My son the PK said no to baptism

Two years ago, when my middle child was ten, he announced that he was ready to explore baptism. Over the course of his life Wick has watched many people enter the fellowship of the church. He’s sung hymns on the lip of a swollen river. He’s watched as I submerge bodies into the waters in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. He has prayed over the dripping, beaming faces that stumbled back onto the bank, suddenly new.

We were in an awkward position. He’s the pastor’s kid, and at the time no one else had come forward to request this rite. But we forged ahead with a plan to explore baptism together, just the two of us. We’d talk about baptism in the Bible and ask questions about what we heard. We would invite others to tell us about their baptism and how it shaped their lives. We would talk about our spiritual ancestors who died confronting the practice of infant baptism that defined the church in the 16th century.

We carved out space on Sunday mornings to sit and talk, to read and ask, to listen and question. One morning we walked around the church, interviewing people whose paths we crossed. They were surprised but mostly delighted to talk with us about their baptism.