Sunday, June 19, 2011: Genesis 1:1-2:4a; Matthew 28:16-20
At my baptism, I giggled.
My church was celebrating a reaffirmation of baptism, and the pastor encouraged us to ask people who were present at our baptism to tell us about it. I called my mom and asked what she remembered. "I don't think you were baptized," she said. "Really?" I responded. "Could you check with Dad? It's kind of important." She did, and they decided that I hadn't been baptized. I was 37.
I decided that I wanted to be baptized on the evening before Easter. My church had never celebrated the Easter vigil, but I had read that this was an old tradition. My preparations began. I spent Lent studying baptism traditions and brought a proposed liturgy to my pastor. I asked that I be baptized by having a pitcher of water poured over my head. I could have suggested full immersion, but this was a Presbyterian church after all. Besides, even pouring a pitcher of water was going to prove logistically challenging.
My pastor honored my request. He carried his children's one-foot-deep kiddie pool into the sanctuary. I had purchased a velvety blanket in the same shade of burgundy as the carpet, and I brought it to church and draped it over the pool. When it was time for the baptism, I came to the pool and knelt down. I was baptized in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, with a liturgy that wrapped around the words and expanded our representation of God. Jesus called God "Father." God the Creator called Jesus "Son." The Holy Spirit is God who nourishes and sustains us.
