I like to watch the baptisms, but I have sensitive blue eyes and it’s blinding. Everyone is dressed in white, and the sun refracts off not only the sand and sea, but the clothing as well. So I imagine instead. I imagine the push-pull of the tide as you enter the water with the pastor, what it's like to be submerged and then lifted quickly up again, how everything goes dark for a few seconds and all you can hear is the rush of water and muffled voices, and then you are in the world of sunlight and singing again, eyes stinging doubly now from the salt, a little breathless from the anticipation.
That resurrection feeling.
*******
I was seven when I was baptised, in neither saltwater nor what one would dare to call fresh water.
In other words, a pond.
If I remember correctly, the day was a little cold and a little gray, and we ate pork barbeque sandwiches and macaroni and cheese afterward. God bless Fran Martin.
Because I was a member of the Mennonite church at the time, and have a certificate of baptism to seal the deal, I still kind of think of myself as a Mennonite, even though I spent the majority of my years in non-denominational settings. Even though, now, I attend a Pentecostal church.
Like most of my generation, I have been extremely disappointed by the evangelical church in general. There was a period of time when I was going to stop attending, or maybe convert to catholicism. But I’m glad I didn’t leave in the midst (mist) of my disappointment. Relationships were and are the trump card.
Honestly, I am still disappointed. In all of my searching in different church settings, I have found that, despite variation in style, doctrine, and culture, there does not appear to be a statistically significant difference among churches in the types of people that are produced. Observationally speaking, the methods, the denominations, the spiritual experiences or lack of them, are not changing outside-of-church behavior patterns and psychologies at different rates.
At the end of the day, no matter affiliation, Christians are still temperamental, still anxious, still depressed, still disrespectful, still abusers, still alcoholics, still sluts, etc.
I spent a few years of my life looking for a “type” of church/denomination that would in fact create not just “better” people, but people whose lives are full of more levity, more joy. I was looking for a unicorn. As I concluded above, type does not seem to matter, “better type” does not seem to exist. Hence, my disappointment.
That being said, I did find people hidden in churches. People who are still struggling, but whose lives are lighter, quietly inspirational. The church doesn't make them, they make the church.
The Spirit of God sets himself on people, not denominations. He works through our personalities, experiences, and cultures to change us. Some people respond; some don’t. Some people respond for 1 year, or 20 years, and then stop responding. Some people persevere.
And outcomes depend less on methods, less on how much C.S. Lewis you’ve read, and more on the heart’s inclinations. But then of course the question is where do those inclinations come from, “God or the individual?” and thus the absolute utter importance of doctrine in the midst of its frustrations and divisions—but I have a kitchen to clean so we have to move on.
In moving on, the take home for me is to continue pursuing peace and adaptability in the context of my church experience, so that no matter where I am attending I can be ready to enjoy the presence of the God who is always with me, ready to encourage all those who are around me, and ready to humbly receive, without being hypercritical of the church, the service, the people.
*******
As I write this in my bedroom, I keep getting the feeling that the best place for these thoughts is not my blog, but a coffee shop. This is a discussion to have with a friend over a cappuccino—all the better if said espresso was prepared by Morgan and features her froth art.
Living in Republica Dominicana, where their coffee culture is different from ours in the States, I have realized how much the coffee house is somehow a part of my theology, a method I use to process information.
It’s ridiculous how much hipster espresso joints are intertwined with my Christianity.
We do have exceptional coffee here. In my neighborhood, it is sold two corners from my house, 6 AM to 10 AM, Monday through Saturday, in 3 ounce plastic cups for 10 pesos (about 20 US cents). It's the new hipster, I'm telling you. The guy who sells it beneath a big red and white umbrella is probably 17 or 18. His mom brews the strong, sugary coffee in their home at the end of the street, along with a sweet and spicy ginger tea and hot chocolate made with Rica milk. There are a couple of plastic chairs in the shade of a low tree, and it’s a pleasant place to sit with my husband at 6 AM, even if it's only conducive to small talk and you have to watch out for fire ants. We are only stealing a few moments before we have to hurry home and wake the army of boys, anyway.
The ironic thing is, the life I am living now is the culmination of many conversations that took place in American coffee bars. I was, ultimately, discontent sitting in their shop windows, analyzing but feeling empty somehow. So even though I dreadfully miss the atmosphere, perhaps I should be grateful that I don’t have a coffee shop in which to spill my thoughts, and that instead I have to upload them to the internet from far away in a different country, where I have a big family and the occasional professional project keeping me extremely busy.
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