The attempted baptism: Part 3
Going forward
Years after the events of this story, when I no longer considered myself a Christian but only a preacher’s daughter forced to go to church to save face, my Dad asked me what my favorite Bible verse was. I stared at him, gaping, until I finally thought of one.
And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.
In telling my Dad this, I thought that he might hear my plea for help. That he might hear the desperation in the verse and hear his own daughter’s deep unhappiness. Instead, he spent some of his limited money to commission a framed handwritten calligraphy version of the verse. The moment he gave it to me was the moment I realized he didn’t know me at all.
I still have that large frame, stowed away in my small San Francisco apartment. I’ll always keep it as a reminder of my journey.
Now, so many years later, I don’t remember the exact flash that made me want to get baptized. Maybe it was one of Dad’s sermons about heaven. I remember being so entranced by the fantasy and the otherworldliness of it all. Or maybe it was a dream. I had vivid dreams as a kid, some of which I can still see when I close my eyes. Or maybe I just really wanted to be included.
What I do remember oh so clearly is the self-disgust I felt as I realized how badly I needed to be “saved.” I believed that my ambition was making me rotten. At the time, I didn’t want to be hidden in a crowd. I wanted to do something great. I wanted to be known for something.
But, I thought, that was the problem. How could I be a leader when I wasn’t even a notable person among the billions of people of my own time. I wasn’t even a notable person in my own church community. How could I possibly consider myself important to God? I hadn’t wanted to hear when Dad told me I couldn’t grow up to be a preacher. I’d shut down when Dad told my Sunday School teacher that I couldn’t teach class. I convinced myself I was prideful in thinking I was some special individual. And pride was a sin.
I remember sitting in the auditorium, Dad preaching at the pulpit, when I realized what I had to do. Over the course of Dad’s sermon, my conviction grew and grew.
I remember reading a Proverb that was popular with my parents:
When pride comes, then comes shame; But with the humble is wisdom.
I read the passage again and again, internalizing it. I was prideful with my ambitions, prideful in my relations with my family and my peers, prideful with my presumption of worthiness.
I was nobody; I needed Jesus.
I felt small. But maybe I was supposed to feel small. Because I was small. I thought myself worthy of being a preacher or a teacher. But I hadn’t even been baptized.
When I decided that I couldn’t wait to be baptized, that my soul was at risk, Dad was beginning his sermon conclusion. “As we saw today, the scriptures tell us to ‘tremble and fear’ God, ‘for He is the living God, and steadfast forever.’ The world will scream that there is no God. The world will cast doubts on our faith, loosen our fears, weaken our resolve. We must remember to be meek before our Lord, humbling ourselves and accepting that God knows what’s best for us. We must fear the Lord.”
Dad was right. I hadn’t wanted to see it. Yes, kids dream. Yes, I was dreaming. But one cannot endlessly dream. I needed to know my place.
“Will you be born again in Christ, immersed in water for the forgiveness of your sins?” Dad asked the congregation, closing his Bible and looking down at us.
Now was the time for me to confront my arrogance. I needed to humble myself before God to make myself a blank slate for him to write upon. How could I be open and hear God’s plan for me when I had been blinded by my own pride? I hadn’t made myself clean for God. I needed to see my sin, I needed to beg God for forgiveness. I needed to give myself wholly to God.
The congregants had already started to put away their Bibles and pull out their songbooks as Dad was concluding, his wrap up tone and words familiar.
Dad paused, waiting for the clutter to die down, then said what I’d heard him say thousands of times before.
“Will you accept Jesus as your Lord? Come forward right now as we stand and sing.”
In my heart, I wanted to spend my days like Dad spent his days: sometimes, in a room lined with shelves of books, studying, seeking to understand, discussing with peers, and crafting interpretations; other times, sharing those paths to interpretation, bringing others along on my journey. Beautiful as it was, I needed to cast aside that dream, like I had diffused earlier dreams. Attaching myself to these things that I wanted was blinding me to God’s vision for me. I could not know God’s vision for me without first dedicating myself to God. I needed to be counted among God’s children.
I needed to be baptized.
Dad stepped down from the pulpit to sit in the first row. There he would sit, waiting for sinners to approach him during the closing hymnal. The congregation stood as the song leader stepped on the pulpit and began belting out the first verse.
Amazing grace how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I’m found
Was blind but now I see
Slowly, deliberately, I closed my notebook and set it on the floor. I closed my Bible and clutched it in my hands. I sat back and took a deep breath.
Beside me, David was looking down at me, curious, as I sat there while everyone stood. I thought of Daniel, touched by the angel Gabriel after his vision of heaven. From prone, Daniel stood. But that was my arrogance speaking again, comparing myself to Daniel. Yes, going forward was the only right thing for me to do.
I stood, tapped David, and he moved back for me to pass. I tapped Isaiah, then Mom. She looked down at me, concerned, and mouthed, “Are you okay?”
I nodded, a faint smile forming. This felt right. She let me pass.
I stepped out into the aisle. Everyone was watching. Their eyes were on me, seeing me. I felt like I was floating. I glanced at the baptismal chamber, imagining the moment I’d be plunged into the water, coming up a new person.
I neared Dad, sitting in the front row, tapping the pages of his sermon together. He paused, feeling someone approaching. He turned and frowned.
My stomach tightened as I walked around him to sit next to him on the bench. His head turned with my movements. He said nothing. He seemed to be shocked. And, I realized, embarrassed?
“What are you doing here?” He asked. There was a chuckle in his voice as he spoke. His eyes were wide.
I cleared my throat, trying to remember the resolve of seconds past. It felt evident, but I said, “I’m coming forward to be baptized.”
“Oh, okay.” He blinked, resetting. “Let’s talk about this. Why do you feel you want to be baptized?”
I knew the answer to this question — I scooted back into the bench, feeling more comfortable. We were just going through the motions. “I want to begin my Christian journey. I am ready.”
“Okay. That’s good. But you have to be a sinner to be baptized,” he said. He looked…sad? “Otherwise, we know that baptism is meaningless.”
This was the moment. I could say it. I had the strength to say it. “Dad,” I said, “I have sinned.”
His brows twitched into a furrow. He seemed to be resetting again.
I swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried to center myself. “I am proud,” I started. “Sometimes, I think I’m better than the other kids. I even think I’m better than my brothers sometimes. Sometimes, I don’t like them very much, especially Isaiah. And sometimes, I’m jealous of them. Envious,” I corrected, using the word from the Ten Commandments. It seemed important to reference them.
I was gaining momentum, feeling more comfortable. “I had this moment, out back in the field. I thought God showed me something. A vision of my path. I thought he showed me I could be a ‘leader of men’. I saw myself standing before a group of people. They were listening, like people listen to you. They were taking notes, they were asking questions, and I — I had answers. But I also seemed to be energized by them, by their questions. I could tell it felt really good. I thought it was where I wanted to go with my life. I thought that it wasn’t just a dream. Not just a fantasy. I thought that maybe God had shown it to me.” Speaking it out loud felt good, felt like what I wanted. I shook my head.
“But I dishonored you and Mom by not telling you about it, breaking the Ten Commandments. I don’t know why I did that. I think I feared you wouldn’t believe me that God had called me. Or I thought maybe I should show you I had been called, instead of telling you. I’ve been so confused lately. I don’t understand what my path is supposed to be. That dream I had, it seems impossible. I think I shouldn’t have been born a girl, if that dream was supposed to be mine. Or maybe I just don’t understand it. There is so much I don’t understand. Even in the Bible. It doesn’t always make sense. Sometimes it feels very…human. I’m frustrated. And I’m feeling distant from God. Even doubting. Is this what it feels like to fall away?”
During all this, Dad had been completely still. His face gave away little about what he was thinking. He took a deep breath through his nostrils.
“First, I am sorry that you did not feel comfortable coming to me. Let’s talk about how I can make myself more approachable to you. Because I wish you would have come to see me in a different setting.”
I expected this. At least, I expected him to feel bad about me not having talked to him. And that made me feel bad. But there was something in his tone. It reminded me of the tone he got when he told me I couldn’t be a preacher. I felt myself tensing.
“Second, I’m sorry that you are having a hard time. I want to assure you: these things are normal.” He punctuated the last words, as if hearing them individually would make me understand. “It’s very normal to feel bad about one’s siblings every now and then. Sometimes, I feel bad about your Uncle Bill and Aunt Barb. So, it doesn’t go away. I need to talk about it to Isaiah and David about that as much as I need to talk about it with you. And sometimes we keep things from our parents when we shouldn’t. We need to work on that together. You need to not keep things from your Mom and I. But that you’re telling me these things now, that’s good. And you need to keep doing that, so that we can move on.”
I nodded my head. This is what I needed to hear. He was so right. And now that all that was behind us, we could discuss the difficult stuff. My ambition. My confusion. My doubt. I couldn’t believe I’d used that word to him: doubt.
Then, I realized. He was done. He thought he’d said all he needed to say, responded to all my concerns.
“Okay, thank you, Dad. I will work on my sins related to you and Mom and Isaiah and David.” His eyes seemed to chuckle again at something I said. What was it? Was it me using the word “sin”? That didn’t make sense. I carried on, “But what about all of my struggles? My spiritual struggles? My doubt? I’m ready to put away my sins and be committed to God. I realize I can’t hear God, until I’ve accepted him as my savior, as my guide. I need to give myself to him fully. I need to be baptized.”
In the background, I heard the congregation move to a new hymnal.
There’s a great day coming,
A great day coming,
There’s a great day coming by and by,
When the saints and the sinners shall be parted right and left,
Are you ready for that day to come?
“You should be baptized only when you’re ready to be baptized,” he said.
“But I am ready,” I protested.
He was pulling out his Bible, so I instinctively pulled out mine, glad I hadn’t left it behind. “Let’s turn to Acts 2:38.” He read, “‘Repent, and let every one of you be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins; and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.’” He looked up. “The remission of sins is a fundamental part of baptism.”
“Yes!” I said. “That’s what I’m asking for.”
“You’re a child, Heather. You can’t have sinned.” The way he said the world “child” stung for some reason. I didn’t feel like a child.
“But I have sinned! I’m telling you. Look at the next verse. ‘For the promise is to you and to your children, and to all who are afar off, as many as the Lord our God will call.’” Dad hadn’t changed his facial expression. My heart was beginning to race. “Or what about Acts 22.” We turned to it, and I read, “‘And now why are you waiting? Arise and be baptized, and wash away your sins, calling on the name of the Lord.’ I am ready, Dad.”
“What sins do you have to wash away? What you have said to me, those are not sins. You are not ready to be baptized.”
I scoured my memory for other verses. “But what about…” He waited. Nothing came to me. My mind was blank. “If not now, when? When will I know? How will I know? What do I do now?”
He smiled. “When you’re older, you’ll know.”
I whispered, “What if I see the darkness? And God disappears? What if I fall, and keep falling?”
“I’m not at all worried about that, my model Christian daughter.”
And then, he was standing up. The song leader was nodding. At the conclusion of the melody, he cut off the song. Dad — the Preacher — addressed the congregation, saying there was a misunderstanding, reminding everyone to love their families as Jesus loved them, offering himself as a resource to adults and young people alike, and leading the congregation in a prayer. Something about the young, something about parents. No mention of finding one’s way in the dark.
And then it was over. The small auditorium filled with voices. People greeting each other. People laughing. People picking up their things. People slowly moving towards the exit. Away from the pulpit. I felt Dad look at me. He must have decided I needed to be alone. Everyone and no one was near me. It was like there was a cloud that everyone was avoiding. But still they carried on, as if the room were clear.
It was suffocating. The sounds. The air.
I stood up. I felt heads turn to me and quickly away. I wanted to find Mom or my Sunday School teacher or David. But then I’d have to look at them.
I spotted the side door to the field. I scurried to it, hoping no one would see my escape. The wind was cold. The grasses had been mowed and already the clippings were getting into my shoes.
I circled the building and found the car. I opened the back hatch and slid onto the rumble seat, laying down and staring at the ceiling of the car, feeling the quiet.
After a time, the voices approached again, as families walked towards their cars. Mom opened the front door.
“Are you here?”
I made myself sit up.
She got in. Isaiah and David followed. Then Dad.
He started the car, and backed up to turn the car around to head home. From my view, the church building got smaller, detail fading. I wanted it to disappear and was relieved when it did. I had never had that feeling before. The church building had always been a happy thing to see.
I felt new, but not in the way I had expected, not in the way I’d hoped. Everything looked different now. I’d have to figure out how to make sense of it alone.
