Tonight

I like water, always have: swimming in our pool as a child, my baptism at age six which I still have images of, Thanksgiving beach trips, fishing with may dad and now my girls...

I now pastor a small church in Clovis, CA and our congregation is quickly learning of my love of water, from my many references to baptism, to getting aspersed.

We begin each Sunday service at the filled baptismal font, strategically located at the entrance to the worship area. Whether we are using Thanksgiving for Baptism or Confession and Forgiveness, I always end up playing in the water.

I pour.

I dip my whole hand.

I make the sign of the cross with water running down my arm.

And I probably splash a little.

I process down the aisle, to the altar, still dripping.

During Lent this year, we've had sand in the font. At the beginning of the service at that first Sunday in Lent, I instinctually dove my hand into the font, only to feel course, unforgiving, messy sand. Unforgiving in the sense that I had to force my hand to penetrate through the rough material that clearly didn't want me in it.

I let it run through my fingers, and made the sign of the cross on the congregation as I pronounced the Lenten hope of God's forgiveness. I then fought the instinct to clean my hand, and like always, processed down the center aisle, to the altar, only now, with uncomfortable grit between my fingers--grit that sometimes remained until I washed just before communion.

I don't know who or how much anyone noticed these things. I don't even know if I can articulate what this has meant to me over these past six Sundays. And I don't know what kind of an effect this has had or will have on me or our congregation.

What I do know is this, I long for that water to return.

To pour.

To dip.

To sign.

To splash.

Tonight.


April 19, 2014
Holy Saturday afternoon
Pre-Easter Vigil service