I was probably four to five years behind my peers when I got baptized. My family was not a church-going clan. My mother had grown up in the United Methodist Church in the mountains of North Carolina. My father was a Southern Baptist in the back country of Alabama. Bu the time I came along they were non-church goers. At the same time, they were not opposed to their children going to church. Always having a religious curiosity, I finally scratched that itch when I was a sophomore in high school in Nebraska. Some kid invited me to go to church with him and I went.
I would be dishonest if I said it was because I was a pious sort of kid—but I was not. The friend was popular, and he told me there were a lot of cute girls at church. Cute girls were enough to lure me through the doors of a church. Evangelism is evangelism even if it is connected to hormones.
This was the first church I attended and got involved with through the youth group . . . and yes, there were a lot of cute girls. With perfect 20/20 hindsight I know now that this church was an independent, evangelical church. It was the sort of church that would keep singing the closing hymn—the altar call—repeatedly until someone dedicated or re-dedicated their lives to Jesus. One Sunday as we were in the third lap around the closing hymn of Jesus, Calls Me, this friend—Paul, leaned over to me and said, “I can’t take another verse!” Next thing I knew he was up the aisle rededicating his life to Jesus. We got out in time for lunch.
I probably idolized and envied Paul. He was the All-American, blue-eyed, pious, intelligent, athletic, gifted, and popular kid. Everyone liked him. Adults wished their kids were like him. Parents trusted him with their daughters. He carried a humongous bible and guitar wherever he went. I clung to his every word. I want to be like Paul.
Paul had been baptized. Planned on being a minister. When he described his baptism . . . well, it was biblical. He told me how he came up from the waters of baptism and that heaven broke out . . . angels were singing . . . and a dove descended. The only thing missing was the heavenly decree: “This is my son with whom I am well pleased.”
Sounded good to me!
One Sunday, during the first verse of the altar call, I trucked right up to the pastor and confessed y love of Jesus and proclaimed that I was ready to be baptized.
Thus, it came to be. Me and a couple of others were to be baptized on Saint Patrick’s Day at a neighboring church since our church did not have a baptistry. The day came and I was given a white gown to wear. With great anticipation I awaited my turn to be dunked for Jesus. Great expectations floated through my mind. I wanted to see the heavens open. I wanted to hear the heavenly chorus sing. The dove to descend. I want it because Paul had it. I wanted to be like Paul.
Then it happened. The pastor reached out and helped me into the baptistry. The water was cold. No one had told me to wear anything other than my underwear under the white gown. It was cold and the deeper I got into the water the colder it got. But that wasn’t the worse problem. No, the gown kept floating up to the top of the water exposing my underwear to the faithful who were gathered. Up went the gown and down I would push it—over and over. I was too embarrassed to be cold.
Next thing I knew the pastor had his arm around my waist and was covering my mouth with a handkerchief. He asked, “Do you take Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” To which I replied through a muffled voice, “Mmmmmm.” The next thing I knew I was underwater. The pastor caught me off-guard. He held me tight as my legs splayed about rising with my gown.
The pastor held me under the water for what seemed to be an eternity. He held me under long enough to proclaim, “I baptize you, John Martin Keener, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The old has died and the new has been born in the Living Water! Amen!” I was thankful that my name was short. Any longer and I might have made the pastor a liar.
Up from the water the pastor raised me. I was baptized. I was saved. I waited. There was no heavenly clouds—nope, just the late afternoon sun shining through the stain glassed windows of the church. There was no heavenly chorus—no angels singing. Nope the only sound was the water running off of me and back into the baptistry and the sound of my younger brother crying. He was certain that the pastor had killed me—drowned me after he heard about death. And there was no heavenly dove—not even a stinking pigeon. That was it.
I was devastated. Baptism was a flop. It was nothing like I expected. All I was was soaking wet . . . cold . . . and dripping under a white gown that exposed my Fruit of the Looms to the whole congregation. To everyone else, I was baptized. I was saved.
Nothing much changed. I still went to church. I still participated in youth group. Hey, the cute girls were still there even though the heavenly choirs and doves weren’t. God motivates us to be faithful in many different ways.
Through the years I have thought of my baptism in the light of many I have performed as a minister. I see baptism differently and understand it differently. My commitment to God came many years before I was officially dunked for Jesus. At some point in my younger years, long before an interest in cute girls, I had a sense of the Holy in my life—a sense of presence that was life. It was not in a sanctuary (though I have felt it there) or in the ritual of worship or even in baptism. It was all around me like the air that we breathe. It was in creation—the sunrise and sunset, the twinkly night sky, in the critters and flowers. It was in those I encountered—family, friends, relatives, and strangers—especially strangers. It wasn’t in a moment, but a lifetime of living. It is something that has always been there just waiting to be acknowledged.
Baptism is a reminder—not to those who are baptized, but to those who are witnessing it. Baptism reminds those watching to remember . . . to remember their own spiritual journeys, spiritual adventures, and that they are never alone. There are those who came before, those who are present, and those who are yet to come. There is the Holy who is always there. Through baptism we are reminded that we are in this together. Together we will make it.
Baptism comes in all shapes, forms, and sizes. Mine just happened to be in the Anabaptist tradition—though on the evangelical side. Whatever the case, I jumped through the hoop. Yeah, I am still disappointed all these years later. I really wanted to hear the heavenly choirs, see the heaven ripped open, and a dove to descend. All I got was wet. God understood. I’m still here . . . still in awe. Baptism is constant. I get the point.
No comments:
Post a Comment