I feel hypocritical promising to protect my 10 godchildren from evil

Off I went to Farm Street on Saturday morning, the Mayfair church where various Rothschilds and Hiltons and Spencers have married in recent years.

You know it’s a big posh wedding if the invitation says Farm Street, with its dazzling stained-glass windows and Pugin altar. It wasn’t a wedding, though; it was a christening, as I wrote in my card on the train there. ‘Happy Christening,’ I scribbled to my small godson, Luca.

Nearly exactly 20 years ago I met his mother on our first day at LSE and she became my closest university friend. Little did we know, I told him in the card, that we’d be gathering at a London church two decades later to celebrate her first child.

Life is magical like that, I wrote. ‘Yours will be too.’ Not that he can read it yet. My godson is a genius, obviously, but even he isn’t reading aged two.

I reckon half my friends have christened their children. Apparently only half of Brits deem them necessary these days, which roughly correlates with the number of people, 46 per cent, who declared themselves Christians at the last census in 2021.

Funny that weddings have become such a circus while the popularity of christenings has declined. Both are religious ceremonies, but I can think of several people who’ve married in church and yet baulked at the idea of christening their child, as if introducing their child to the same religion they professed to believe a few years earlier at the altar is somehow distasteful.

Perhaps there’s a marketing opportunity for the Church of England there: quick baptism in church before a party in a marquee outside with a photo booth and a bar doling out espresso martinis.

Admittedly I’ve been to a quite few christenings, because I have 10 godchildren. I’ve stood there while the priest tips the baby towards the font and the baby screams until it’s puce and everyone watching laughs indulgently.

‘Awww, sweet,’ the congregation think while the poor babe waves its fists, a tiny Miss Havisham in an ancient family christening gown which is too small, too hot and smells of mothballs.

I’ve always felt pretty hypocritical while renouncing evil on behalf of a godchild, though, because I’m not religious. I love a church ceremony, and often think back fondly to the ritual of morning chapel at school; an enforced, contemplative 15 minutes of sitting and mulling the day over before it began. But I didn’t leave with any faith.

There’s also been the odd christening where I’ve been suffering from too many wines the night before, if the parents of said-godchild have made a weekend of it and we’ve all congregated at a bucolic 12^th-century church in the sticks called something like St Mary in the Dunny.

Does the priest know or care, in such a situation, I’ve always wondered, if the parents and godparents look a bit green while hovering around the font? It’s occasionally felt sham-like for everyone to gather in suits and frocks for a service that nobody believes in, apart from the poor priest, solemnly going through the motions about being washed and cleansed by the Holy Spirit. ‘I could do with a bit of cleansing myself this morning, Vicar,’ I’ve thought from time to time before. 

My doubts about christenings have often been compounded by the silliness of the presents. Why would any baby need a silver rattle? Or a miniscule silver bangle? Oh a silver egg cup and spoon! Thank you, how enormously practical.

There was such joy last weekend, though. The sun poured through the stained glass; various grandparents and parents and friends who hadn’t seen one another for years offered enthusiastic hugs; my godson toddled between the pews in white shorts and a smart white linen shirt.

Organising the service, with key members of family and godparents spread across America, the UK and Africa has taken some time, so now that he’s two he could totter up to the altar himself.

‘When’s the water on my head?’ he kept burbling to his mother, as we gathered beside the priest, mumbling our lines when required. ‘Shhhhh,’ she whispered back, ‘in a minute.’

‘I want a book,’ Luca then announced, when he realised the exciting water moment wasn’t happening immediately. ‘Shhhhh,’ Emily told him again, although it’s hard to disapprove of a child asking for a book these days. Better that than, ‘I want Peppa Pig.’

When the magical baptism moment arrived, Luca didn’t find it as thrilling as he expected, and rubbed his blonde hair afterwards while fixing the priest with a suspicious glare. ‘You’ve been ever so good,’ the priest added, as if to make amends, ‘I’ve had some real screamers.’

After we’d all silently wondered whether this was an appropriate thing for a man of the cloth to say, we wandered back out into the sunshine and walked through Mayfair to a nearby pub for the reception.

The Pride parade was taking place in Central London last Saturday, and all together it made comical sight: 30 or so of us from the christening, in well-cut suits and dresses, mingling with 20-somethings in sparkly eyeshadow waving rainbow flags.

While I discussed the political situation in America with one of the American contingent who’d flown over for the baptism, a man in hotpants carrying a large Durex sign strolled past. 

Another Pride participant was handing out rainbow hats, whereupon Luca’s grandfather took one and paired it with his navy suit. It was a happy, glorious morning – celebratory in more ways than one.

Do we come to appreciate ceremonies like this more as we get older? Milestones that are marked, no matter what anyone believes in?

During the service, I felt the same lurking hypocrisy as previously while rejecting evil on Luca’s behalf, but this could mean the evils of the internet, these days. Or the evils of smartphones. Perhaps that’s the kind of evil I can help him with in due course.

But these misgivings didn’t seem to matter so much, because I simply felt so glad, and grateful, to be there.

Twenty years ago I met a friend who would later deem me responsible enough to act as some sort of mentor to her son. That’s a kind of faith, isn’t it?