A TREE BY THE SEA

“Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit.”-Jesus

I was baptized the summer that I was ten. I would be turning eleven soon and entering the fifth grade. It was the middle of summer, the hottest part, late July or early August. My Mom probably has the exact date written down somewhere tucked away in her important memories and papers. There may even be a faded photograph of me standing on the grassy shore of Lost lake in my brother’s hand-me-down Bermuda print swim trunks and faded red t-shirt. In my emerging pre-teen self consciousness, I remember being painfully aware that my exceedingly adequate and functional attire could never be a source of pride. Further humbling there happened to be a boy that I had a school girl crush on attending the baptism service held by the tiny Foursquare Church my Mother faithfully pushed past every obstacle to attend in the Valley. This little lake hidden high in the Eastern Washington mountains required the intention of the traveler.  Enduring winding dirt roads lined by thick forest to visit the little lake didn’t happen by mistake.

The air was always cooler in the mountains. A day over 100 degrees F in the valley would be hovering around 90 degrees in the higher elevations. The heat usually was tempered by a slight breeze evidenced by the quiet rush heard through the tops of the towering pine and fir trees. It was a day like this that my little church community had gathered at the national forest park, a rough hours drive from town. We had a potluck style picnic and swimming planned, but the focus was baptism for the members who had decided to take that next step in their faith in Jesus. My Mother spent countless hours teaching my siblings and me about God. I learned from an early age what it meant to be a follower of Christ. She read to us from the Bible. She prayed over us. She worshiped often. There was never a time that I questioned the reality of Jesus. He was as real to me as the other members of my family. It wasn’t that I could see him seated somewhere in our home or walking about on our property, but he was always there, like that quiet rush in the pines.

My childhood was far from idealistic. My father was an alcoholic who spent many nights drunkenly berating my Mother for her many short comings but mostly for her desire to seek God. He hated religion. He never hated Jesus. He was just jealous. She loved God with everything inside of her. She depended on Him. She hungered to know Him more. She would rise hours before everyone else to stoke the wood burning fire by kerosene lamp light, and spend her first moments reading in her thickly highlighted and underlined Bible. She listened to sermons about faith and filled countless notebooks with the things she was learning. She went on long walks just to pray, to clear her mind, and hear the voice of God. In the midst of this she lived in the lowest poverty known to modern America. Our cabin had no electricity except what was provided by 12 volt batteries or a generator that could be run for a few hours in the evenings. It had no indoor plumbing. The walls were exposed two by fours, plywood, and ripped insulation. The roof was boards covered with tar paper that leaked profusely during rainstorms. We cooked over propane fuel and bought blocks of ice to keep our food cold in the summer. We drank from 40 gallon buckets that we filled with water in town.

Sundays were not only church day, but laundry day, grocery day, and water day. My Mom would do her best to scrub her four children clean, dress us in something presentable, and load us into our rusted blue Plymouth sedan. I remember being impressed by our family’s $700 “new car” because it had seat belts tucked into intact velvety seats. This had been an upgrade from the 1950’s ford truck that had finally broken beyond all repair. We no longer had to ride in the truck bed perched between garbage bags full of laundry or squished all together on each others laps on the disintegrating bench seat in the cab.

We were usually late and sometimes would miss Sunday school, but we were always there for worship and the sermon. In my hometown I thought people were rich if they worked at the post office, school, or hospital. They lived in modest middle class homes, drove newer model cars, and wore nice new clothes. The “rich” women wore make-up, matched their shoes to their dresses, and painted their nails. It was always apparent even in our little church that my Mom wasn’t like those women. If she wore a dress she felt awkward because what she had was 15 years old and purchased from a thrift store. If she owned more than one pair of shoes it would be a sturdy pair of snow boots or a set of cheap sandals. We were always accepted though by our little church family. They truly didn’t mind that our Sunday best usually consisted of whatever happened to be clean. They tried hard to understand us and love us. They listened to my Mom’s struggles. They were a lifeline for her, praying with her, and always encouraging her. They even came up to the mountain several times. Walking outside among the wildflowers with our church visitors one of my sisters plucked an Indian paintbrush from the path waved it underneath his nose and exclaimed, “These smell like marijuana!”

The stark contrast between my dope smoking, beer drinking, freely cussing father and these men who attended church on Sundays in suits and ties was never lost on me. He would scoff at them, and call the church a Christian club. He disdained their music. He called them hypocrites, and resented the slightest perceived judgement.

It was one of these men who stood waist deep in the cool rippling waters of the the little mountain lake baptizing people in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Pastor Wade was a polished looking man who fit the description of an early nineties preacher. He always wore a nice suit to church along with a nice smile. His wife and daughters were well put together, sweet, and kind.

It was my turn to step into the same lake I had swam in many times before, on days just like this one, when my Dad would suddenly tell us all to get in the truck and surprise us with an unexpected afternoon of fun. Standing beside my pastor I confirmed that I did indeed want to be a follower of Jesus. He instructed me to hold my nose and leaned me backward fully immersing me in the clear cold water. I’ve never been one who just jumps into the lake. I like to take the slow approach and dip in on my own terms. I had, however, been “dunked” many times by my ever willing older brother and the shock of encompassing cold to my system was no different this time. Pastor Wade lifted me up as quickly as he had lowered me and I gasped blinking away the water. The smiling onlookers clapped and I walked back to the shore where my Mom stood by with a towel.

“Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to Spirit.”-Jesus

At ten years old, I fully desired to follow God. I wrote about my love for Him in a school project proudly hung up in the hallway outside my classroom, not realizing that it wasn’t normal to talk about Jesus in your schoolwork until I heard someone comment on it. As a child I understood many of the benefits of following Jesus. I understood the forgiveness of sin and the peace that comes with it. I knew that Jesus was a friend, and a protector. I knew Him as a healer, I knew Him as my comforter, and I knew that I could rely on Him in any situation. I had received the Holy Spirit.  Yet, just as my Dad frequently claimed, hypocrisy glared darkly in the church. It shined from my own life as I read my Bible, prayed, and went to youth group in my teen years while choosing to sin over, and over, and over again with the thought, “God will forgive me.” It flashed like a sadistic sign of dark victory when Pastor Wade was removed from his role for being sexually inappropriate towards women in the congregation.

Even after I finally “stopped sinning” and “turned my life around” I’ve often been a huge hypocrite. I sin every day.  I mostly don’t do bad things on purpose, and I genuinely try to follow the command to love God and love people, but perfection is never even close to my grasp. So what is the difference between me and anyone else who just tries really hard to be a morally good person, but doesn’t care about Jesus? What about my Dad? He was an alcoholic to his dying day, a pot smoker, a man who cursed continuously, yet even though he never conceded to church, he always professed Jesus as his savior. It wasn’t as a last ditch effort to avoid Hell. He genuinely had a heart connection to God through Jesus and cried out to him in his darkest times. One of my saddest memories is being  a child lying awake in my bed listening to my Dad drunkenly calling out to God to free him.

“But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God.”-Jesus

I turn forty this summer, so that little ten year old girl who was baptized in the refreshing waters of Lost lake is a hazy memory. The reality of Jesus though grows more distinct and takes shape for me in new ways almost daily.  It’s hard to be a Christian and be real with yourself. We all understand the hypocrisy. The lists of rules can become unbearable. The self condemnation when we don’t feel like we have measured up is agonizing. We can easily judge the sins of pastor Wade. We can see my Mom as a martyr who faithfully served God and stood by her husband through years of struggle. We can simultaneously applaud my Dad for his stubborn jackassery, and be appalled by his bad behavior. Then there’s me. I’ll let you form your own opinions.

I am no theologian. I love reading Jesus’s words, but trying to describe the Holy Spirit can be hard. You can literally feel His presence. Sometimes it’s a lump in your throat when you’ve said something mean. Sometimes it’s an unexplainable feeling of peace when you are in an out of control situation. Sometimes it’s a heavy weight in your stomach when you are about to make a terrible decision. In the book of Acts, Jesus ascended to Heaven then ten days later the Spirit fell like fire and came in a mighty rushing wind. He is the third person in the Trinity. He is the part of God that dwells with man.

I have to say it again. He is the part of God that stays here with us. Permanently. So why are we Christians such hypocrites? We were born in the Spirit when we believed that Jesus is the Son of God and repented of our sins. Just like Jesus said. The Spirit gives birth to spirit. The Spirit of God birthed our born-again spirits.

So how could my Dad live his life the way he did and yet still somehow find repentance and salvation? How did my pastor do the things he did while leading others to our savior? How can I really be a Christian yet basically have been living my life as selfishly as the next person?

Waist deep. My skinny white legs prickling in goose bumps, boys shorts billowing out around them. “Yes, I want to follow Jesus.” I don’t really even remember saying those exact words, but I do know the Holy Spirit was there. He was with me as I was born of water in repentance. I made a declaration that day. Like the wall art hanging in my school hallway. It’s so simple it seems unlikely to be powerful, yet Jesus tells us to be baptized and to baptize others. Why would he make it so easy that anyone with a little bit of water and a sincere heart can do it? Could it be that there is actual power in the action?

We can confess Jesus as Lord, believe in our hearts that He was raised from the dead and be saved. Really? That easy? But I wanted to work super hard to be really really good. I wanted to follow every commandment to show God just how serious I am. How much I love Him. I wanted to fast and deny myself so that He might glance in my direction. I might finally know that God is actually pleased with me.

I’m under the water. My nose is plugged, but I couldn’t breathe if I wanted to. The air above was clean, beautiful, life giving. Even in this clear mountain lake with a smooth pebbled bottom a child could die. My older brother had never held me under long enough to scare me, so I wasn’t worried. The flawed pastor was swift in retrieving me from the depths. The moment passed so briefly, the change so imperceptible to the flesh that I wonder if the Holy Spirit standing by was the only one who noticed. My newborn spirit emerging with me. A new breath of life just waiting to refill my lungs. Born of water and the Spirit.

I can never be good. I can’t do anything from my own strength to please God. No amount of fasting, praying, or other Christiany behavior could make me a better person. It’s impossible to please God without faith in the reality of  Jesus. I need the Holy Spirit abiding with my born again spirit to do anything truly good. It’s only Jesus I must follow. It’s only Jesus who knows the deepest part of me. The holiest place. The place where the living God wants to dwell.

So I invite You. Holy Spirit come.

Holy Spirit come and enable me to live a life laid down, putting others needs above my own. To actually love God. To actually love people. Holy Spirit come and enable me to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. Who left Heaven to live as a man and show us the way to the Father. Who put on flesh, fully God and fully man. Who gave up His own comfort, sacrificing Himself to save me.

Holy Spirit come.