As early as the first few bible studies, I’d suspected that if I allowed myself to become a disciple, I wouldn’t remain one for long. But though I was convinced that organized religion was not for me, I felt obliged to humor the disciples, to accede to their oft-spurious interpretations of the Bible. Those disciples were driven by a certain curious impetus… and that impetus, I am willing to admit, impelled me to indulge them.
Soon, Dan (as I must call him for the sake of prudence), one of the leaders of the campus ministry, began to impress on me the imperatives of immediate baptism.
Subconsciously, I knew that baptism would be the seal that would bind me to the church. I knew that once I allowed myself to be submerged in those waters, I would, in effect, be entering a contract.
Being baptized in a church, I reckoned, was a marriage between the church and the convert, much like the union between a bride and a groom in which both are to “cleave to each other and become one.” Disengaging myself from the church after baptism, would, I was convinced, not fail to bring its baggage of trauma.
I stalled. I whined that I didn’t feel right about being baptized yet, that I was waiting to set my heart right with God, that I was waiting for the right time…
That phrase turned out to be my undoing. Dan countered that there would never be a “right time,” that there could never be a right time, that I had to make this the right time. He seemed desperate for me to be baptized, but I allowed myself to be persuaded by his rhetoric. It seemed quite plausible.
§
The following Friday was Good Friday, and I had gone to the weekly devotional that was held at their Michigan Avenue location. Dan arranged to take me to lunch the next day. Evidently, he had to complete the string of pre-baptismal bible studies as soon as possible, and add me to the flock of disciples as quickly. Did not Christ exhort his disciples to make disciples of all nations? Was not that the Messiah’s very mandate to his followers? Dan intended to fulfill that mandate, and he was doing a good job of it.
The next day, Dan picked me up from my Lake Meadows apartment at about 4:00 p.m. We then drove to Hyde Park to look for a place to eat and study the Bible. We found an Italian restaurant that suited our purpose, parked the car, and went in. Dan ordered a medium-sized pizza and the waiter brought some bread moments later. He sprinkled some cheese on the olive oil he’d poured on the saucer, dipped a piece of bread in it, took a bite, and said it was good. I tried it, and agreed.
The minister then produced his NIV Bible and began the systematic process of converting me to the faith. I listened, nodded and answered his questions in the affirmative. I asked a few questions of my own—questions that were either unsatisfactorily answered or entirely evaded. Dan told me that tomorrow was Easter, that Jesus arose from the dead on that day, and that the full implications of that resurrection were beyond the grasp of any single man.
Wouldn’t it be the absolute best thing for me to be baptized tomorrow, to be submerged in water, and to be raised, like Jesus, to a new life? Wouldn’t it be all too cool to say that I was baptized on Easter? I silently contemplated Dan’s modest propositions, and like the quixotic (sic) that I had become, agreed that it would, indeed, be cool to be baptized on Easter. Though I harbored reservations about baptism (in fact, I asked him if there was a way around the actual submersion, he said no), I neither committed myself to it nor expressed my reservations. We prayed, and he dropped me off at home.
The next day was Easter, and I brought myself, somehow, to go to the church. I had in my attendance of other baptisms heard the converts say they were “fired-up,” “sold-out” to God, and that nothing could be more “awesome.” Deep down, I had no such experiences. I was, frankly, in a trance, and the most important motivation for continuation on the path I’d set out on was the sheer novelty of being baptized on Easter.
After the worship service, I told Dan of my resolution to get baptized. He was ecstatic. He spread the word (you must marvel at the efficacy of word-of-mouth), and arranged, with a few snaps of the finger I think, to have the baptismal bath ready. Everyone was overjoyed. Hugs and congratulatory messages almost suffocated me.
By the time I arrived at the Michigan Avenue baptismal venue, almost every disciple in the campus ministry was already there and I was greeted with another round of hugs and congratulations. Apparently, I had made the best decision of my life, and everyone was happy for me.
I was asked to go and change into the T-shirt and jogging pants I’d brought for the purpose of the submersion in water, and was subsequently led to a back room where I was to be faced with the final, this-is-it, no-turning-back round of questions. In a solemn ceremony, Dan and two other patriarchs of the Campus ministry asked if I would be willing to be committed to the body of Christ, to attend every meeting of “the body,” and to forever live the life of a disciple. I answered all three questions in the affirmative. We prayed.
Our emergence from the back room was to rapturous applause and ecstatic cheers. Then began the obligatory flattery about the object of the convention: some said I was one of the most brilliant persons they’d ever met, others, that they’d never seen anyone so willing to study the bible, and that they were sure I’d make a fine disciple. Others, yet, couldn’t wait to see what God would do with me. Everyone had such kind words that, to tell the truth, I might have cried if I had one less drop of testosterone running through my veins. In all, everyone thought I would make one heck of a disciple.
I was still deep in my trance when somebody led me towards the baptismal bath. I stepped into the bath, waded to the deep end of it, and sat on the raised steps, the water circling my lower torso.
“Do you believe that Jesus died for your sins and rose from the dead to grant you eternal salvation?” I vaguely heard Dan ask.
“I do.” I said mechanically. If someone had looked into my eyes, they might have suggested that we postpone the event. Though I was sitting in that bath, I was really far away. Deep down, in whatever remained of my consciousness, I was asking myself, what am I doing? Why in the world am I doing this? I certainly wasn’t fired up.
But it was too late to withdraw now. Surely I did not intend to climb out of the water and declare to these incredibly awesome people that I’d changed my mind about being baptized in their church. To have done so would be to have committed an atrocity, a barbarity, and in fact, an abomination deserving of eternal damnation!
“What is your good confession?” Dan asked, jolting me out of my reverie.
“Jesus is Lord.” I said as we had rehearsed in the back room. Obviously, that utterance was not, by the most elastic definition of the word, a confession—never mind whether it was good or not. For my intellectual detachment from the process, I might as well have been reciting the rosary. At any rate, a thunderous applause rent the air as I made my “good confession.”
“I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” Dan said as he clasped his hands over mine, which were firmly covering my mouth and nose, and lowered me, backward, into the water.
I re-emerged to reverberating shouts and applause, and to the beginnings of the refrain, “We love you with the love of the lord…”—one that I came to understand was, for lack of a more apt description, the induction anthem.
As I climbed out of the water, someone wrapped my towel around me, and directed me to the men’s rest room where I dried myself, and changed back into my clothes.
When I returned from the bathroom, it was to another round of by-now-asphyxiating hugs and congratulations. There were two cards that had been signed by about every disciple in the campus ministry, congratulating me on making the best decision of my life.
§
It was at this point that I slowly began to emerge from the trance that had enveloped me all week, into the reality of my just-forged commitment. I knew I would eventually joist my way out of it, but I was presently involved in an intimate relationship with The Church.
With that, I became a bona fide member of The Church, a membership I was too willing to relinquish, but too ambivalent to; a membership that in retrospect was a veritable waste of my time and energies; a membership that allowed me to witness an admixture of hypocrisy, conformity, and servility, the likes of which I never wish to witness again.
[undated c. 2002 - 2003]
I should have gone fishing or skinny-dipping or window-shopping for that matter. I should have broken my resolution to abstain from clubbing… in fact, I should have done anything but sit through Bruce Willis’ latest yarn of an action movie. The experience was exasperating in its milder parts, and revolting at its crudest. I should have been watching SNL reruns.
Ever since my introduction to the philosophy of the human nature in Dr. Lichtenbert’s class, I have generally sided with Jean Jacques Rousseau (pictured). Rousseau contended that man (i.e. the human species) is inherently good; that it is society’s crassness that corrupts and imbues us with a propensity toward evil. In effect, the argument was that, left to his devices, man would comport himself.
Tayo Awofesobi 2:10 pm on February 25, 2007 Permalink
Wow! i am flabbergasted, this is bollox! you would think that as civilization is approaching it’s peak society would have no time for disparity of race, but saddly its not so. This image almost exacerbated me feeling towards caucassians. However i would like to be irenic by plaving “the devils Advocate”, by saying i hope Sony was missrepresented by a pannel of incongruous individuals. Please excuse me as i pick my jaw off the Floor. Charles thanks for the heads up O! Na Wa
Idiare 6:50 am on February 26, 2007 Permalink
Interesting ad there…..may i give them the benefit of doubt by considering the fact that Sony is a japanese company and not owned by caucasians?
But maybe the copywriter and visulaizer in their advertising agency are caucasian…..the fact still remains that it rubs us off iin the wrong way. My experience tells me that a client must still sign off o whateva creative shenanigans an ad agency comes up with so the ball rolls back to Sony’s court!
I believe the Japanense should know better….abi?
ibenaija 7:46 am on February 26, 2007 Permalink
In spite of its Japanese origins, Sony, today, is a truly global, multinational firm—and, as such, bears the responsibility of (at the minimum) espousing values that engender cultural sensitivity.
Whether Sony failed to espouse such values, or its people (wherever they are) failed to live up to those values… the effect is the same.
A company’s values ought to drive the behavior of its people… This here is hardly a case of a few bad apples. The ad reflects the concerted effort of an entire functional and geographic area… And, what’s worse, Sony actually defended the campaign, initially.
It’s bad enough that people of African descent are engaged in an ongoing struggle to establish themselves in today’s world, but to be assaulted by this sort of imagery (in the 21st century) is plain unpalatable!
Raymond T. Hightower 1:48 pm on February 26, 2007 Permalink
Charles- I remember hearing about this in the middle of last year. If I recall correctly, Sony apologized and they pulled the ad. Are you saying that they brought it back in Jan 2007? If so, I thoroughly applaud your decsion to vote with your wallet.