Imagine with me a scene in an old sanctuary in a small Indiana
town. The congregation is gathered for worship. In front of
the congregation a small crowd stands around the baptismal
font. Wriggling children sit on the floor in front of the font;
they are excited to be, if only for a few moments, away from
the control of their parents and a part of the scene before
them. This is their church and their time; they poke at one
another and whisper to each other about what they see. The
pastor holds a plump four-month-old sleeping baby boy in the
crook of her arm. She straightens the baby's slightly yellowed
long baptismal gown that has served this family for three
generations. Only the pastor and the family can see that the
gown has been left unbuttoned in order to squeeze this big
baby boy into the family heirloom. The parents stand nearby,
holding the hands of the other two children. The mother
prays silently that the children will behave and the father prays
that they have enough food for the crowd coming to lunch.
Nearby, an elder in a camel hair coat fingers a cue card. He
introduces the child to the congregation and asks them to
make their promise to raise this child in the faith.
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