2000-07-09
This morning at eleven we headed out to the lake with our canoe. Not the lake where we usually canoe, but the one where we rented the motorboat a month or two back. We'd heard about a section of this lake that prohibits gasoline-powered vessels; canoeing without motor boats and jet-skiiers whizzing past on both sides sounded decidedly more pleasant.
This lake is about a half-hour's drive from the house, and on the way we listened to the radio. The local black university has a good station and this morning, Sunday, they were playing gospel.
Then we arrived at the lake, and discovered near the boat ramp a small beach--they've got sand and a roped-off section of water for swimming. Without power boats things were much calmer and quieter, and the water lacked the film of oil we're used to at the other lake. We decided this will be our new lake of choice. We paddled around and found picnic areas to which we want to return next week with the dogs.
Then we paddled to a dam, got out and walked across the top of it. After that we returned to the beach area. We pulled the canoe up onto some grass at the edge and lolled about in the water, wishing we'd brought inner tubes. Things had gotten moderately crowded by this time, but not too bad.
After a while we saw a throng of white people descending to the beach, maybe 40 of them, clearly a group of some sort. I said to B, "Maybe they're a church group." Soon they were all on the little strip of grass beside the roped-off area, right where our canoe was. One of the men walked into the lake. B suggested that they were performing baptisms.
And they were. Four of them. One adult woman, two early-teen girls, and a little boy who looked to be about eight. I believe the entire church was there to witness and celebrate.
The pastor, the man who'd walked into the lake, wore shorts and a crucifix-emblazoned T-shirt. He reminded B of Sam Kinison back before he was a comedian, when he was an evangalical preacher. All the congregants wore casual clothing as well.
The adult woman went first; it was just her and the pastor. He talked about the growth he'd seen in her as she took Jesus into her heart and then she spoke, but not loudly enough for me to hear. The teen girls were both accompanied by their fathers. The little boy's grandfather performed his baptism. After each baptism, the congregants clapped and cheered. After the last one, the pastor asked if anyone was moved to publically declare his dedication to Jesus by coming forth; no one did. One of the congregants said a prayer, an extemporaneous one offering gratitude for this lovely day.
One of the women in the group asked me about our canoe and volunteered that she and her family do quite a bit of canoeing and kayakying as well. I admit, with some embarrassment, that I was taken aback to think of her, part of this group that seemed so very foreign, enjoying an activity that I also enjoy.
Something in me envies the sense of belonging I observed among these people; what they have seems to work for them. B, whose parents belonged to a fundamenatalist church for most of his childhood and was himself baptised at vacation bible school, is more critical. "Think of a Buddhist monk in Tibet whose entire life is devoted to spirituality," he said. "Those people think he's going to hell."
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