No one in my circle called me a Witch Doctor because I practiced an accepted form of wizardry. I was a novice Christian Pastor in a shrinking high desert town of New Mexico. Seminary had supposedly prepared me to guide the souls and lives of believers into a better life and into the best eternity. One day in my upstairs, corner pre-school class disguised as an office my phone buzzed.
"Grants Church of Christ! This is Charlton!"
"Yes, are you the minister?"
"Yessir."
"Well, my family is here from South Carolina and uh, well...we've come to see my mother. She's in a home here, and um - the doctors don't think she has much longer. We were wondering if you could help. You see she grew up Methodist and so she's never been baptized - just sprinkled...
Okay, here's where I need to pause and explain a bit of my former Christian heritage: the Church of Christ, a frontier Protestant movement who fractured from the Presbyterian Church with a mission to unite all believers through a Back-to-the-Bible mantra. Churches of Christ have a biblio-centric foundation that verges on bibliolatry.
Enter Baptism, from the Greek baptismo, meaning "to immerse" - not sprinkle, splash or pour holy water from a fine golden goblet - but a full dunking...all the way under. And, militant describes our baptismal philosophy. Some baptisms didn't take, not because the catechumen faked her confession or because a conversion-terrorist pulled the baptistry plug, but rather because Preacher Bob, when tipping Sister Susana back into the holy waters, failed to notice her left leg shooting up into H2O freedom as a counter weight. Ninety Percent immersion is by definition not immersion. Sister Sue can't wobble into heaven on one leg while her left appendage roasts for eternity in torment. You need not ask questions of the holy amputees moseying through the streets of gold; they should have procured a better preacher! In Sister Sue's case, only one solution to such a clerical error will suffice, a second dunking. You don't play casually with another's eternity.
Conversion math was simple:
Immersion = Baptism = Salvation = Heaven
Sprinkling = Sprinkling = Not Salvation = Hell
Pouring = Pouring = Not Salvation = Hell
That wasn't my opinion, but the words of the Apostle Peter himself and the Church of Christ motto: "Peter replied, “Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit." Acts 2:38
I could hear the desperation in his voice, genuine concern, deep angst. His mother's eternal future was at risk. She stood on the precipice of death having only been sprinkled. Never mind her life's devotion to Christ. Never mind her confession that Jesus was Lord and Savior and her faithful attendance to church gatherings..all the potluck casseroles she baked in His name. Sprinkling is like jumping from a plane with an umbrella and calling it a parachute.
Herein lies the rub. Baptize her, the right way, the biblical way and she most likely dies, her body too feeble to withstand an all out submersion. Don't baptize her and help her board the train to Hades. While it sounds like the makings of a South Park episode, the fear was anything but, thus the phone call.
"We didn't know if there was anything you could do, a prayer or something?" I told you I was a wizard. The family needed an incantation to ensure their mother's eternal safety. I was the closest medicine man.
"Sure." I had no idea what to do, but I went.
Steeped in Church of Christ theology but also determined not to drown this frail woman I drove to the nursing home uncertain of what to do. I stepped lightly into a small room where the family gathered around the matriarch like an evening campfire. I shook hands and nodded appropriately and then the family excused themselves so I could perform magic.
She sat in a wheelchair, slightly slumped to her right and unable to make direct eye contact. I took her vein protruding bruised hands in my clueless ones and asked, "Do you believe that Jesus is God's son and that he died for your sins?" She knew the answer to the question.
"That's great! Can I pray with you?" I cannot remember if she granted me permission or not, but I prayed...I spoke words that snatched her from the pits of hell and sent her spiraling towards the angelic chorus.
I left the room exactly as I entered it and the family greeted me with eyes begging the question, "Well?"
"Your mom knows Jesus. She told me as much. We prayed together. I believe she will be with him forever. All is well!"
And with a "Thank you," her son placed a wad of cash in my hand.
"You're welcome," I said, returning the offering.
The gentle closing of their eyes, the relaxing of the shoulders and the audible sighs communicated their internal relief...the encroachment of peace.
God didn't bring them peace in their uncertainty. I could argue their understanding of his character fueled their anxiety instead. And, although the family would never utter what was obvious and although it never crossed my mind at the time, God was starkly physically absent...silent.
The doctrinal requirements failed to appease the angst as well because we blantantly disregarded its tenets. If the divine portal to salvation demands immersion, it cares little of your age. Whether fifteen or 98, "repent and be baptized." A single exception renders the rite powerless with regard to God's salvific plan. I did not baptize the matriarch. They did not demand I baptize her. I left things just as I found them...and yet relief.
It was not me who brought respite either. I might as well have gone by the name Alexander Kirkshaw. This desperate family never met me. I never once stepped onto South Carolina soil. They stumbled upon me in the yellow pages of a phone book, not even me, but the name "Church of Christ." I simply occupied the office at that particular time and date.
All I did was show up.
And here, in the showing up, the pastoral care Venn Diagram overlaps - not the deity, not the doctrine, not the faith but the human element. Whether Buddhist, Muslim, Christian, Mormon or fill in the blank, Pastoral Care demands a "Pastor," a person in tactile flesh and blood, with smells, grunts, and blemishes. Sure, she speaks of her god and doctrine. Sure, he enacts the tribal sacred rituals, but the common denominator involves an individual taking time to enter the sacred space of another's transition, suffering, and confusion, to listen and speak from within the recipient's "worldview." The Pastor primarily sits in solidarity with another because humans are deeply social creatures.
As the number of Nones (individuals who do not identity with any religion) grows in the Western World, I believe there is a rising need for secular pastors.
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