...and a lot of people I know are really confused. Heck, I'm really confused. If I could sum my entire relationship with church up in one word, it would be "confused."
It was very painful to leave those people when I left the evangelical church I grew up in. I won't go into the details of why I left. Maybe because the details are pretty mucked up in my head. I didn't leave for any one particular reason. I didn't leave because I didn't like the music or because someone hurt my feelings. I didn't leave because I was burned out from being so involved (even though I totally was) or because I didn't like a leader in the church. I can't quite put my finger on why I left. I just knew it wasn't the right fit for my soul anymore.
My soul needed a change. I needed to be able to go to a church where questions, and even doubts, were welcomed and critical thinking wasn't considered a character flaw. I didn't find that for four years. We went to several evangelical and mainline churches. Some just once, some for many months. For over six months, I didn't go to church at all. That's not to say I didn't have church. Oh, I had church. I had church when I sang little babies to sleep, and I had church when I piddled around in the garden for hours. But, after we moved to The Big O, Hubby drug me to an actual church building because we needed community.
I made him go by himself first. To make sure they were kid-friendly. And to make sure the sermons weren't political or anti-science, snarky regarding mental health, or punctuated with patriarchal undertones. These were my deal-breakers. He chose an Episcopal church, the denomination he grew up in. After a good report, I eventually went with him.
You guise. It was weird. The music was different from I was used to. The prayers were liturgical. They lit candles and had communion every week. It felt organized and traditional. The people were warm and inviting. They had coffee and pastries (the children were especially impressed by this). It was a fresh start. It was just what I needed.
Hubby and I participated in the welcoming rite several months after we started attending, the second time they asked us. I have to be nudged into these things, you see. I had toyed with the idea of having the kids baptized into the church for months after that. When changing Christian denominations, this was probably the idea that I struggled with the most. I finally made an appointment with the pastor to ask some questions. Okay, I asked a lot of questions. And then I studied, prayed about, and toyed with the idea for a few more months before presenting the idea to the kiddos and picking a date.
As the big day approached, the pastor suggested that we practice with 3 1/2-year-old Sassy Pants. This was a good idea because, deep down, I felt that baptizing Sassy would be akin to baptizing a cat. Hovering Sassy Pants over the bathroom sink turned out to be a terrible place to start practicing. It terrified her.
"This is bad!" she yelled. "This is very, very bad! I do NOT want a badtism! I want a happytism."
Did you catch that, friends? She thought a baptism was called a badtism. And we further perpetuated the idea of a badtism by dangling her little blonde head over the sink like crazy people. I decided to take a different approach. Sassy Pants has two knock-off American Girl dolls that she drags around by the hair everywhere she goes (which is why she doesn't get real American Girl dolls): Olivia and Sharla seemed like great candidates for happytism. Sassy Pants and I practiced baptizing the dollies in the sink. She poured water over their plastic heads and repeated, "I happytize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."
This is the moment that I knew the confusing, messy, beautiful relationship I've always had with church had led me to a wonderful place. Seeing a little girl performing a happytism brought tears to my eyes. I had never witnessed a woman passing out communion wafers or leading a closing prayer. I had certainly never witnessed a woman performing a baptism. It is something I want my children to see. And they will.
I shared the story about Sassy Pants' happytism with the rector. He shared it with the parish just before the kids were baptized. I looked out and saw pews full of understanding smiles and kind eyes filled with tears. Sassy Pants didn't hiss like a drowned cat. Smarty Pants got cake afterward. Our parents and brothers were in town to celebrate. It was the very definition of a happytism.
The truth is, I have a million unanswered questions. I suspect I always will. Church may never be able to answer them all. But it can love me through my doubts. It can offer support, encouragement, and community. The day the kids were baptized wasn't the end of my journey. And it's not the end of theirs.
Their uncles/godfathers gave them picture Bibles on the day of their baptisms. I wrote each of the kids a letter and stuck it in those Bibles for them to read as they get older. I'd like to share those letters with you:
Dear Smarty Pants/ Sassy Pants,
Your uncle/godfather gave you this beautiful Bible to commemorate your baptism. There is something I want you to know about this very special book: It is full of stories about God's love, mercy, forgiveness, and grace. It can be an important guide for you in life if you use it the right way. It is a gift from God. Your brain and your heart are also gifts from God. Throughout history, this book has been used by people to berate, oppress, and even kill people who are different. But those people weren't using their brains and hearts alongside this book. You have to use all three gifts if you want to use this book in the way in it was intended to be used. I know you will.
All my love,
Mommy
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