My boy,
This year you are seven, which means next year, you will be eight. And because you are my son, because you were born into my family and my faith and this church and a whole life and heritage and history you did not choose, you will probably be baptized. And I’m not sure how to tell you what you’re getting into. Not really.
I’m sure you have heard that you will make covenants. And you have probably been told that covenants are like promises. You promise to do some things, and God promises to do others. And that’s true.
So far, you have made fairly simple promises. You promised you would go to bed after one more story. You promised you would eat what I made without complaining next time. And while those are pretty small promises, you were not able to keep them. But the covenants you will make at baptism are so much bigger and so much harder. You will promise to always remember God, always stand as a witness at all times, in all things, in all places. Every thought, word, action, all turned over to God. How do you even begin to try to do that?
I don’t know. After twenty-five years of trying myself, I have not managed to keep the promises you are about to make. Not even close. I was baptized when I was eight, and I have been underwater ever since, drowning in commitments that I am still completely inadequate to uphold.
If you are like me, and there’s good DNA evidence to suggest that you are, then you are not going to be able to keep your covenants. You will fail. And you will fail often. You will fall flat on your pants, and then you will shake yourself off and say, “Okay, I’ll get it right this time.” But you won’t.
Instead, you will make even bigger, more impossible promises. Promises like, “I’ll give everything I have and am to God.” But you won’t do that either, even though you try really hard. And you will probably become frustrated and embarrassed. And at some point you might wonder, what is the point of making so many promises that you are never going to be able to keep?
There are a hundred ways to answer that question. Maybe the point is to fail. Maybe the promises are supposed to break you like a nut, opening up your soft heart. Maybe it’s to increase your reliance on God. Maybe it’s to humble you or inspire you. Maybe God really does expect you to keep your covenants perfectly. And maybe there is more than one answer. It’s a puzzle, one you will have to solve by yourself. I can’t give you the answer because I don’t know it.
But I will tell you a story that your father told me. It’s about a prodigal son.
There once was a father with two sons. The youngest boy had a restless heart, so he asked his father for his inheritance before his father was even retired. And then the boy left. He wasted the money on frivolous things until suddenly, it was all gone. All at once, the boy had no money, and no family to care for him. He found himself in a barn eating scraps from the pig’s slops, a hundred miles from home.
Lying on the hay with only a few sows for company, the boy felt how far he’d fallen. He vowed in determined humiliation that he would earn his way back into good standing. He would repay his father every cent of the inheritance. He would change his own stars. So he stopped his bad habits. He worked long hours every day. His hands grew tough and his body strong. And little by little, he rose up in society. It took him thirty years to regain the full sum of what he had lost. But he did it. He earned back every penny.
And he set off that very day for his father’s home to return the inheritance and tell his father he was so sorry for wasting it. But when he arrived, his father was not watching at the doorstep, or even from the window. He was lying on his bed, sick. Very sick.
The older brother brought the prodigal son in to his father’s bedside. And the prodigal knelt, and kissed his father’s cheek, a tear flowing from one face to the other. “Father, I have returned after all these years to repay you the inheritance I squandered. Now that I have worked to earn it back, I know what it cost for you to give it to me.”
“My son,” said the old man, “I don’t need your money. I’m dying. What would I do with it? What I wanted was you. All these decades, you could have just come home. Think of the time we could have spent together. I have missed you every day for thirty years.”
The son, realizing his error, buried his head in his father’s hands and wept bitterly.
That’s the story. It’s the sort of story that doesn’t end happily because it’s making a point. And I think the point is that you can work and strain all your life to pay your debts, to keep your covenants. Maybe you could even manage to do it all perfectly. Read your scriptures daily, pray always, get to church ten minutes early, etc. And still you could entirely miss the point. The point of your covenants is not to fulfill a contract, or balance a checkbook, or climb your way out of a debt. The point is the relationship. The point is being God’s son.
You are my son, too. And you are in so much debt to me. I pay for your clothing, your toys, your trips, your lessons. I’ve given you so much time and money, and I never expect to get a single cent back. Because it’s not about the money. I know you will make more promises about staying in bed when I turn out the lights, and practicing the piano before the bus comes that you will fail to keep. I don’t care. You should try. But when you fail, don’t hide or run away. Come give me a hug and try again.
You’ll leave our home someday. We might even have an inheritance for you, who knows. But no matter what happens, always come back. Always return. When you’ve done something amazing, when you’re on top of the world, come home. When you’ve squandered your fortune. When you’re sleeping on the ground with the pigs. When you’re embarrassed—epecially when you are embarrassed—come home. Come into my arms, and we will make a new promise together.
This is what I have learned about covenants: You can try for thirty years to keep the promises you made as a child, and have never kept a single one, not perfectly, not even close. You can sink deeper and deeper into an ocean of indebtedness. And yet that same sin and brokenness can save you. If you let it, your failure will force you straight back into the arms of Jesus. He stands above the water, reaching down to pull you up.
And hear this, my boy: You are not drowning. You are being baptized.
And when you stop trying to kick and thrash your way into heaven, you will realize that every bit of you from the tips of your toes to the hairs of your head are awash in the grace of Jesus Christ.
And so young as you are, flawed and proud and hungry and ambitious and imperfect as I have made you, be baptized. Fall backwards into promises so much deeper than your comprehension or abilities. Commit yourself again and again and again to the life of a disciple, the life of a friend and follower of Jesus. Plumb the depths of a relationship that has no bottom. Immerse yourself in covenants. And leave no piece of your soul above the surface.
I love you,
Mom
Sarah Perkins Sabey is the Root Director of Peacemaking at Mormon Women for Ethical Government. Together with her husband, she is a co-author of The Book of Mormon Storybook at @forlittlesaints.
Art by Egisto Ferroni (1835-1912).
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