Recipe

• 1.5 oz Espresso (or Cold Brew concentrate)
• 1 oz Cognac
• 1 oz Blackberry Liqueur (or Raspberry)
• .25 oz Coffee Liqueuer
• .25-.5 oz Green Chartreuse to taste
• Optional dash of salt
• Garnish: blackberry

Shake with ice until well chilled. Strain into a chilled coupe or martini glass. Garnish with the blackberry.

* * * *

September 29 is Michaelmas, the great feast of St. Michael the Archangel, now shared with Gabriel and Raphael. Once a major holy day in medieval Europe, Michaelmas was marked by parades, fairs, and feasting. An old Irish legend tells us that when Michael cast Satan from heaven, the devil landed in a blackberry bush, spat upon it, and soured its fruit. This led many people to eat blackberries on Michaelmas, but not after.

Michael himself is remembered as the protector of the Church, the one who drives back the powers of evil and bears the banner of heaven. He is the the governor of heaven — the holy counterpoint to Lucifer, the self-styled ruler of hell. And as befits a warrior feast day, we drink to those who fight for us and we strengthen ourselves for the spiritual fight ahead!

So why an espresso martini? Because this day is about wakefulness and vigilance. Michaelmas arrives as the nights grow longer, and it calls us to be alert: watchful against darkness, strengthened for the battles of the spirit. Espresso jolts us awake, both in body and in soul, a reminder that “the Church militant” does not sleep on its watch.

The cognac anchors the drink with warmth and gravity, evoking the dignity of heaven’s general. The blackberry liqueur brings both sweetness and bite, a nod to the old legend of the cursed bramble. The coffee liqueur evokes purgation and penitence. The green Chartreuse, the herbal elixir made by monks, brings angelic mystery to mind; it’s the holy herb garden of heaven condensed into liquid. Finally, the garnish: a blackberry skewered on a pick, recalling the sword of St. Michael.

Altogether, it’s dark and strong, sweet and energizing — exactly what a feast of archangels deserves. This is no gentle nightcap; it’s a drink for vigilance, courage, and joy in the triumph of light over darkness.

Raise your glass this Michaelmas—and do it before the blackberries turn sour.

Ingredient Notes

I like Espresso Martinis, but I admit: all I’ve got is a Nespresso Vertuo machine (which isn’t really proper “espresso”—but it works for cocktails). You can also use Cold Brew concentrate to get the strong shot of coffee flavor.

For the Cognac, use whatever you have, but make sure it can make its presence known. I recommend a more assertive, younger, or higher-proof expression so it stands up against the espresso.

Another admission: I didn’t have Blackberry Liqueur. I used Chambord, a black raspberry liqueur, and it worked beautifully. I’m guessing any any quality blackberry brandy or liqueur will do. You could even probably muddle fresh blackberries with simple syrup in a pinch.

You probably don’t need to add Coffee Liqueur, but it adds a touch of extra coffee flavor and sweetness. It also keeps it closer to a traditional espresso martini. Chartreuse: Start with 0.25 oz and go up if you want it bolder. I know it’s hard to find. You could use any of the alternative herbal liqueurs out there. You could also go without it, but it’ll be a less complex drink without the nice herbal note. Salt reduces bitterness, makes the flavors pop, and ties the drink together.

The blackberry on a cocktail pick is more than decorative garnish—it’s the sword of St. Michael in miniature, thrust into the cursed bramble. And a nice treat after finishing the drink!

Recipe Card

I fully understand that this can be taken too far, but how could salt know if it has lost its saltiness? I would contend that the salt itself cannot determine its own saltiness in any other way than seeing its effects on the world around it.

In other words, I wonder if how the world views us in regards to the effects we have in the world are a better indicator of our “saltiness” than our own perception of how faithful to a system of the doctrines we are. If you have ears to hear, then hear!

See other Marginalia here. Read more about the series here.

Recipe

All you need is 1/2 oz of each of the following:

• Tequila Blanco
• Tequila Reposado
• Tequila Añejo
• Campari
• Amaro Averna
• Sweet Vermouth
• Dry Vermouth
• Garnish: A lime twist & your favorite Summer read

Instructions: Stir with ice and serve over a large cube. Express the oils from a Lime peel over the drink and drop it in.

* * * *

Ordinary Time is the Church’s longest season, and also its quietest, most mundane. But that’s the secret of it: this is where most of life happens.  Ordinary Time (and the Church Calendar itself) is cyclical, but not static. It’s like a helix, looping back through the same motions, but always a little higher, a little deeper, than before. In fact, it’s name doesn’t mean “plain”, but comes from the word ordinal because it counts time from Pentecost.

The Negroni Joven (pronounced HO-ven) is about this sort of time. It’s named after joven tequila, a blend of aged and unaged tequila, which is exactly what Ordinary Time is for us. It’s new each year, and yet the benefits accumulate over time. So there grows a depth and richness, even in the midst of the newness, adding layers of complexity.

This is also a season that reminds us of our groundedness in time and the world, something tequila embodies well. Agave takes years of patient growth before it can be harvested. It’s a spirit that reminds us of the cultivation needed to be rooted and earthy in the most beautiful way.

The amaros here carry the other heart of the drink: one bitter, one sweet. Most church seasons lean one way or the other, but Ordinary Time is where we learn to live with both as we practice letting bitterness and sweetness sit side by side in tension.

And finally, adding both sweet and dry vermouths makes this a “perfect” Negroni, which also encompasses the sense of completeness . Theologically, that feels about right too. Ordinary Time is the synthesis of all the colors, moods, and lessons of the Church Year folded into one long green stretch of living. It’s where perfection isn’t about getting it all right, but about finding wholeness in the mix.

Lastly, the garnishes: lime green for this season’s liturgical color, coiled into a time-like helix, and your favorite Summer read make this the perfect drink for the most mundane, ordinary of days. (My fav is James Joyce’s Ulysses—what’s yours?)

And yes, this has a bit more spirit than your standard Negroni. That’s deliberate. Ordinary Time comes after Pentecost, after all. We live this stretch of the year with a little more Spirit in us. (And after making it through another Church Year, you’ve earned a stiffer drink.)

Flavor-wise, the Negroni Joven is earthy and rich, with the tequila’s warmth holding together the herbal bitters and the bright citrus edge. It leans contemplative but not heavy—a drink for the middle of the story, when you’re not sure where the next chapter starts, but you’re grateful to still be in it.

Ingredient Notes

This one’s meant to be easygoing, like the season itself. So there’s a ton of flexibility here.

For the tequilas, use whatever you have. I used Espolòn tequilas, but any decent tequila will do. If you don’t happen to have all three ages, that’s fine. Just use a good Reposado and call it a day. You’ll end up with the same general balance of flavor. (And “Reposado” means “rested”, which is also fitting for the Summer).

For the amaros, you’re looking for contrast: one bitter red Italian aperitivo (Campari, Aperol, or even Cappelletti) and one darker, sweeter amaro (Averna, Lucano, or Meletti). Use whatever sweet and dry vermouth you have and prefer. No need to overthink it.

Now, for the garnishes—if you’re feeling creative, you can make a little lime helix. Use a channel knife to cut a long, thin strip of lime peel, then wrap it around a bar spoon while you make the rest of the drink. When done, express it over the top of the glass and hang it from the edge so you catch the aroma. For the book…well, you know your own favorite Summer reading material.

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Recipe

• ½ oz Rye Whiskey (USA)
• ½ oz Tequila Blanco (Mexico)
• 1 oz Suze (French Amaro)
• ½ oz Carpano Antica (Italian Sweet Vermouth)
• ½ oz Ruby Port (Portugal)
• ¼ oz Islay Scotch (Scotland – floated on top)
• Flamed Orange Peel Garnish

Stir all ingredients except the Scotch with ice and strain into a rocks glass over a large cube. Gently float the Islay Scotch over the top by pouring it over the back of a spoon. Flame an orange peel over the glass, express its oils, and drop it in.

* * * *

Happy Birthday, Church! It is now Pentecost, the day that God’s own Spirit filled God’s own people, crossing language, boundaries, cultures, and nationalities to create one new united family. In the tongues of fire and language, God reversed the story of the Tower of Babel.

That’s the heart of this Negroni, Family Reunion. It’s built from spirits scattered across the world: American rye, Mexican tequila, French Suze, Italian vermouth, Portuguese port, and a smoky Scotch from the far edge of Scotland. It’s a drink that doesn’t pretend the differences aren’t there but lets them all sit in the glass together. Each part keeps its accent, but together they have an incredibly unity.

The drink itself leans earthy and complex. The rye brings structure, the tequila adds depth, and the Suze’s golden gentian bitterness contributes an interesting mid-note to the flavors. The Carpano Antica and the Ruby Port round it out with deep, red sweetness, like the shared wine of communion: one cup, many vineyards. Lastly, the Islay Scotch float and the flamed orange peel garnish image the tongues of fire hovering over those first Christians.

This drink is Pentecost in miniature. But this is not a quick or delicate Negroni. It’s heavier, slower, more reflective. The kind of drink that doesn’t mind being passed around, that tastes different each time you come back to it. It’s the flavor of the Church at her best — many voices, one Spirit, the family gathered again around the same table drinking from the Common Cup of God’s grace.

Ingredient & Technique Notes

The great part about this drink is that it’s not brand specific. Use whatever you have on hand in each of these categories and it’ll probably work.

The closest you’ll get to brand-specific is Suze as the bitter component of this Negroni. But honestly, you could get away with using any of the more vegetal, darker amaros: Cynar, Cardamaro, maybe Montenegro. Just don’t use a bright red one like Campari or Aperol.

Bur for everything else in this drink, use what you’ve got. make sure the rye is assertive enough to stand up to all these flavors, and that the tequila is blanco and not aged. I used a deeper, richer sweet vermouth, but any red vermouths would work well. Use any Ruby Port you can get your hands on, you just probably shouldn’t use a Tawny here. (Or maybe use a Tawny Port and lighter, fruitier sweet vermouth?)

Lastly, the same goes for the Islay Scotch float–any will work great here. After stirring and pouring all the other ingredients, pour the scotch carefully over the back of a spoon so it stays on top. Then flame the orange peel over the drink. Hold it skin-side down over the glass, strike a lighter beneath it, and press to release the oils through the flame. That first sip should greet you with smoke before settling into sweetness.

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Recipe

• 1 oz Barrel-Aged Gin
• 1 oz Suze Amaro
• 1 oz Dolin Blanc (or other white, sweet vermouth such as Lillet Blanc or Cocchi Americano)
• Top with Seltzer or Tonic
• Garnish with lemon twist

Stir the gin, Suze, and vermouth with ice until chilled. Strain into a glass with fresh ice. Top with your sparkling of choice. Express the oil of a lemon peel over it all and garnish with the peel.

* * * *

It’s Easter! He is risen indeed. Alleluia!

The Church’s highest feast is one of joy, celebration, and abundance. This season isn’t content with a muted sip; it needs something golden, bright, and effervescent. The Easter Negroni takes the classic trinity of spirit, amaro, and vermouth and transfigures it into something new—bubbling with life, radiant in hue, and rich with meaning.

We begin with barrel-aged gin. Gin is already the most botanical of spirits—alive with florals, herbs, and brightness. But here, that spirit of life is placed in a barrel, entombed in wood, where it rests in shadow and silence. When it emerges, it is changed. The gin carries the golden hue and deeper resonance of the cask, just as Christ emerged from the tomb radiant and transformed.

The white, sweet vermouth provides the base. Unlike a dry vermouth, this one is fortified and sweetened—a reminder of communion wine, the body of Christ made strong and whole in resurrection. Its sweetness sings of new life, while its fortified character grounds it in sacramental reality. Resurrection is not abstract or ethereal; it is embodied, tasted, and shared.

Into this brightness we add Suze, a bitter gentian liqueur. Easter does not erase the cross. Even in glory, the Risen Christ still bears his scars. So too, this amaro adds a golden bitterness, a reminder that resurrection is not naïve joy but joy shot through with the memory of suffering. The bitterness is not banished—it is transfigured, contributing depth to the drink’s radiance.

Finally, we top it with bubbles. Whether seltzer or tonic, the effervescence is essential. It lifts the whole cocktail, giving it levity, lightness, and a sense of rising. The drink itself becomes an embodied proclamation: Christ is risen, and we rise with him.

Spritz it all with bright, shimmering oils from lemon peel and garnish it with a crown.

This is a Negroni reimagined for the resurrection—complex, scarred, radiant, and effervescent. May it be a toast to the joy of Easter, the sweetness of resurrection life, and the hope that even our scars can shine like gold.

Ingredient Notes

For the gin, you really do want a barrel-aged one here. Aged gins often come in golden hues and have softer, rounder edges than their crisp, dry counterparts. The oak adds depth and warmth without obscuring the botanicals. In my testing, I used Philadelphia’s own Bluecoat Barrel-Finished Gin which has beautiful spice and vanilla notes, as well as Barr Hill Tom Cat Gin, which is slightly drier but with honeyed sweetness. Each lends its own experience but go with whatever barrell-aged gin you can find.

For the vermouth, Dolin Blanc is an easy, widely available go-to, but Lillet Blanc will give you a lighter, citrus-forward profile, while Cocchi Americano leans a bit more bitter and herbal. Any sweeter, white, fortified wine in this family should do the trick—just avoid dry vermouths, which won’t give the needed weight or sweetness.

For the amaro, Suze is unique in its golden color and earthy bitterness. Gentian-based amaros are hard to substitute, but if you can’t find Suze, Avèze or Salers Aperitif are close relatives. They’ll shift the profile slightly, but keep the same bitter, floral backbone.

For the sparkling topper, a plain seltzer keeps things crisp and lets the cocktail shine, while tonic adds a little more sweetness and complexity. Try both and see which version feels more like Easter to you.

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Recipe

• 1 oz Mezcal
• 1.25 oz Spiced Apple Wine (or 1 oz rich Sweet Vermouth)
• .75 oz Cardamoro
• Garnish: Apple Slice and Smoked Rosemary

Add all spirits to a mixing glass. Stir with ice until chilled and diluted. Strain over fresh ice. Add apple slice and light the end of a sprig of rosemary on fire. Put out the flame and let it smoke.

* * * *

Lent begins in ashes, but it doesn’t end there. It moves through wilderness, temptation, and sorrow—not to leave us in dust, but to lead us toward resurrection. Lent reminds us of a bittersweet truth: that our sinfulness is a necessary ingredient for our redemption.​

The ancient theologians called it felix culpa—”fortunate fall”—the idea that humanity’s fall led to a greater good: the coming of Christ and the outpouring of grace. In other words, it is better to have been lost and found than to never have been lost at all. In other other words: “there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.”

As the Exsultet proclaims in the Easter Vigil: “O happy fall that earned for us so great, so glorious a Redeemer.”​

So let us raise a glass to this wonderful mystery with this Lenten Negroni. It brings together the sweetness of Eden, the smoke of exile, and the herbal bitterness of toil and grace.

The first sip greets you with the smoky depth and vegetal complexity of mezcal, reminiscent of the Garden and darkness of sin. The spiced apple wine and garnish call to mind that original temptation, now made sweet by Christ. Grounding the drink is Cardamaro, bringing an earthy bitterness evoking images of thorns, toil, and grace. Lastly, the flaming rosemary symbolizes both the flaming sword preventing re-entry to Eden and holy incense granting us entry into the presence of God.

This is a complex, surprisingly light drink with lots of layers if you let yourself sit with it. May it serve as a sensory reflection on the journey from fall to redemption, reminding us that even in our brokenness, grace abounds.

Ingredient Notes

Negronis are great. Just three ingredients. Use whatever Mezcal you want, but we are a Del Maguey Mezcal house. For the Spiced Apple Wine, I used one from a local winery, Chaddsford Winery. I appreciate the symbolism using it here, but I’ll be honest, the flavor doesn’t stand up too strongly to the other flavors (hence the heavier pour) so you really can use most any dark, rich, sweet vermouth in this (like Carpano Antica–avoid a light fruity vermouth).

Cardamaro is a wine-based amaro offers that offers a gentle bitterness and herbal complexity (fun fact: it’s made with cardoon and thistle, not cardamom). It is a dark, earthy flavor though not overpowering. If you don’t have it, use some other darker-yet-lighter amaro like Amaro Montenegro or Cynar, though it will alter the flavor profile somewhat.

Garnish: To smoke the rosemary, light the end of the sprig until it smolders, then out the flame out and place the smoking sprig in the glass to infuse the aroma. Of course you don’t have to do this, but it’s a nice visual and lovely smell while you drink. Use whatever apple slice you want.

Recipe Card

Recipe

• 1.5 oz Rye Whiskey
• 1 oz Espresso or Cold Brew Concentrate
• .5 oz Molasses
• .25 oz Dry or Blanc Vermouth
• 2 dashes Chocolate Bitters
• barspoon Fernet Branca
• Lemon Peel for expression and garnish

Add all ingredients except lemon peel to shaker and shake until well chilled. Double strain into a coupe. Express Lemon Peel oil over top and garnish with the peel cut into a cross.

* * * *

The Western Church is currently in the last days of the Church season of Epiphany, which is kind of a beautiful junk drawer of a season.

Advent/Christmas cover Jesus’ anticipation and birth, and Lent/Easter cover his death and resurrection. Epiphany covers everything in between. It starts with the Wise Men visiting Jesus (they weren’t at the manger!) and covers his ministry of justice. The key motif is light breaking through the darkness, waking us from our stupor, and preparing us for the repentance of Lent.

So if we want a cocktail that’s going to wake us up and mess us up, there’s none better than this espresso martini riff.

The Drink

It’s a tasty and unique drink, complex but really well balanced. But it has a lot of competing flavors so make sure each of your ingredients is strong and flavorful, especially our beginning point: the espresso. This calls us to spiritual wakefulness and participating in the work of justice that God has in the world.

Our base spirit is a strong, spicy Rye, representing the crackling warm punch that Christ brought to the world. It’s gold color reminds us of the first of the Wise Men’s gifts. Our sweetener is Molasses, providing us the earthiness of myrrh, a reminder of the world’s darkness, and a call to humility and repentance.

Now we get to our unique ingredients. First, our chocolate bitters embody the complexity and warmth of Frankincense. It’s also a great paradox of flavor because it is both bitter and sweet, just like the world itself. Then we toss in our secret weapons and what makes this drink truly special: White Vermouth and Fernet Branca. They add herbal depth and brightness, a kind of grace note within the earthiness, darkness, and spice.

Finally, we express a lemon peel over the whole drink to add unexpected light and brightness. It hearkens to the star that guided the Magi, the purifying cleansing of Christ’s work and presence, and the light of illumination in the darkness.

Ingredient Notes

I workshopped this a bit and some things need to be a bit specific. First off, use a darker coffee base, either a darker roasted espresso or cold brew concentrate. Full disclosure: we have a Nespresso machine which doesn’t make true espresso, so the coffee flavor was too weak in mine so I threw in a a barspoon of a coffee liqueur to compensate.

You need to use a Rye with strong flavor to stand up to the coffee. I used the high proof Rittenhouse Rye. I guess you could use something like Bulleit, but it could get lost in the drink. For sweetener, Molasses works really well, but you could use Demerara Syrup (here’s my favorite), Honey Syrup, or even melt some brown sugar in a pinch.

For our modifiers: First, let’s talk Vermouth. I tried a drier, more minerally vermouth and it did not work. You want a sweeter dry or (better yet) blanc vermouth. I used Martini & Rossi Extra Dry Vermouth, but I think something like Lillet Blanc would be even better.

Lastly, I used Angostura Cocoa Bitters, though any chocolate bitters would work (maybe even Aztec Bitters!). Fernet Branca is just Fernet Branca. Nothing like it. If you hate it, you can forgo it, I guess. But I love it so much. And the lemon peel expressed over the top is a really important element to this drink. Don’t skip it.

Recipe Card

So…what’s God’s proof that He is with Moses and He is the one behind all this?

Not the mystical voice from the fire.
Not the miracles nor plagues.

Moses will know that God is real and he is the one that did all this only after deliverance and wilderness, having returned to where he started, utterly transformed.

Ain’t that the truth?

See other Marginalia here. Read more about the series here.

NOTE: This post is by Austin Ricketts, a dear friend and contributor to this site who passed away in August 2024. I later found unpublished drafts he wrote for this blog. With his wife‘s permission, I will occasionally post these items with the caveat that Austin’s mind and craft were always evolving, so these posthumous posts represent a snapshot in time and not necessarily the final form Austin would have wanted. But still, they allow us a chance to spend just a little more time with the man we loved and miss each day.
This piece is from March 10, 2009
___________

[A Gilead-inspired short prose piece]

Today you awoke, and it was finally Autumn. Actually, it’s not that today is the first day of the Fall, but it’s the first day that you realized it. There you were at the Railway Station, surveying the huddled masses, nervously tapping each of your pockets. You were assuring yourself that all was in its right place. Then, the whistle. The train is coming.

The breeze picks up as the train nears, fronted by a Zephyr-like standard bearer. The gust begins to tug at your skirt, but your legs aren’t cold. The wooden platform rumbles, feeling like the deck of a ship at high seas as it moves with the coming cavalcade.

The Engineer is visible. There is the steam. The Engineer is invisible. The whistle, the whistle, three times the whistle blows. Smack!

Your book fell. You recover it from the linoleum floor. And what is that screaming noise? You look up. It is the birth pangs of tea, steaming and salient on your stove. You throw the blanket off of your legs, and onto the arm rest of your chair.

Provoked by instinct, you run to the stove and turn the knob, dryly dousing the flames, and the steepled screech stoops to susurrus. With your heart settling to a rhythm less like Sousa and more like a serenade, you look at your now vacant chair.

You wonder at the events which all too recently unfurled. You are certainly not at a Russian Railway Station. It was the book that suggested such to you. And it was the book that tore you from the dreams it created. It is the book still clutched, white-knuckled, in your hands. The tea is steeping, nearly ready to drink, and the book is still in your hands.

You remove the now saturated leaves from your mug, and prepare to baptize your tongue. That book and your palm are still immodestly mingling. You raise your mug and take the holy water to your tongue in the old Lutheran style, full immersion. During this sacred drowning, you look through the rising steam, passed your window and out upon the gray-sepia sky. The Sun is not so high this time of year. It is Autumn, and you are truly awake. So, with all the tenacity of a Catholic Nun at a High School dance, you put some distance between your hand and that book.

You continue to hold that mug, that holy water, but with two hands now. And you think.

“The Autumn is like Baptism. Everything is damned. Cursed are the flaming red leaves. They are doomed to dust and ash. These particles can speak nothing more than a sneeze into existence. They are only lisping now. But soon these will say Amaranth, Baby’s Breath, and Chrysanthemum’s colored white. The dust was once called upon to give life, soon it will give new life. It will bud forth a Resurrection. Autumn is like a Baptism, and it is all so beautifully damned.”

Today is All Saints’ Day–when Christians remember the saints that came before us. It’s a perfect day to celebrate our son’s entry into visible membership into God’s family through the sacrament of baptism! You can watch it in the video above.

I wasn’t raised witnessing or agreeing with infant baptism. I grew up as a Bible Belt Southern Baptist (and pretty much all my relatives continue in that tradition). As a child, infant baptism was seen as a strange Catholic thing that went against the doctrine of salvation through grace.

But over time, my perspective changed as I found myself drawn into another tradition within Christianity–one that views baptism in a different way that I’ve found incredibly meaningful and beautiful.

(Side note: if you are skeptical or curious about this view, this book is hands down, the most accessible, gracious, and comprehensive explanation and defense of infant baptism.)

The biggest shift for me was seeing that baptism is all about receiving and celebrating God’s commitment to me, rather than my commitment to him. It is a recognition that God has chosen me, moved towards me, and has been gracious and faithful to me, even before I had a thought about him.

The New Testament tells us that God’s work and promise in the world still moves through families. Because of this, in Luke’s baptism, we’re honoring that God’s promise has been extended to him. It’s a recognition that God has already shown him grace by placing him in a Christian family where he will be loved, taught, and guided as he grows in faith.

Since Abraham, God has said that his covenant people need to have a family mark to distinguish them as his. In the Old Testament, that was circumcision. In the New Testament, that has been broadened into baptism (Col. 2:11-12).

Infants were circumcised before they could ever choose to be an Israelite and that didn’t take away their choice or responsibility to follow God’s law and live according to his commandments later in life. It just meant that they bore in their own flesh the mark that God had chosen them even before they could choose it for themselves.

One irony of having been raised thinking infant baptism was a weird Catholic thing is that some of the most beautiful statements about it are from the first couple of generations of Protestant Reformers. They broke away from Catholicism to return to what they saw as the pure core of Scripture—and they still held tightly to infant baptism.

The original Protestant, Martin Luther, struggled with crippling depression, anxiety, and spiritual doubt his entire life. And in these moments, he kept himself sane by telling himself and others: “remember your baptism!” For Luther, that was his infant baptism. For Luke, we plan to tell him the same.

As he grows up and has doubts and struggles, as he is hurt and hurts others, and if he doubts that he deserves love, we will tell him to remember this day. Cling to it. We’ll tell him that no matter what thoughts haunt your mind, or what feelings of inadequacy or failure cling to your soul, those things are not what is most true about you.

What’s most true about you is that before you could make any decision for yourself, God marked you with the waters of baptism as his own and brought you into his family, apart from anything you did. That was Martin Luther’s hope, and I pray that it becomes Luke’s. To that end, just as I’ve done for myself, we will celebrate Luke’s “baptism birthday” every single year.

So while I appreciate my family members who watched this baptism while secretly telling themselves it was merely a “baby dedication”, it really is so much more. If baptism were only a commitment we were making as parents—our dedication or our own will to raise Luke in the faith—we would be setting ourselves (and Luke) up for disappointment. Parenting is imperfect; our efforts fall short every day. If baptism relied on our strength or our consistency, we would fail.

But thankfully, it doesn’t. Baptism is rooted in God’s promise, which doesn’t change with our successes or failures. It’s a gift we receive rather than a goal we achieve. And so, as an act of obedience and celebration, we let our child go through the waters of baptism, being baptized into Christ’s death and rising to new life.

Baptism is not simply a reflection of any one moment, decision, or turning point in faith. It is a lasting sign of God’s eternal, unchanging love for Luke, marking him as his own and bringing him into his family, bearing “Christian” as his spiritual last name.

Luke is now a Christian–and he has to learn to live into that name and make it his own. And through it all we’re going to love this kid with the love of God, treating him as the brother in Christ he is, and trusting that God has loved our child since before time began–and even into eternity.

Happy All Saints’ Day. Selah.