Our Reformational baptismal theology has experienced massive transformations since the 16th century. This transformation has primarily been driven by anabaptist fervor in the last few centuries and by half-covenant Puritanism. But the Westminster Confession continues to speak with precision and fidelity. It asserts:

On Baptism: “…the grace promised is not only offered, but really exhibited, and conferred, by the Holy Ghost, to such (whether of age or infants) as that grace belongeth unto, according to the counsel of God’s own will, in his appointed time.”

Note the following on the language used:

First, this real exhibition is the consummative response to modern evangelical views on baptism. The Confession uses the word “really” to differentiate between “potentially” or “symbolically.” Baptism does something; we might even say that in baptism, the theater of God’s glory is revealed or exhibited for the world to see. The child or adult tastes of the real Christ in a real covenant with a real element.

Second, to “confer” the Confession means to bestow a new reality upon the baptized, to affirm in a baptismal investiture a new garment. As Paul articulates in Galatians, “For as many as have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ.”

Third, the unique feature of our Reformed tradition is the objective reality and presence of the Holy Spirit. Some sacramental models speak of a radical mystical process, and others symbolize the entire endeavor, focusing on peculiar introspective concerns. But baptism is a deeply pneumatological event. The Spirit of God engages the person baptized not through the priest’s magic but by the means of water. The Reformed view does not accept sacerdotal implications.

Finally, there is an explicit assumption that infants, little children, and those who for some physical hindrance cannot reason are recipients of all these mercies. To remove these as recipients is foreign to the Scriptures. They are recipients of baptisms in the Old Testament through Moses and in the New Testament through the new lawgiver, Jesus. It’s for this reason that children are protagonists in the Gospels; they are central to Jesus’ mission. Through the witness of babes and infants, God moves the kingdom to its triumphal glory in the resurrection.

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We need to begin moving our liturgical efforts into the realm of hospitality. What I mean by this may appear obvious, but it is quite complicated on a large scale. Some congregations may want to move into that arena but are paralyzed by self-inflicted wounds. They are more interested in showing their distinctness than proving their distinctives through tangible actions.

We use a saying in our inquirer’s class that goes something like this: “We need to bathe our weirdness with a deep sense of commonness.” Internally and behind the scenes, we don’t view ourselves as weird, but we know that the perception exists in a thoroughly de-liturgized culture.

This came across in an observation from a mother who raised her daughter in a Reformed context and saw her daughter go into a different tradition altogether. Now, mind you, the daughter was not antagonistic towards Reformed Theology, but she found the practices of this broadly evangelical environment more friendly and inviting. For the record, I am the last person to give much credence to an impressionable young adult. Still, I do want to take the opportunity to offer some general thoughts on the art of commonness and why black coffee Calvinists like myself think our churches need more than mere liturgism.

The first observation is that our Reformational theology/liturgy should be inviting. However it is communicated–paraments or stripped tables–it must carry on the gravitas of joy from beginning to end.

We live in a culture that craves the normalcy of joy. If we invite younger generations to taste and see Geneva’s God, we must also ensure that we don’t portray Geneva as some ogre attempting to tyrannize conscience. Geneva needs to show up with smiles and greetings, not five points of inquiry.

The second note is that the sweetness of worship ought to give folks a sense of the holy. We need liturgical worship that brings people to see the sovereignty of God resting in every element of worship from beginning to end, in every line and every response.

Once, a visitor told one of our congregants that it was one of the most joyful experiences, even though much of what happened was foreign to him. But even if the impression is viscerally oppositional–and it has happened–we should still communicate a culture where the holy is a common ritual of the people. You cannot control reactions, but you can control interactions. You can control a sweet disposition towards a visitor. You can sit next to them when they walk in alone and guide them through the order of worship.

Third, and finally, if the liturgy is a living liturgy–contrary to modernistic ritualization experiences in mainline churches with alternating “Mother God” lines–then that liturgy must breathe life into the home. It needs to be perpetuated with food and drink for those strangers who visit. If they are not invited to see your lived-out liturgy, it is unlikely they will find pleasure in your acted-out liturgy on Sunday mornings. It will continue to be strange and foreign rather than warm and inviting.

Our liturgical efforts must move into hospitable efforts. In fact, I argue that liturgy necessarily moves into homes. Ultimately, we may still appear strange, and our songs may still give a Jane Austen vibe, but at the very least, we will have given visitors a sense of the holy and an invitation to joy. Our Reformed churches should contemplate that model in our day.

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Our congregation holds a monthly fellowship meal. It’s spectacular in every culinary way. The other weeks, we host people in our homes, but it’s a fattening extravaganza on the last Sunday of the month! All sinners come home, and we kill the fatted calf with vigor and throw a party!

It’s also shaped by the kinds of things Robert Capon would savor were he present with us. Apart from the main dishes, there are delicacies made with gifted hands. Both have their place at the table. The desserts carry another special place serving as holy ambassadors. She brings rest to the weary and a boost of energy to the little covenanters running around.

It seems that food koinonias have lost their vigor in the scientific laboratory of the germaphobes of our culture. Long gone are the healthy gatherings of vivid recollections of stuffed-ness. We have allowed extraneous things to serve as an apologetic or an extra rationale to not eat as one should: with gusto.

One of the problems of modern evangelical “food theology” is that it has departed from its Hebrew history. We have chosen the mortification of the flesh over the enjoyment of life.

Paul was a strong critic of the “Do not taste! Do not touch!” attitudes of his contemporaries and indeed our own (Col. 2:21). We have forgotten that the Bible is an edible book, a book of lovely and superb meals beginning in the abundance of the Garden and ending in the Supper of the New World. But, in every portion of Scripture, you will find a tree that gives and gives and gives food to the hungry.

We ought to take every meal hostage in season and out of season. Every delicious bite is an act of praise and adoration, and when eaten in the company of fellow saints, it is a festive day; one with additional pleasure, for we were made to eat with one another.

When we partake together at the Lord’s Table on Sundays, the common table afterward becomes an extension of the holy. It is good and beneficial. It is sobering and enlightening. It is both delicious and life-altering.

When we eat together, we change ourselves into living sacrifices edible to the Triune God who swallows us into his glorious grace.

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