There are many movable objects in a parish church. The flower stand that migrates like a confused Canada Goose. The music stand that appears in unexpected places, usually just in time for someone to trip over it. And, of course, the Advent wreath, which seems to grow larger each year until it could theoretically qualify for its own postal code.
But none of these compare to the Baptismal Font.
Ah yes—the Font: that noble, immovable, ever-present reminder of God’s stubborn delight in us. It is usually situated in the most inconvenient spot imaginable. You can almost hear the conversation from the building committee years ago:
“Where should we put the font?”
“Somewhere meaningful.”
“And where is meaningful?”
“Preferably where the clergy will run into it at least twice every Sunday.”
And so it stands, steadfast and immovable, like a granite bouncer guarding the mysteries of grace.
And in true Anglican style, once it has been set in that place for a week or two, it is a cherished tradition, and we built up theology about why that spot was chosen in the first place. Upon my arrival at St. George’s Cathedral, one of the first stories of that place that was shared with me was of the decision to move the font from the Liturgical West entrance to the front of the Cathedral where the liturgy of Baptism would be visible to the gathered congregation. That story was titled “The Great Fontroversy” We Anglicans don’t often move furniture easily, or happily.
I have personally barked my shin on a font more times than I care to admit. I have rounded a corner in full pastoral stride — cassock billowing like the sail of a somewhat confused schooner — only to meet the font with a thud that reminded me of both my baptismal vows and my mortality. If nothing else, it has been an excellent teacher of humility.
And here, perhaps, lies its holiness.
The font is intentionally in the way — not to frustrate us, but to remind us who we are. Whether you are carrying the Gospel book, a stack of bulletins, or a casserole destined for the parish potluck, you cannot avoid passing the place where it all began. The font interrupts us because grace interrupts us.
Every time we walk by, it quietly proclaims:
“You belong to God.”
“You have been marked as Christ’s own for ever.”
“Remember your vocation — yes, even on a Tuesday.”
It’s a gentle nudge back to identity. Or, when one’s shin is involved, perhaps a slightly sharper nudge.
Our baptismal life is not something tucked neatly out of the way, like the Christmas decorations that vanish mysteriously until someone remembers the attic. Baptism is centre-stage, inconvenient, impossible to ignore. It obstructs our well-planned routes and reminds us that discipleship is rarely smooth or linear. God’s call tends to stand in the middle of our best-laid plans, saying, “Over here, please.”
So the next time you sidestep the font — or collide with it — take a moment to smile. Even that obstruction is gospel. Even that interruption is grace. And even your bruised shin is a reminder that whatever path you are on, your journey begins and ends in the love of the One who called you by name.
Thanks be to God… and to the font, steadfast sentinel of vocation and identity.
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Companion Prayer
Holy God,
You have called us by name and made us your own.
As we pass the waters of baptism — whether gently or with a startled bump —
remind us of who we are and whose we are.
Guide our steps, steady our hearts,
and keep our vocation ever in view,
that we may walk in faith, hope, and joyful service,
in the name of Christ our Lord. Amen.