There's Something in the Water

a chilly story of a second baptism

Last week’s Wednesdays at the Well was about baptizing my book, which was as much about the book as it was my evolving understanding of baptism. Today I continue writing from the fountain and share about an experience I’ve kept silent about until now. If you missed last week or want a refresher, you can dive in here.

*This reflection speaks to religious harm and its lasting impact. Please care for yourself in reading.

Bubbling Up.

I have no personal memories of my first baptism. Just a few photographs stirring emotion. There are no photographs of my second. Only a heart filled with memories I’d rather forget.

It was a really cold January night. Baptisms were part of Sunday evening services. I arrived early for a mandatory class. Once again, a pastor explained the church’s beliefs on baptism. We were encouraged to prepare our testimony that would be shared from the tank.

The tank was a large tub up above the platform, like a balcony, but at the front rather than the back of the sanctuary. Accessible by a small staircase hidden behind the stage. The climb was tense. It was hard to walk wearing a heavy sweat suit covered by a white robe. Women were repeatedly warned not to wear anything under the robe that might reveal “too much” of your body after getting wet.

This wasn’t the first time this church made suggestions about my clothing. There was a pastor who commented repeatedly about my wardrobe. He didn’t think it was feminine enough. Everything about me, in the eyes of this church, was either too much or not enough. And that’s part of why I said yes to water baptism.

In the United Methodist Church, home to the majority of my faith experiences, the term “water baptism” would be redundant. Of course, baptism includes water. But for this Pentecostal church, the constantly made distinction was important. They recognize two baptisms, one with water and one with the Holy Spirit, which they believe is evident when a person begins speaking in tongues.

I knew of this church long before I ever set foot inside. A coworker attended. Boldly and steadfastly extending invitations. I resisted for a long time. I told her I had a church. In her mind, it wasn’t a true church because it didn’t preach salvation. Didn’t speak against sin. Didn’t follow the Bible. And, it baptized babies.

Graduating high school is a threshold moment. For many, an exciting time of moving away, starting college, finding freedom, and figuring out who we are. For me, it was the beginning of a downward spiral. The depression that I had wrestled with for years took on new strength. I had no plans. A few hopes and dreams, but no idea how to turn them into reality and little support in figuring things out.

My first Sunday at the Pentecostal church was in late summer. A hot humid morning that was the complete opposite of the cold winter night of my second baptism. The air conditioning, like the music, was blasting. There was such energy and excitement. There was a guest singer. I can still see him and remember one of his songs. It was about heaven, who gets in and who gets left out. Hands waving. Bodies shaking. People falling to the floor. Loud prayers in an unknown language coming from all around. Sighing. Groaning. Crying. Dancing. It was so overwhelming.

When the sermon finally got started it was unlike any I’d ever heard. The delivery spellbinding. The message terrifying. It ended with an altar call. An invitation to come forward and give your heart to Jesus. Several people came over, asking if I was ready to make the best decision of my life. Each time I said no, the pressure mounted. What was I afraid of, they wondered.

My second visit wasn’t the next week. It took some more coaxing. My return was in part due to persistence and also a deepening sense of despair. It was depression that led me there and it was there that my depression worsened. And there that fear and shame became powerful motivators.

I was afraid of the future. I was ashamed of the past. I was ashamed of how I felt. I was ashamed of myself. I was afraid of God. I was afraid of hell. The more I went to the church, the more afraid and ashamed I became. Every Sunday a reminder of how evil I was without accepting Jesus into my heart. And even after I did, there were constant reminders of the need to become more like him. The Jesus they offered saves you just as you are and simultaneously hates everything about you.

Forgiving myself for subjecting myself to that place is an ongoing process. Even though I understand now why I agreed to water baptism then, it’s easy to get lost in a pool of what-ifs and how-comes.

A small and mighty group of people from the church took me under their wings. It was as suffocating a place as the closet. Nothing was enough. No amount of praying or attending or agreeing to meet with church leaders was enough. When they found out I’d started taking medication for my depression, the response was extreme. What I saw as an act of faith—a sign that I did want to be well—they saw as sin. I didn’t need a prescription or a therapist, I just needed to submit to them.

After an intense encounter with one of the pastors, that involved screaming and threats, I said yes to being water baptized. I was afraid not to. He said it was a way to prove I’d really been saved.

Fifteen years after my first baptism, I was baptized a second time. Fully dunked, not just sprinkled, in a cold tank because someone forgot to turn the heater on. They blamed the temperature on the devil. A trick of Satan to keep us from following through. Let’s foil the enemy’s plan was our rallying cry.

This baptism was not about grace or even God. It was the result of a head on collision between my deepening depression and fundamentalist Christianity. It was a decision made from fear and shame. It was the opening act of a complete mental breakdown. The testimony I gave from the chilly waters, with a glowing cross hanging on the wall behind me, was a declaration of how rotten and wicked I was. How despite my evil nature God saw fit to save me and nothing I could do would ever repay my debt. How I would commit my life to share the condemning gospel of salvation through Christ alone.

Months later I attempted suicide and began a nearly ten-year cycle of treatments and hospitalizations. The road got much worse before it got better. This Pentecostal church presented itself as safe haven. It was actually the place I needed safety from. My journey of healing brought me back to the United Methodist Church. My calling was birthed in a hospital and found life back in the denomination of my childhood and youth.

I always knew that a United Methodist theology of baptism is grounded in God’s grace. What I didn’t know, until I started seminary and working toward ordination, is that United Methodism has very strong beliefs against re-baptism. They believe that baptism is God’s work and God gets it right the first time. Re-baptism suggests that God got it wrong. Performing a re-baptism is considered “unauthorized conduct” and therefore a “chargeable offense” for United Methodist clergy. Offering to help someone remember their first baptism is the permissible alternative.

I remember being at a candidacy retreat where everyone was asked to share about their baptism in the context of their calling. My heart wanted to tell both of my baptism stories and how they each uniquely shaped me. How would these stories be received? Would sharing them reveal too much? Or not enough? One church told me my first baptism was invalid. Another that my second was an insult to God. I kept silent.

My calling was formed during times of unimaginable pain and existing on the margins. I almost lost that calling trying to have it approved by a church that really doesn’t want to know about those experiences except for when it is to their own benefit. That loves the story of how they baptized me, but not the one where they cast me off.

It’s tempting to think that spiritual harm and religious trauma look more Pentecostal than Methodist or Mainline. No branch of Christianity is free from the lure of power and control or the impacts of enforcing shared beliefs and demanded obedience. Every religion is susceptible to manipulation through inducing fear and shame.

When I sat on the beach watching the waves wash over my book, I was filled with emotion. I cried like I haven’t in a long time. Tears of joy and sorrow. Tears of remembrance. Tears of release. Tears of liberation. Tears of reclaiming who I am. Tears of re-imagining my faith. Tears of rebuilding my beliefs on baptism.

In this season all water is holy and sacred. Every encounter with water—whatever the source—is an act of baptism. I remember and I re-do it again and again. And again.

Writing turns fear into courage. Shame into self-compassion. Writing heals and I share my writing in hopes that others seeking healing will know it is possible.

That we might tell the stories we’ve kept silent about too long.

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels