Meditations from Zion

I understand there are tons of people who argue endlessly about the need for water baptism, the type of baptism, and the reasons for baptism. All I know, there is significant symbolism in the coming out of the water with intended resurrection. It’s a powerful image. I remember my baptism clearly.

I Corinthians 15:29
Now if there is no resurrection, what will those do who are baptized for the dead? If the dead are not raised at all, why are people baptized for them?

I was still in my first year of faith in New York City. I continued to resist all trappings of Christianity. I feared, above all, that I would lose all of my former friends and somehow become a “geek.” I definitely didn’t want to attend a church. Finally, my friend convinced me to at least “try” his church on 62nd Street that had a 3:30 pm service. That sounded humane.

But nothing could have prepared me for one of the most bizarre experiences ever (in that point of my faith walk). I had never seen Pentecostals in action, from the beehive hairdo’s (late 70’s) to the full orchestra playing hand-clapping hymns to the manifestation of the “gifts” like tongues and the plentiful “Praise the Lord’s.” You would think I would have turned around and left immediately. But it was just so different from anything I had ever known. I became intrigued and mesmerized. And then the pastor, who seemed about 100 years old then, but of course, he couldn’t of have been since he was there some twenty years later. He had an amazing gift for bringing the scripture to life and, in the end, I stayed to learn from him.

In addition to the afternoon service, I discovered the church actually had three separate services on Sunday and a service every night of the week. That’s right, EVERY night except Monday. There were no duplicate services either and generally, the assumption was that everyone would attend. This was their life. The weekday services were usually led by evangelists or missionaries from around the world. And somehow, after a few months, and the determination of my friend, I agreed to be baptized by one of the upcoming evangelists one weekday evening when they were holding baptisms.

It turned out that the man was from the south and I almost died when I saw him–like walking out from the pages of Elmer Gantry, he had long yellow white hair that fell in his face, a booming voice, and a southern drawl that begged to be mocked. If I hadn’t invited four or five friends to “witness” my immersion, I would have backed out immediately. He was my worst nightmare.

I survived. I had to wear a little white gown thing over my underwear (we were instructed to bring dry replacements) and we (there were six or seven of us) stepped into the baptismal font one by one with the music and singing blaring. All I really remember is his eyes. He looked at me intently and quietly said, just to me, “Are you ready?” And like a flash, everything I thought I knew or expected, fell away. He wasn’t Elmer Gantry, he wasn’t funny or weird or anything else. He was a message. All I could answer was simply, “I am.” And a minute later, I was wet and out of the water and smiling. Turning point.

I never saw that evangelist again. And that night, I will never forget.

The simple question is still there. Am I ready? All of it happens in just a second, the change, from one state to another, from dry to wet, from death to spirit, from darkness to light, from ambivalence to certainty, from death to life.

To resurrect, something has to die. When the phoenix resurrects, it’s always the same afterward. But in true resurrection, out of the death, comes something new.