ROLL ON RIVER

The soft green of the Jordan River swished around my ankles, and little pebbles of the exposed aggregate steps dug into the soles of my feet. I pinched the soft skin of my inner arm to convince myself that I was really so near the place where the heavens had opened, and God had declared His pleasure in His son, the Beloved. (Matt 3:16)

Large trees dipped their branches into the water not far from where a canoe bumped against barricades designed to keep boats out. After tipping their fishing rods at me, the occupants paddled toward the center of the river. Everything seemed so ordinary. So normal. But it wasn’t.

Standing in this lush river, my rite of baptism—that scant sprinkling in a Lutheran church nearly thirty-five years earlier—no longer seem quite enough. I felt let down by my baptism experience. Somehow it should have been MORE.

One afternoon after school I'd stood in the vacated sanctuary of the church I’d occasionally attended and promised to be a Christian with the ardor only a teenager can muster. There was no celebration afterwards. No sense of how special the moment was. We just went home.

Now, here in Canaan, I took my place at the end of a line of friends from our church about to commemorate their baptisms, and as I moved forward I felt the wonderment and joy that had been missing on that day. The moment I touched water from the Jordan to my own head, I knew I had been wrong. I hadn't any need to “redo” my baptism. I hadn’t even needed to rework a bad memory.

For Methodists, baptism is about belonging to the Body of Christ. And that beautiful river reminded me that I did, indeed, belong—and had belonged from that day so many decades before when, standing in the fading light of a stained glass window, I had made God a promise and myself a member.

And the Jordan River . . . rushing over my ankles . . . was a reminder of how many of us have been blessed by this mighty fellowship.

You are blessed. Be a blessing.

THE ONLY THING THAT COUNTS

THIS PAST WEEK while my dear husband and I were attending a business conference in Athens, Greece, the husband of a friend of mine began telling me how glad he was to see me so well. By then, jet lag had worn off, so I took his comment without regard to this illness I've dragged around with me for so long.

BUT, HE DID MEAN THIS ILLNESS. His sister had died ten days before of cancer while he and my friend were on a cruise. Her death had not been expected so soon, and I could see, despite his calm tone, he was deeply shaken. He hadn’t realized that when his sister had called him upon hearing that he would be gone for three weeks that she was initiating what she knew—even if he didn’t—would be their final conversation. “She wanted to settle all our old disputes and differences,” he said. “We’d never gotten along.” He paused. “She told me she loved me.”

IT WAS THE WORST OF MOMENTS for meaningful conversation. A band began playing music that Greeks seem to appreciate the most, and, not three feet from me, a woman well past the age when she should be clad in a black gossamer dress began to sway and warble out a middle eastern song. She seemed to know that few in the crowd understood her, and she compensated with volume. I shouted my condolences to my friend’s husband.

HE RAISED A HAND. “I’m not sad. She’s in a better place.”

I NODDED MY CONCURRENCE, and he continued. “After all, we’re only energy, you know. We’ve been here before, and we’ll be back again.” He buttered a roll with too much care. “Of course, we may not recognize each other,” he winked, “but it’ll be us.”

THE TEMPO OF THE MUSIC PICKED UP. The woman was joined by four dancers and a man who crooned meaningfully into a microphone he seemed in danger of swallowing. It was impossible for me to offer further comment.

HAD I HAD THE CHANCE, I would have told him that we are far, far more than energy. We are children of God, made in His image, destined for bodily—not just spiritual—resurrection. Christ was the first, but we will follow. Surely seeing his sister as the beloved individual God had created would be better than thinking of her as so many electrical impulses.

THE MOMENT PASSED, and our paths didn’t cross again before my husband and I caught our return plane.

NOW, AS I REFLECT ON THE MAN and his private grief, I wish I had been wise enough to say what Paul said in his letter to the Galatians (5:6): The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.

BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH THIS MAN did not understand the Message as I do, he was expressing his own faith through love for his sister, and she, by defusing whatever differences that they had had throughout her life, had done the same for him.

AND MAYBE THAT WILL BECOME A STEPPING STONE for him to build on in the future.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!

THAT’S NOT MY JOB

EVERY TIME I RUN into people who tell me I won’t get to heaven unless I believe what they believe, I know how Christians get a bad reputation. I think they’re probably trying to scare me into that section of heaven they believe is reserved for their denomination. As if they’d been there, scoped out the territory, and determined that their section was not only the best, it was the only one.

FOR ME, THEY HAVE TOO MANY PAT ANSWERS to questions I find far too complex for simple dot-connection. Can any of us be that certain? They are, and, given the opportunity, they are eager to debate with those who are not.

THIS IS WHEN I RESORT TO MARK 9. Jesus, Peter, James, and John descended the mountain after the transfiguration and found the disciples who had been left behind debating with scribes after a failed attempt at exorcising a possessed boy. Jesus asked, “What are you arguing about with them?” There is no answer.

IT NEEDED NONE. Arguing with those who already know they’re right—like scribes or Pharisees—is a waste of time. Dale Carnegie said it so well: “Those convinced against their will are of the same opinion still.”

HE ALSO SAID, “The only way to get the best of an argument is to avoid it.” But, for me, it’s more than just avoidance. As a person of faith, it’s not my job to determine what only God has the authority to decide. And God, being God, is free to decide whatever He wishes and to change His mind as it pleases Him.

IF I DIDN’T BELIEVE THAT, I wouldn’t pray for others, asking that their burdens be eased, that their hearts be lightened, and that their health be restored. I wouldn’t believe the promises. I wouldn’t believe God.

BUT I DO.

I CANNOT KNOW HIS MIND. I can only look to his Son for a hint of what He’s like—after that, I’m pretty limited. The more I study, the more I pray, the more I’m convinced that those who claim more might be looking for assurances that prove that they are right.

THEY MAY HAVE MISSED THE POINT. Jesus told us to love one another; He didn’t tell us to scare one another. As Christians our job is to plant the seeds of faith . . . God will do the rest. That’s another of His promises.

You’re blessed. Be a blessing!