Six Years Old

My parents were both raised in the Southern Baptist Church, in small communities in northwest Arkansas and southern Alabama. It was therefore quite natural that this was the church they chose for us to attend as a family.

My first real memories of church were from the time we lived in a small town called Nipawin in the northern part of the Canadian province of Saskatchewan. I was about six years old.

We attended a tiny Southern Baptist mission church. As best as I can remember, there were essentially three rooms in this small building. The central room, of course, was the sanctuary. Behind the sanctuary was a room we used for Sunday School. I think there was some kind of room before you entered the sanctuary, what I would today call the narthex. I believe the pastors office came off of this space, so I guess that makes four room altogether.

The pastor was a very nice man from Tennessee. He spoke my family's language, so we got along great. In a land of hockey and pirogies, it was like a small taste of home.

One day this pastor visited my family's house. He came into my room and sat me down in a little red chair I had by the door. He proceeded to talk to me about salvation. He wanted to know if I would ask Jesus to come into my heart so I could go to heaven. It seemed to me that there was a lot at stake in this question. I don't recall thinking about it very long. How could I refuse this man of authority whom I liked and respected? I was six years old.

I joined the church by "profession of faith" not long after that. In my six year old mind I developed an image of Jesus sitting on a throne in my heart. I wanted desperately to keep him there, so my young mind envisioned chaining him down on that throne and throwing out the key. The pastor thought this was a cute story and told it to the congregation when I joined.

The small church in Nipawin didn't have a baptismal pool, so some time later we traveled to a neighboring town called Love and I was baptized by immersion at the Baptist church there. Others were baptized as well, men and women much older than me.

I was six years old.

I remember this time in my life with a good bit of ambivalence. The Baptist part of me understands that this pastor was doing what he felt God wanted him to do. He believed that if I was to die without having made that decision, I would spend eternity in hell.

The Presbyterian part of me looks at this situation and understands that it's not that much different from an infant baptism. I didn't really understand what I was getting into. I didn't really have much of a choice, despite the appearance to the contrary.

The human part of me is bitter about being manipulated at such a young age. This part of me is sad that my introduction to the Christian faith was so contrived. It was a paint-by-the-numbers "conversion" that I'm sure was recorded as a success, along with other numbers, in some mission report to be sent back home.

At the same time, despite my ambivalence about the theology and mechanics of my entrance into this church, that congregation did in fact show me what Christian community is all about. I always felt welcomed there. It was like a second family for us. Even though I was only a child, that congregation accepted me for who I was and, most importantly, took me seriously, something that rarely happens for children in the churches I've known since.

The best example of this is a string of memories that I come back to over and over. Quite often toward the end of our worship, the pastor would take hymn requests from the congregation. These were good, old Baptist hymns that are etched in my heart, even though my theology has taken a decidedly different turn in the many years that have passed since then.

I always looked forward to these opportunities to request favorite hymns. As often as my parents would let me, I enthusiastically raised my hand high and asked for "Jesus Loves Me." Without a bit of patronizing or condescension, the pastor would lead us in that simple children's song. And every time, after we finished singing it, I would shout out a childish but hardy "Amen!"

They listened to me. They took me seriously. They engaged my faith where it was, as a six year old child.

I'm convinced that my lifelong involvement with the church is due in no small part to this congregation's acceptance of me. When I see young people not interested in worship, I'm convinced, based on my own experience, that they don't care about worship because they never had positive experiences of worship as young children.

I think that counts for something. And I'll always remember that congregation and that pastor with love and thanks.