There are Sundays — rare, miraculous Sundays — when a baby in the third pew manages to preach a better sermon than the rector.
I say this without resentment. Well… perhaps a manageable hint of clerical envy. After all, I studied theology, parsed Greek verbs, and once wrote a paper on the eschatology of the subjunctive mood. Yet on any given Sunday, along comes a gurgling eight-month-old who, without a single footnote, distills the entire mystery of the Incarnation into an unrestrained squeal of delight at the Gloria.
Now, I grant you, infants are not known for their homiletical structure. They don’t lead with an anecdote, offer three tidy points, or quote Augustine in a way that makes the wardens nod approvingly. Instead, they preach with the sort of spontaneous theological charisma that makes you wonder why seminary doesn’t offer a course entitled Advanced Babbling for Liturgical Impact.
Consider the sacred moment just before Communion.
I stand at the altar. The choir inhales. The congregation settles into that reverent silence that suggests deep spiritual intention… or the sudden realization that no one remembered to plug in the kettle for coffee hour.
And then — right on cue — the baby preaches.
Not with words, of course, but with a tiny squawk of anticipation that seems to say, Something good is happening, people! Lean in! Somebody’s about to feed us, and this is excellent news!
It is hard not to hear echoes of Luke’s Gospel: “Out of the mouths of babes…” which, translated into Anglican, means, “This child knows exactly what’s going on, and the adults should try keeping up.”
What Infants Know About Joy
Infants have not yet learned the fine art of dignified restraint, which is sometimes mistaken for holiness in our circles. Their joy is not measured, polite, or synod-appropriate. It erupts like a liturgical fountain at the most unexpected moments — mid-sermon, during the Nicene Creed, or just as I’m trying to say something profound about the prophets.
And perhaps that is precisely the point: joy, real joy, does not wait for the right moment. It simply is. It bubbles up as freely as a baby discovering their own toes.
What Infants Know About Incarnation
While we wax eloquent about the Word made flesh, infants simply live it.
They remind us that God came as one of these: small, needy, noisy, occasionally sticky, and profoundly present. If you’ve ever held a baby during worship, you’ve already understood more about the Incarnation than the most sophisticated Christological treatise could offer — because God chose to come close enough to hold.
What Infants Know About the Timing of Communion
Babies do not worry about liturgical sequence.
They do not mind whether we stand, kneel, or adopt the “Anglican lean.”
What they do know is that when someone offers you love, nourishment, and belonging, the correct response is always the same:
“Yes, please! And could we do that again soon?”
In this way, the baby in the pew often understands Communion with more clarity than the rest of us combined. For them, it is not ritual — it is relationship. Not duty, but delight. Not a theological puzzle, but a meal where love becomes edible.
And every so often, when we are paying attention, that tiny preacher reminds us what the sermon has been trying to say all along: that we are loved into being, welcomed without precondition, and invited again and again to feast on grace.
So if, next Sunday, you find yourself distracted mid-sermon by the delighted squeal of a baby, do not fret.
The Spirit may very well be whispering through that little voice:
“Take heart. This faith of yours is supposed to be joyful.”
And maybe — just maybe — the baby has preached the better sermon.
A Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
You come to us in surprising voices —
in Scripture, in sacrament,
and sometimes in the joyful noise of the smallest among us.
Teach our hearts to welcome wonder,
to embrace joy without reservation,
and to come to your table with the eager trust of a child.
Make us attentive to your presence
in the pew beside us and within our own lives,
for you are always drawing near.
Amen.