Dunking and Being Dunked

"Going under symbolizes the end of everything about your life that is less-than-human. Coming up again symbolizes the beginning in you of something strange and new and hopeful. You can breathe again."
- Frederick Buechner on "Baptism"

There we were, a bunch of white-gowned seminary students, sandled or bare-footed, loitering at the main steps of the Student Life Center pool. Our professor, Dr. Price, also clad in the traditional baptizing gown, was preparing to take us carefully through the process of performing what is certainly the strangest sacrament of the Church, though not at all meaningless. In the SLC, the pool is an odd conglomeration of tile and cement. It is no discernable shape, but instead made up of different areas, including a few slightly-less-than-olympic-sized lap lanes, an open area next to a water basketball goal, a higher-set hot tub, a lazy river, and a large, spiraling water slide. As I entered the pool area, I joked that the use of a water slide in baptism might just be what the "church of tomorrow" needs. I could see it all right then: Extreme Baptism: Take the Plunge ... into Jesus! Youth ministers would suddenly have no problem getting kids to join the church. At age fourteen I was baptized, and I definitely would have been open to water-sliding into the sacrament. After all, there is not much else you can do to make Baptism more silly than it already is, at least as it appears on the surface.

It was the oddest of feelings, standing there in the three-foot high water, taking turns dunking my fellow students. We could not help but laugh as we were again and again welcomed into the Church. For the two or three lap swimmers across the pool area, there couldn't have been anything more absurd to behold as they surfaced from the water and removed their goggles. Yet, even as we laughed and made light of this practice, it was inspiring. Most of the students from this class will one day find themselves standing in a baptistry - or a creek or river - reaching out their hand, welcoming a brother or sister into the water. They will watch them tense at the first sensation at the temperature, shrug their shoulders as they descend into the pool as if they need to keep the water from soaking their torso too quickly, nervously fold their arms and hold their nose, and then these fellow students will guide the people under the water. They will raise them up, dripping and wiping their faces, and there is something wonderful in this act for both the baptized and the baptizer - a cleansing of both minister and congregant.

What is the appearance of this act, but the strange, ritualistic dunking of a person underwater? Sometimes they struggle to regain footing, sometimes the water splashes over the side onto the choir, sometimes there is sputtering and coughing - it is the most comic scene the Church regularly enacts. If you, in witnessing a baptism, are not at least quietly chuckling, just a little bit, you're missing something of the wonderful absurdity of the sacraments.

What is the meaning of this act? As Frederick Buechner wrote, that which is less-than-human within us is symbolically being put to death - buried; drowned if you will. When a person rises from the waters, they are, as the pastor in the home church of my childhood used to say, "raised to walk in newness of life." I have taught others the cute phrase that baptism is "an outward expression of an inward decision" and that is true, but there is much more to this. There is something very human and very holy in the practice of it. If it is only a declaration to a church body of the repentance you have professed, it is no more meaningful than if you set up a flannel board in front of the altar and walked the congregation through the steps you took to become a Christian. "First I knelt beside my bed, as you can see here ... then I folded my hands ... then I bowed my head and said, O God ..."
The sacrament of Baptism is a metaphor, and the most meaningful teachings and practices of the Church are done in metaphor. The understanding of God as father, of Christ as king, of the solemnity of the bread as flesh and the wine as blood, of the front of the stage as the "altar" at which to kneel and pray ... It is all wrapped up in metaphor. It is something that holds meaning beyond what our five senses report to us. The life of a Christian is a mess of failings and praisings, of penitence and patience. It is the story of a creature sick with humanity finding rehabilitation in that which is holy. It is as absurd a condition as what we gaze upon when a person is dunked under the water of a baptistry. That does not render it any less true - any less necessary. Baptism is the moment out of our lives when we can, in our limited human minds, recognize in a single, wonderful act this extended experience of redemption.

That old life left behind, you come up sputtering, sniffing, maybe even choking a little bit, but the air is fresh and you can fill your lungs anew and wipe your eyes and see clearly, and there are smiling faces and applause and those gathered before you begin singing a song that, even as your ears unclog, still sounds like touchable grace. There is that inkling that you have never been more home than you are at that moment. You take the loving hand offered you and step out of the water to walk in newness of life.

A Good Death

There is most certainly the stuff of wonder intricately woven within the stuff of astonishing tragedy. Never has this truth been more clear to me than in this past week.

On Sunday, October 30, 2005, Kyle Lake died a good death. Kyle, who is pastor of University Baptist Church in Waco and a burgeoning author, was considered by hundreds to be an inspiring preacher, a loving husband and father, an energetic athlete and friend, a mentor, counselor, and wonderful example of someone who knew how to live life well.

I would have become Kyle's friend next year. We had spent an hour or so one afternoon talking about the possibility of me going into a mentorship under him - this is part of the degree plan I follow at Truett. I am interested in college ministry as it relates to the local church, and felt Kyle would be a great choice for a guide in such things. Over coffee one afternoon in late June, we shared with one another our views on ministry and the calling of a Christian - I found him to be insightful and intelligent and very, very fun. I looked forward to getting to know him better.

As I sat in the funeral service last Tuesday and listened to friends and family recount humorous and poignant stories of his life, I lamented that I did not have the chance to get to know Kyle better. Some might offer that this is a good thing, because I don't have to go through as severe a devastation at the loss. My response to that would be, Never exchange a relationship for an escape from experiencing pain - that is a tragic trade.

Kyle died a good death. He was electrocuted while preparing to perform the sacrament of baptism. It was terrible and heartrending, and it came at the most devastating time (he was only 33!), but it was a good death. There is no better way for him to have left his church than in the act of bringing someone into the Church. Seeing it one way, his life indeed came full circle. He is a testimony to us all, an example of a true minister of God.

Perhaps the most astonishing thing was not Kyle's sudden death, but what was shared at his funeral - the conclusion to what would be the last sermon Kyle would ever write. It is a closing statement like no other. In the word of my friend, Janalee, it is truly "divine." I humbly use this blog now as an opportunity to share Kyle's last words with all of you.

Live. And Live Well.
BREATHE. Breathe in and Breathe deeply. Be PRESENT. Do not be past. Do not be future. Be now.
On a crystal clear, breezy 70 degree day, roll down the windows and FEEL the wind against your skin. Feel the warmth of the sun.
If you run, then allow those first few breaths on a cool Autumn day to FREEZE your lungs and do not just be alarmed, be ALIVE.
Get knee-deep in a novel and LOSE track of time.
If you bike, pedal HARD ... and if you crash then crash well.
Feel the SATISFACTION of a job well done ... a paper well-written, a project thoroughly completed, a play well-performed.
If you must wipe the snot from your 3-year old’s nose, don’t be disgusted if the Kleenex didn’t catch it all ... because soon he’ll be wiping his own.
If you'’ve recently experienced loss, then GRIEVE. And Grieve well.
At the table with friends and family, LAUGH. If you're eating and laughing at the same time, then might as well laugh until you puke. And if you eat, then SMELL. The aromas are not impediments to your day. Steak on the grill, coffee beans freshly ground, cookies in the oven. And TASTE. Taste every ounce of flavor. Taste every ounce of friendship. Taste every ounce of Life. Because-it-is-most-definitely-a-Gift.

I will miss you, Kyle. Someday soon I will indeed become your friend.

The Calling

This past Sunday, the call to worship in the church that I attended was a responsive reading.

God of all creation, forgive us for our lack of wonder.

We take so much for granted.

God of mercy, forgive us our plotting and punishing.

We are adept at manipulation.

God who knows each of us intimately, forgive us for showing you our masks.

We have been dishonest before you.

God of everlasting love, hear our longing for your grace.

We lift up our hearts to you.

In looking at these words again, I have begun to realize that they paint a very truthful portrait of my weeks, both in the past and as of late. The three mistakes within this text are very much my own, and the final prayer, in the theme of the Sursum Chorda, is the desperate prayer I often find dwelling upon my lips at the close of day.

I take so much for granted ...

Throughout my days I forget the real purpose for being where I am, and this does not mean simply seminary. The call of God comes in many more places than this in my life, but in all, I seem to forget it, or let it fall by the wayside as if I were shedding a sweater for which the weather does not ask. Because of this, when struggles surface, I ransack God's grace for benefits rather than healing, for exhortation rather than comfort. And with each misguided thought and deed that is captive to my own worries instead of God, I become so much more robotic and less free, and my God-given sense of wonder deteriorates like an old abandoned house.

I am adept at manipulation ...

One of my most infuriating pet peeves about myself is when I find I am living by formulas, or making extensive plans to things which support no such structured treatment. I despise such living, because a life of faith, as I understand it and Frederick Buechner describes it, "is a journey without maps." You can no better figure out your exact destination as you can backtrack and change the past. It is constant motion - you cannot slow down, and you cannot skip ahead. Such a truth is a curse and a blessing. But for some strange reason, I default to an attitude of manipulation regarding my life. My mind spins, gently but uncontrollably most times, with how to perfectly set up my future. I assure myself I am simply being careful about things, but this carefulness ultimately begins to eradicate the simple beauty of life; before I know it I find I have laid a gaudy concrete path straight through a landscape that was never intended to be crossed so directly and with so much certainty. If only I would trust ... let go ... forget the need for a clear path ...

I have been dishonest before Him ...

If the sin of omission is to neglect to perform those things that a follower of Christ does to glorify God, then every absence of a God-glorifying act is, in essence, dishonesty. It is a sobering reality, but to be swept up in despair over it is to commit yet another sin of omission, that of forgetting the all-sufficient love and forgiveness of God. It may not be a straight road we walk, but it is a fine line.

I lift up my heart to You ...

What more can I do, even when weighed down by the guilt of these failures? I suppose confession is the best course of action. In guilt there is a sinking feeling, as our hearts seem to hang with the weight of a hundred different shortcomings. In confession, there is a lifting up, an expanding, like a sagging sail that suddenly is filled with a guiding gust. And on the wind can be heard, to those who really listen, these words:

Lift up your hearts ... We lift them to the Lord ... It is right to give Him thanks and praise.

We do not know our destination. But on this journey, fueled by a longing for grace, every so often we can hear, not too far off beyond the horizon, a Savior calling us to worship, and we begin to understand that in every step there is something sacramental.