jealousy, resentment, hurt, betrayal, fear, power struggles and injustice. There is Sarah, who finally has the child she longed for. There is Hagar, who is cast aside. There is Abraham, caught in the middle and making some questionable decisions. And there are two children whose lives are shaped by the actions of the adults around them.

It's not the sort of story you'd choose for a family christening card.

Yet perhaps it is exactly the sort of story we need, because the Bible doesn't pretend families are perfect. It never tells us that good parents always know what they're doing. It never says families are free from mistakes, misunderstandings or regrets. Instead, it tells the truth. Families are complicated. Parenting is complicated. Love is complicated. And somehow God works through it all.

The arrival of a child changes everything. Before children, many of us imagine ourselves as fairly sensible, independent adults. Then a baby arrives and suddenly your entire life revolves around the sleeping patterns of someone who weighs less than a bag of potatoes.

Your social life changes. Your priorities change. Your understanding of exhaustion changes. You discover that leaving the house now requires the logistical planning of a military operation. You begin sacrificing things you never imagined sacrificing.

My daughter-in-law recently sent me a video of my son. Now my son was once a devoted Tottenham Hotspur season-ticket holder. Weekends revolved around football. There would have been matches, mates and probably a pint in hand.

But in this video, there he was sitting on the sofa with my grandchildren. One eye fixed firmly on the football and at the same time singing, "Old MacDonald had a farm..."

Apparently this version featured ducks. So while Tottenham were launching an attack down the wing, my son was unenthusiastically singing, "With a paddle paddle here and a paddle paddle there..."

And I thought, that is parenting in a nutshell.

You don't stop being yourself; you just become something more. You are still the football fan, still the musician, still the traveller, still the person you always were. But now you are also someone's mum, someone's dad, someone's entire world.

And that changes everything.

The strange thing is that most of us don't even notice how much we give up because we gain something so much greater. Not easier. Just greater.

The truth is that parenting brings enormous joy. But it also brings enormous vulnerability. The moment you hold your child for the first time, your heart starts walking around outside your body.

You worry when they're tiny. You worry when they start school. You worry when they cross roads. You worry when they learn to drive. You worry when they don't answer their phone. You worry when they do answer their phone but begin with the words, "Can I tell you something?" in that particular tone of voice.

The worrying never really stops.

Hagar knew that. In our reading she finds herself in the wilderness with her son Ishmael. She is frightened. She feels helpless. She fears for her child's future.

Every parent here understands something of that feeling.

Because however much we love our children, we cannot protect them from everything. We cannot make every choice for them. We cannot guarantee their happiness. We cannot remove every disappointment or heartbreak. Sometimes all we can do is pray, trust God and keep loving them.

And goodness knows we don't always get it right.

Parents make mistakes. Children make mistakes. Families make mistakes. Sometimes we lose our patience. Sometimes we say the wrong thing. Sometimes we wish we could rewind a conversation and start again.

I remember one particular morning when my daughter Meg was about five years old. We had had one of those mornings. You know the sort. Everything had become a battle before eight o'clock.

Getting dressed. Cleaning teeth. Finding shoes. Finding the other shoe. Finding the school bag. Finding the thing that absolutely had to go to school that day but which nobody had mentioned until three minutes before leaving.

By the time we got into the car we were both exhausted.

Then from the back seat came the words every parent dreads.

"Mummy, I wish Theo’s mummy was my mummy."

Now a mature, emotionally intelligent adult would probably have responded with grace and understanding.

Instead, I instantly became five years old too.

I informed her that this seemed like an excellent plan. I would pack her bags. I would drop them off at her friend's house. And she could move in immediately.

When we arrived at school, I marched into the classroom and informed the teacher that Meg and I had fallen out and that I had apparently handled the situation by becoming a child myself.

The teacher looked at me with the sort of expression usually reserved for people who should know better.

Which, to be fair, I should have.

But that is parenting.

Nobody gets it right all the time. Sometimes we are patient and wise. Sometimes we are tired and ridiculous. Sometimes we are criticised. Sometimes we feel judged. Sometimes we wonder if everyone else has received a parenting manual that somehow never reached us.

Yet today's reading reminds us that God does not wait for perfect families before he begins his work. If he did, none of us would qualify.

Instead, God meets ordinary families with all their imperfections. He meets tired parents, anxious parents, overwhelmed parents, single parents, step-parents, grandparents helping to raise children, parents carrying guilt, parents carrying hope, parents trying their very best.

And he says, "I am with you."

That is what baptism celebrates. Not that these parents will be perfect. Not that this child will never make mistakes. Not that family life will always be easy.

But that God is present in all of it.

In the laughter and the tears. In the sleepless nights and the school runs. In the football matches and the renditions of Old MacDonald. In the moments when we feel we've got everything right and the moments when we know we haven't.

God is there.

Today we bring Lupa and Killian to the font because before they can do anything, before they can achieve anything, before they can earn anything, God already loves them.

And we baptise them trusting that throughout all the twists and turns of life, through all the joys and all the challenges, God's love will remain steadfast.

So to the parents here today: you will not always get it right. None of us do.

But love them. Laugh with them. Say sorry when you need to. Pray for them. Cheer them on. Be present.

And trust that the God who loves them even more than you do will walk beside them all the days of their lives.

Because in the end, that is what parenting is: a long journey of loving and letting go, of holding on and standing back, of worrying and celebrating, of learning as you go along and discovering, again and again, that God's grace is big enough for all of us.

Amen.