That Crazy Baptism

All right, Timotheus, here it is: the story of my crazy baptism.

While I was attending that Charismatic church, I became convinced (and rightly so) that I needed to become baptized. Yes, I had gone through a christening as an infant (I refuse to call that a baptism, but we can get into credo- vs. paedo-baptism some other day...) but I had absorbed enough basic doctrine to understand that I needed to do this as an adult. So I hopped onto the schedule one January evening and drove down to Ebenezer Apostolic Church with the others. We didn't have our own facility, but someone found out that they had an indoor baptismal pool, and they agreed to let us use it. So thus I was baptized in an African-American church on the questionable side of town.

I seriously don't remember how many other people were baptized the same evening, or even a great deal about it. This was even farther back in the mists of time than the Spudwoman sweatshirt, so things are a little hazy. But two things I remember very clearly.

The first thing is--it was cold. Not just cold, but C-O-L-D COLD. It was January, and I was in a bathing suit, going into water in an ostensibly-but-not-very heated church. You never saw anybody come up out of the water as fast as I did. Hint: If you have any choice in the matter, do not voluntarily get baptized by immersion in January. It's cold. Trust me.

The other thing is--what happened immediately afterwards. You see, I expected that I would be allowed to go get dressed and get warmed up, but that didn't occur right away. The others gathered around and laid their hands on me and prayed over me. Well, that was kind of pleasant, and nice of them, and generally I wouldn't have had a problem with it, but I was COLD! I wanted nothing in the world so much as to get warmer. But one must be polite, so I stayed there while they prayed. And prayed. And prayed. And prayed some more. And gradually, and to my horror, it dawned on me that they were waiting for something. They were waiting for me to speak in tongues, to prove that the baptism "took" and I was indeed a child of God. This I had not anticipated.

So after a suitable period of waiting, and with the realization that no strange languages were coming to the surface, nor were they going to, I did a dreadful thing. I faked it. And they all cheered, and let me go.

I can't even express what this experience did to me spiritually. For months I was sure that I was utterly under condemnation, and that God was disgusted with me. Surely that was the equivalent of blaspheming against the Holy Spirit, and there was no hope of heaven in my future. This faded after a while, as no lightening bolts came down to claim me and God did not seem to have rejected me the way I felt I deserved. What should have been a joyous occasion in my life turned into emotional disaster.

In the years since, I have discovered that I'm not the only one to have done this. A friend (and my dentist!) who went to a Christian college did the exact same thing, and for similar reasons, and there have been others. And this brings me to my point--the dangers of sloppy theology. Make sure you're looking at the whole of the Bible, not just isolated verses. When Paul says "All do not speak in tongues, do they?", he means it! The obvious answer is "no"! God does indeed dispense spiritual gifts to all Christians, but as He sees fit, not as *we* have decided He should, and not everyone gets the same ones. This is fairly plain from scripture, but only if you read the whole thing. Every verse must be studied in its context. No exceptions.

I'm still glad that I underwent baptism as an adult, and I joyously participate in the baptisms of others. I yearn for the day that my own daughter undergoes this wonderful ritual, and I'll be there, God willing. Wild horses could not keep me away. But there won't be anybody there insisting that she perform by exercising a gift that God has not given her--I'll make sure of that. What else are mothers for?

Love, Spud.