the baptismal fires

My Mother gravitated towards the Episcopal Church in my formative years, goaded perhaps by her maternal Grandmother’s inclination towards that faith and a yearning to return to more simpler times. We began going in earnest after my Mother’s divorce. It would seem as though my Mother needed a lamb to lean upon, to somehow justify in her mind that God was indeed on her side, despite her break with the father of her children. It was almost as if these cleansing rituals could somehow set all wrongs to right.

So we’d sit on those pews Sunday mornings whilst the procession would enter the church carrying the cross, swinging the cistern, chanting the Latin phrases, and suffusing my senses with this strange world of iconography. My eyes would catch upon the stained glass windows and marvel at their ornamental splendor. I’d soon grow restless with the proceeding and find myself distracted. At evening mass I would lie down upon the benches and begin to snore. Eventually I was placed in Sunday School with other unfortunate children. This was a little easier to take, we’d learn to sing hymns, eat buttered bread, and watch Laurel and Hardy films.

The Church was fond of carting the children out in front of the adoring throng to show what progress the Sunday School Teachers had exerted upon our impressionable minds. We were called upon to sing hymns and to reenact various religious stories. We would sing Hosanna Hallelujah. My Sister was later to play an angel in a reenactment of the birth of Christ at Christmas.

It was decided that I should be baptized on Easter Sunday when I was around 3. I was somewhat troubled by the prospect that I was somehow not worthy as I was. Mommy said that “it would mean that I would go to Heaven when I die”. These concept somehow escaped my childish comprehension. The idea of the here-after seemed almost as foggy as the world I had left before entering this one.

I recall meeting with the Rector Chet Howe. He told me I would stand at the altar while some water would be poured over my head. The whole idea of being up there in front of everyone, while a robed man would recite words to petition my mortal soul against the blasts of hellfire was a bit out of my depth. I was assured that all would be well and I had nothing to worry about. Being young and trusting, I decided to let them get on with their worldly concerns of my welfare.

My Mother recalls that I had my hand on my side whilst the Priest anointed my head with holy water. I stood there with the familiar sensation of tepid water pouring down upon me in a cacophony of splashing. I seem to vaguely recall my wet head being immediately toweled afterwards, much to the delight of the congregation. Another little soul saved from the brink of damnation! I was glad to return to my Mother who was beaming with pride. Born again, as if once weren't enough! The world didn't seem much different despite all of the good Pastor's ladling.

Upon returning home, I received a Sesame Street Album of childhood favorites. It’s interesting to note their titles; It’s not Easy Being Green, Rubber Ducky, and C is for Cookie. Songs that have served me far better than any scripture!