Easter Christians

It was Easter Sunday and the church was standing room only. Parents, grandparents, friends and long lost relatives were there because it was the day for baptisms. Sunlight poured through the stain glass windows and made rainbows in the choir loft. There were lillies everywhere.

The preacher and I stood in the baptismal chamber waist deep in warm water. He locked one hand around my clasped hands and put the other firmly on the back of my neck. He smiled and spoke the words, Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior? I made the proper response and he lowered me under the water. The last words I heard were In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. And like magic, I was baptized. I was twelve.

I didn't feel any different afterwards though I had half expected some miracle transformation that would save me from all the sins that were ahead of me. I'd played with the possibility that I might have different feelings once baptized, might see the world in a new way, might be given a chance to start again. Unrealistic expectations, perhaps, but I was twelve.

Truth is, I had no idea what the words meant or what I was promising. Sin seemed a long way off that Easter morning, a long way off and not much of a danger. When church let out, there was much congratulating and socializing - Easter Christians after all only see each other once or twice a year - and then we all went our own ways.

Despite the ceremony and my promise, sin sought me out. On the many mornings after that were to follow, I would think about the baptism with sadness, resignation and just a little bitterness. By then I knew that no twelve year old is old enough or wise enough to accept anyone as their personal savior and I knew I'd been had. I realized that it hadn't even been my choice, that my mother was doing what she thought would prevent people from talking about her unbaptized daughter. And maybe it did.