Baptism
I love that I can remember my baptism. In some faith traditions, it is crucial that children be baptized as infants. In others, it is only when one becomes an adult that they can be baptized. In our tradition as Presbyterians, it does not matter if you are 1 day old or 100 years old--it is the holiness of the moment that matters as well as all of those both before and after it. You see, for us, baptism is a sign and a seal of something that happened before you were ever born, before you were in the womb even; God loved you and called you by name. You are saved by God's grace before you can even claim it for yourself because God is always, always reaching for you.
My parents decided that they would let me choose if and when I would be baptized. I think this taught me that my relationship with Christ is personal and something that I need to believe in because of my own heart, not because of someone else's choice. But, being part of a loving congregation taught me that my relationship with Christ is also communal, because you need the community to guide and teach you in the faith. You need the community to be present as you ask hard questions and interpret the Scriptures. And so it was that as my relationship with the church I was intending was forged--so was my relationship with Christ.
After my grandfather died and I attended Montreat for the first time-I knew that I wanted to be baptized for certain. Rev. Bill Buchanan baptized me on August 15, 1999. It was his first baptism which creates a special bond for us I think. My dear friend and elder, Jo Carson stood beside me, smiling her gorgeous smile of encouragement. Bedford Presbyterian has large, clear windows that while shaded by shutters, let in shafts of summer sunlight. I remember the bright morning sun beaming on the mint green carpet at my feet. My family and friends sat in pews in front of me. And I truly felt that I had people who loved both before and behind me. The choir sat robed in maroon in the choir loft behind me (don't touch the brass railing please) and youth sat above me in the balcony (don't let the golf pencils roll off the edge please). I remember the water being cool on my head, warmed by Bill's hand as he pressed down on me in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I remember the calm in Bill's voice and the smile in his eyes.
We had a party that day at home, after worship. Why wouldn't we? Neighbors, church families, close friends, and teenagers piled plates high and scattered around the house in fellowship. Gertie, our basset hound wove her way in and out of legs, hoping to catch some fallen scraps. As she exited through the doggie door, so did Bill and Aimee's daughter, Elli-in close pursuit.
I was given a Teen Study Bible in a sturdy zipper case. Since that time treasured scraps of tangible faith have been folded between the pages and stuffed in side pockets. There is a letter there from my friend John, who wrote to me when my grandfather died. There is a little packet of confetti from when we attended a Millennium youth conference in Indianapolis. There are pictures from that trip as well as ones from Montreat and Massanetta. The pages are highlighted with Scriptures that mean the most to me and bookmarked with quotes or lyrics that spoke to my teenage heart. There's a swatch of terrycloth to remind me of my baptism. The first of my Montreat wristbands. So many other baubles and notes that I can scarcely zip the thing much less carry it anywhere. But, if I am looking to the Bible for solace and not for study...this is still the Bible to which I turn.
I guess we never forget our roots and these are mine.
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