The attempted baptism: Part 1
Preaching
Morning Services
My Christianity started to die on a Sunday. At the time, I didn’t know the long, slow process of alienation was beginning. I was still in the days of peace with my god and with my father, the Preacher, striving for absolute devotion to my religion.
That Sunday started like every other Sunday in our household. I let myself into the station wagon rumble seat, the first one in my family ready to head off to church services.
“Did you bring your Bible, Heather?” Mom asked as she got in the car. I forgot once a while back, and so my mom was set on confirming that I had it every Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening before heading out to the church building.
I held up my Bible for her to see.
Dad opened the driver’s side door, handed Mom his suitcase, and started the engine as he sat down — all in one practiced motion. The car swayed as both side doors ripped open. My brothers were already yelling at each other about something.
“Buckle up!” Dad commanded. An order to shut up was implied.
As always, at the end of the short drive to the church building, I turned around to face forward and watch as our car pulled into the gravel parking lot. The building itself was small and unadorned. My family’s version of Christianity — the only right version, as Dad preached — decreed that the church was the people and the building was just that. Still, I felt at home as we pulled into the parking lot, the church building nestled between the oversized parking lot in front and the vast yard of tall grasses beside and behind.
At the conclusion of church services that day, there had been a baptism — a rare, but exciting occurrence. After Dad’s sermon, we all stood up per usual as the song leader belted out the hymnal. The congregation followed him, slightly behind and off-key.
Just as I am, without one plea
But that Thy blood was shed for me
I looked down at my song book, though I could sing myself to sleep with the lyrics.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my mom straighten and I could feel the attention of the congregation shifting from the song leader. I looked over at my brother who was almost tall enough to see what was going on — all I could see were the backs of the people in front of me.
“What’s going on?” I nudged David.
And that Thou bid’st me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God, I come! I come!
A few congregants were able to hit the high note.
“Someone’s coming forward,” he whispered, crouching enough so I could hear, but keeping his eyes outward. We both saw him walk by our row in the center aisle, making his way to the front aisle. There, he would confer with Dad to ask for prayers or confess his sins for baptism.
“I hope he gets baptized,” I whispered to David. He wasn’t looking at me, but I could tell he agreed.
Mom glanced over at us, disapproving our whispering, and David quickly returned his posture to normal.
Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind;
Sight, riches, healing of the mind;
Yes, all I need, in Thee to find,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come!
David had gone forward several months ago and been baptized. I still shivered thinking of my happiness and the congregation’s joy that Sunday. I had heard Mom whisper to him that she was proud of him — I’d never heard Mom or Dad say that before. Pride was a sin.
After we’d sung the sixth and final verse, the song leader paused, and there was shuffling I couldn’t see.
“Please be seated,” Dad said, solemnly.
With everyone seated, I could now glimpse the man sitting up front, his gray and black head of hair bowed. “Robert has been coming to us for several weeks now, hearing the Good News that his soul can be saved. He has seen the light and committed to God to do away with the ways of the flesh. Turn with me to 1 John 2:15–17.” The pages of the congregation’s Bibles rustled. As he read, I formed the words silently. I knew the lust passage, as I had secretly named it, though I had turned the pages with everyone else anyway.
He read,
Do not love the world or the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world — the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life — is not of the Father but is of the world. And the world is passing away, and the lust of it; but he who does the will of God abides forever.
A few quiet “amen”s followed, as Dad closed his Bible.
Stepping off the pulpit, Dad guided Robert, shoulders still slumped, the weight of his sins upon him, I assumed. They stepped into the office just to the side of the pulpit where they would change into baptismal clothing. Dad had a little screen he would put up in the office to allow for privacy.
I looked up at David, excited, and he looked back down at me, sharing the smile. I looked past David at Isaiah, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was too cool. And a bit mean, I thought. But David could be mean too, sometimes.
The song leader was already leading the congregation in the next hymnal, an upbeat one this time, the congregation now rushing the song leader.
No tears in Heaven, no sorrows given,
All will be glory in that land;
There’ll be no sadness, all will be gladness,
When we shall join that happy band.
Then, the curtain behind the pulpit started to open, revealing the baptismal chamber. The chamber was a long narrow tub built into the wall, steps leading down into the tub on one side, and it was always filled with water, waiting for someone to use it. Pinned to the back wall of the chamber was a copy of a painting, illustrating a river with clouds and sun rays shining down — the only real adornment in the building.
Robert stood at the top of the steps leading down into the tub, wearing the long, white robe of baptism. Having opened the curtain all the way, Dad maneuvered around Robert, stepped down the stairs, and waded into the water, his chest-high gaiters squeaking.
Dad projected, “Are you willing to have your sins washed away?”
“I am,” he responded, faintly.
“Are you willing to let the Lord into your heart?”
“Yes.”
“Then in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, I now baptize you for the forgiveness of your sins.”
And with that, while Robert still stood on a step above, Dad put one hand on the back of his head, the other hand holding his wrist — Robert’s hand was covering his nose and his mouth — and Dad dunked him fully in the water. The water slapped at the sides of the tub as he pulled him back up. Then, it was over, and Dad was guiding him back into the office.
The song leader rushed back up to the pulpit and the congregation picked back up where we’d left off.
Glory is waiting, waiting up yonder,
Where we shall spend an endless day;
There with our Savior, we’ll be forever,
Where no more sorrow can dismay.
Robert emerged from the office, hair dripping, but face beaming. The congregation crowded him, celebrating his transformation. Mom had appeared by Dad’s side behind Robert.
I looked up at David. “I love you, brother.”
He smiled down at me, nudging me away. “You’ll be there someday. Someday soon.”
Robert was still being congratulated up front, his smile broad. I wondered what this moment would mean for him, how his life would transform. I imagined that this moment would be magical, absolutely transformative.
Evening Services
We arrived back at the church building for Sunday evening services even earlier than normal so that Dad could reset the baptismal chamber. It was a peaceful early autumn evening, and rather than go inside the building just yet, I went out back to wander the endless rows of tall grasses. The late afternoon sun was shining just over the row of trees back on the property edge. It was peaceful.
Out in the peaceful solitude of nature, I felt close to God, my heart open. Maybe even more so than I did inside the church building. I looked up at the sky, where I imagined God lived.
“Dear Lord,” I whispered, even though there was no one around. “Robert’s baptism was very exciting today. Thank you for showing him the way. It was even more exciting than David’s baptism, because…well, I don’t know why. Maybe David’s was just expected. And Isaiah’s before that, when I was a little kid,” I paused. Remembering.
“When will it be my time, God? How will I know?” It occurred to me that I could ask David or Isaiah how they knew. They probably wouldn’t give me a straight answer though, not even David. I wondered how Dad and Mom would answer.
I folded my hands, getting focused. “Maybe, could you send me a sign?”
I waited. I looked around. How nice it would be to have services out here. I wondered if others would feel more spiritual, too. I imagined a few dozen chairs curving in semi-circles, facing the trees and the sun, the church building behind. And in front of them, I imagined myself, speaking to them, sharing inspirations with them as my dad had done so many times with me.
Dad would be so proud. Maybe he’d even tell me he was proud.
I tightened the fold of my hands and closed my eyes, getting serious with my prayer. “I have another request, God, sorry. Do you think you could make me a good preacher? Like my dad?”
The setting sun gave off just a hint of warmth, the early fall breeze adding a touch of coolness. It felt like God was responding to me. Like he was encouraging me.
I smiled and took a deep breath. “In Jesus’s name I pray, amen.” Prayer sealed and sent, beaming up to God.
After the service, I joined my dad as he greeted the congregants. At a pause in the hand shakings, I took a deep breath, “Dad, can I tell you something?”
“Always.” He said, still looking for congregants who wanted to approach him.
“I know what I want to be when I grow up,” I pronounced.
He looked down at me, amused. “You don’t want to be a ballerina anymore?”
“I haven’t wanted to be a ballerina since like 3rd grade,” I said. “This is serious.” I turned towards him, trying to get his full attention. He took the cue and turned towards me as well.
“I’ve decided. When I grow up, I want to be a preacher like you.” It felt good to say it out loud. I beamed.
But his smile faded. He stood there, thinking. Then, he knelt down.
“I’m so heartened to hear that.” He reached out and took my hands, a rare show of physical affection. “Because I know you love God and want to share His love.”
I braced, confused. This didn’t feel right.
“But you cannot be a preacher, Heather,” Dad said. “Girls and women cannot speak in front of the baptized.”
“Oh.”
I must have looked stunned. “You know this,” he said.
I will never forget that moment. Dad on his knee. Looking at me lovingly while also closing the door in my face.
Looking back now, I wonder what he was thinking. Was he sad that he had to give me a hard truth? Was he relieved to be able to set me straight so directly and succinctly? What did he imagine for me in that moment? What did he hope for me? When he worried about me, was his only worry for my immortal soul?
All I know is that my dream of leading the service out in the beauty of nature, directly between God and His congregants, my drive to become my dad, it all just puffed away. And with that vanishing dream, my rose tinted glasses started to clear.
