Eleven of us gathered this afternoon, on a beach, for an old-fashioned baptismal service. Pelicans flew overhead. The surf swelled and crashed. And three of our friends stepped into the cold, cold Pacific.
I always feel a bit vulnerable on occasions like these. From a distance, beachcombers watching us. From the parking lot above the beach, others watching. I'm tempted to wonder: what do they see? Are they cynical? Do they assume we're proud and preoccupied with our own little notions of salvation and grace? Maybe.
Or. Maybe they're grateful for a little love on the beach, in the surf, in the wide-open spaces. Maybe they've disconnected from cellphones and laptops - for an afternoon - because they're hungry for hope, aching for tenderness. Maybe the sight of eleven seekers - gay, straight, young, old, parents, kids - maybe this is just the thing. Just the thing they need.
So I set aside my worry and stepped into the sea with each of my three dear friends. I looked into each pair of eyes and saw a different take on the same mystery: gratitude, wonder, cold water, a bit of fear, a bunch of hope. None of us will soon forget what happened out there - the community in a circle, the roar of an incoming tide, the tradition of immersion and new beginnings.
And all those folks looking on? I'm glad they unplugged for a while. Sundays are good for that.
