There's Something in the Water

 This Sunday we are celebrating baptism.  Emma Knopf, a Central Davidson High School Junior who has recently started attending our church will be baptized.  

 

My sermon is titled: “Something in the Water,” that is inspired by the Carrie Underwood song.  She sings, “I followed that preacher man down to the river and now I’m  . . . changed . . . And now I’m stronger.  There must’ve been something in the water.  Oh, there must’ve been something in the water.”

 

I believe with all of my heart that there is something in the water of baptism.   

 

Baptists shun the word “sacrament.”  We have always said that baptism is a symbol, just a symbol.  But I tell you, it is much more than a symbol.  I know that there is something in the water, something powerful and transformative.  I have seen it many times.  

 

I will never forget one of my first baptisms at Pollocksville Baptist Church that took place almost 50 years ago.  

 

Johnny Parker was a kind, gentle, and pleasant young man.  I’m guessing he was in his 20s.  People told us he was “a retarded boy,” a term we don’t use anymore.  Like many who are limited in different ways, Johnny made up for with an over-abundance of love and kindness.

 

He rode his bicycle into our back yard one day and stopped for a visit.

 

“How do you get that water in the pool?” he asked. At first, I didn’t know what he was talking about.  

 

“What pool, Johnny?”

 

 “The one in the church,” he said.  

 

I asked him if he wanted to go and see. We walked over to the church and I showed him the pipes that supplied water to the baptistery.   

 

He silently studied it for a few moments and then asked, “Is it cold?” 

 

I explained to him how we heated the water with a makeshift gas stove that looked suspiciously like a still. (Another story for another day!) Having no more questions, Johnny got on his bicycle and returned home.

 

His father approached me a few days later and told me that Johnny was talking about being baptized.  “We have never pushed baptism with him,” he said.  “There’s so much about it that he doesn’t understand.”

 

Over the next few weeks Johnny would stop by and we would continue our discussion about baptism.  We went from the mechanics of the water, to what one would wear, to the meaning of baptism.  He nodded his head in agreement but I didn’t know how much he comprehended.  

 

Finally, Johnny told me one Sunday morning that he was ready to be baptized.  I explained to him that in our Baptist Church, one would come down to the front during the final hymn so I could share his decision with the church.  He agreed but when the worship service started, Johnny had disappeared.  

 

I found him later that week and asked if he still wanted to be baptized.  I sensed he was fearful so I tried to reassure him. He said he did and I talked to his father to confirm a date. 

 

It was my responsibility to fill the baptistery and rig up the suspicious heating system that really did look a lot like a still.  It was a complicated process that involved running a gas line from an outdoor propane tank, removing an air vent under the baptistery and lighting the makeshift gas stove.  As I was rigging it all up, I wondered if we would have a baptism or not.   

 

Johnny was there that Sunday morning, but he was scared to death.  I talked to him and really thought he was going to back out.  He was still in the church when the time came for us to get ready for the baptism..  He followed me out the door and the choir sang a special while we prepared for the big event.  

 

Johnny was taking forever to get ready.  The choir had stopped singing and I knew everyone was sitting in silence, wondering what was going on.  Finally, Johnny appeared in his bathing suit and a t-shirt.  

 

“Are you ready,” I asked?

 

He was literally shaking.  I put my arm around him and tried to calm him down.  He finally nodded his head and said, “Okay.”

 

 

We walked to the steps leading into the water.  I walked down into the water and looked up at him, holding my hand out, inviting him to come.  He hesitated.  For a long time, he stood at the top of the steps staring at the water, trying to make up his mind.  

 

“It’s okay,” I said.  “You will be fine.”

 

Slowly, Johnny took a step and then another.  As he entered the pool he let out a yelp and loudly proclaimed, “Whoo boy, this water’s cold!”  (I don’t know what happened.  I guess the suspicious gas heater didn’t work.)

 

Everyone laughed, which was good.  It broke the tension.

 

He stood in the water, shaking.  I said.  “Are you ready?”  He nodded his head.  

“Johnny, what is your confession of faith?”

 

“Jesus is Lord,” he said in a soft voice.

 

I held his arms and said, “Because of your confession, I now baptize you Johnny, my brother, the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

 

He held his breath and went under the cleansing waters of baptism.

 

Just as quickly, he emerged, shaking his head like a puppy coming out of a bath, and he looked at his hands as if they had been transformed.  He smiled a big smile and confidently walked out of the pool.  

 

There was a transformation that day, but not just with Johnny.  Johnny was a child of God, always had been, before and after the baptism.  But as I stood there before a trembling young man in the cool waters, I recognized not his weakness, but mine.  I was not the one who lifted Johnny out of the water.  No, it wasn’t me, but a power much greater.    

 

I believe that there is something in the water. 

 

The congregation was also transformed.  Tears of joy punctuated a celebration of God’s goodness and grace.  We realized that in God’s family all are favored and all are blessed.  And I think we heard the words, “This is my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased.” 

 

                                                  

She Will Always Be With Me

 In the well-known poem, “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep,” we find the words:

 "I am a thousand winds that blow.

       I am the diamond glints on snow.
              I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
                      I am the gentle autumn rain."

 

Almost every day, I am reminded that Joyce is still with me.  I see her fountain in the backyard, her favorite chair still sits in the den, I walk by the Life Center where she spent many good days, and every Sunday I can see her sitting in church. . . she is with me and always will be.  

 

My grandmother died in 1983.  It was a Sunday morning.  There were two or three ladies that my grandmother would pick up on the way to church.  She would always call them to make sure they planned to go.  When they didn’t get her call, they called my mother who went to my grandmother’s house and found her.  She had died in her sleep—a wonderful way to go.  

 

My mother wisely decided not to call me before our church service started.  She waited until she knew the worship service was underway and then called the church office at Roxboro Baptist Church.  I remember hearing the telephone and thinking that it was odd for someone to call on a Sunday morning.  After church, someone handed me a note to call my mother.  

 

That was 43 years ago, but I can still feel my grandmother’s presence at times.  I remember different things from her house.  I inherited her marble clock that sits on my mantle.  I have her china cabinet in my dining room.  

 

My grandmother had a reproduction of a popular painting in her bedroom.  It was a Madonna and Child—which is strange considering she was an old-school Baptist. It is a painting by the Italian artist, Roberto Ferruzzi, named “The Madonnina” or commonly called, “The Madonna of the Streets.”  My guess is that my grandmother purchased this painting on one of her trips to Italy. 

 

I don’t know what happened to this painting, but I vividly remember it in her bedroom.  It would be the painting she would see first thing every morning and the last thing she would see at night.  

 

Seven years ago, Joyce and I were on Sabbatical and traveled to the beautiful city of Salzburg in Austria. We took the train from Munich to Salzburg.  The scenery is breathtaking.  Everything about this city was simply beautiful.

 

I had been thinking about my grandmother because one of her favorite movies was, “The Sound of Music.”  She took me as a child to see it.  She loved Julie Andrews.  We took a delightful “Sound of Music” tour in Salzburg that my grandmother would have loved. 

I made arrangements to stay at a small hotel away from the city center. When I told the taxi driver where we were going, he said: “That is a lovely place close to the mountains.”

 

The Bloberger Hof is like something out of a movie.  It is a Swiss Chalet house run by a wonderful Austrian family with small children along with the grandparents.  You felt like you were staying in a home rather than a hotel.

 

When we walked into our spacious room we immediately walked out to the balcony with the flower baskets in this idyllic home.  From our balcony we had a fantastic view of the majestic mountains—some still had snow—and a distant view of the snowcapped Alps.  We marveled at the scene before us!  Those hills were truly alive!

 

Joyce walked back into the room while I lingered on the balcony.  I was mesmerized by the overwhelming beauty.  I thought about my grandmother who visited Salzburg back in the 1960s.  No wonder she loved this place, I thought.

 

Then I walked back into our wonderful suite and for the first time, saw a beautiful painting on the wall.  I stopped.  I did a double-take.  I could not believe what I was seeing!   

 

It was a copy of Roberto Ferruzzi’s “Madonnia;” the same painting that my grandmother had in her bedroom.

 

I called Joyce and had her look at the painting.  I told her about that same painting being in my grandmother’s bedroom.  We both stood and stared, not knowing what to say.

 

Then, for some reason, I looked at my watch.  The date was May 22, 2019.  May 22.  

 

I froze.   A chill went down my spine.  It was May 22, 1983 when my grandmother died.   

 

Yes, she will always be with me.