A blog intensifying the flavor of life and toasting those who share in the feast, rather than settling for a dry, plain, melba toast existence.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

as I went down in the river to pray

In order to process the thoughts that run themselves ragged around in my head, I either wake up startled or have a dream that brings a certain measure of clarity to these rampant ideas gone wild. Last night I dreamed.

In the dream I was at a baptism. It was not a baptism of an infant in which the baby, wearing a white dress whether the child is a boy or a girl, receives water on his or her head, sprinkled by a pastor or priest. The parents are asked if they are willing to take on the spiritual responsibilities for their offspring until the child is of an accountable age. Those present, sitting in the chairs or pews, are then asked to offer their services in the raising of the child. It takes a village to raise a child. It takes a church to raise a child in faith.

According to my baby book, I was given the sacrament of baptism while in the arms of my 20-something parents at our home church on September 10, 1961, 19 days after I was born. My mother's parents were named godparents for this momentous occasion. I believe the idea at the time was that baptism was the protective measure necessary for qualification into the heavenly realms, just in case.

The occasion celebrated in the dream was, however, an adult baptism. Not the kind Baptist churches are known for with the baptismal font behind the altar and white robes reserved for those whose salvation experiences have led them to this decision. Nor was it the more contemporary version of this sort of baptism that is also held inside a church with a less formal baptismal. This was more of a horse trough baptism out in someone's backyard.

In some ways it reminded me of the thought process I went through before the baptism I experienced at the age of 21 after I decided to give my heart to Jesus and wanted to make my own decisions instead of relying on those made for me by my parents. Though I had a dramatic spiritual encounter while in college, I hesitated to run down to the Red Cedar River which meanders its way through the campus of Michigan State University to have a man of the cloth perform the rite of baptism there. It was an unconfirmed rumor that if one accidentally fell from a canoe or intentionally jumped into the Red Cedar River, a tetanus shot was strongly recommended. I found it amazing that baptisms were done there in light of this possibility. Perhaps my faith had not yet reached the level that could allow for such a risk.

By the time I had found myself in Colorado, I knew it was time to be baptized. The large, nondenominational church where I went held baptisms at a recreation center swimming pool. I had hoped for a natural body of water, like Lake Michigan in late August, but since none had been forthcoming, I decided to go ahead with the pool idea.

It is a tricky thing dressing appropriately for such an event as one's baptism. I've heard more than one embarrassing tale regarding the see-through nature of those white robes. But my church was so casual, swimsuits were actually encouraged. And I knew my swimsuit would be deemed acceptable since I had never worn anything but a one-piece, a modest one at that. I always needed as much sun protection as I could possibly get, especially since back then sunscreen had only reached a level 8.

What I remember more than anything was that even though I knew having a pastor dunk me in water had no significant properties in and of itself to effect any kind of spiritual manifestation, something unexplainable happened to me as I was coming up for air. My friend who came with me said I stood in the pool praying for a long time in comparison to the others who were quick to get out and wrap up in their towels. It was as if I went to another place--a place where my soul found peace.

Back to the gathering of people near that horse trough in the dream, I came to realize I had been invited to see others get baptized since I had no need to do this again. One by one those who had prepared to make this decision would come forward, say a few words about why it was important for them to make baptism a public sign of their faith and then go through with it. Though I did not recognize anyone there, I apparently had been invited by someone and felt that we shared a bond of faith.

As the pastor finished baptizing those who were planning on this event, he asked if anyone felt so moved to experience it also, followed by the predictable hushed silence. Just as he was about to pray to dismiss, a friend went forward to be baptized. When one has walked in the faith a long time and has considered a second baptism as somewhat disrespectful to those who came before, I was surprised to see my friend go forward. Not concerned with what was being worn or what would be worn afterward, my friend stepped into the trough. The joy on the face of someone being baptized is a sight to behold. For a moment afterward I could sense the vulnerability of my friend being uncomfortable in front of others, realizing what had just occurred. Without a thought for what I was wearing or what I would wear later, I too stepped forward and requested baptism.

As I reflected on this dream today, I hoped if a situation required it that I could do something selfless to bring comfort to another. I thought about how we say we want to walk with someone through darkness or pain but often are reluctant to get too close. We make time in our schedules as long as our needs are met first. We listen intently as long as we are not terribly inconvenienced. But in this dream, none of that mattered. The pastor conducting the baptism was going to stay for as long as it took. Those in attendance were going to keep on singing another verse to a song. What anyone looked like was not important. What mattered most was the condition of our hearts.




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