“I am.”
“Don’t they, like, baptize you as babies?” she continues.
I nod. “Yes.” I know most evangelicals don’t baptize as infants, allowing children to choose Christ. It’s never made much difference to me either way.
Bridgette’s face relaxes. “Oh, so you’re born again?”
“What?” For the simplicity of the words, I’m having great difficulty following the flow of this conversation. “No. I was baptized as an infant, have gone to church my whole life, and believe in God, and Jesus, and his resurrection, and all of…that.” My hand waves through the air like a lunatic while I dispense my Christian credentials. Despite not having gone through confirmation yet. Though I know that term will likely be foreign to the girls in front of me, and I have little desire to enter into a lecture at the moment.
Eden’s face morphs to a look of longing as she continues looking at me. “That’s not… That’s not the same thing.”
My mouth drops open in astonishment. Eden’s face isn’t as accusing as her words, which makes it worse, in my opinion. Bridgette, having said very little through this whole conversation, stands and pulls her Bible from her backpack.
Here we go.
“Acts,” she says softly as she thumbs through her NIV—New International Version—the Bible of choice of Carter University. “Acts 2:38. Peter replied, ‘Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.’”
“Okaaay,” I reply.
Bridgette sits in her desk chair, leaving her book open. “Accepting Christ into your heart is an act of love. Of rebellion. Loving Christ and rebelling against Satan.”
I shift slightly at the mention of Satan. While he’s an understood character in my religious tradition, his name is typically only uttered within the lines of scripture. To have him a breathing member of this conversation makes me uncomfortable…which I guess is the point.
“Right,” Eden adds. “It’s not really something that infants can take on consciously, can they?”
Quickly, I think back through the reasoning behind the doctrine from which I come. “No, that’s why the parents do it. You’re baptized through your parents…you have to be baptized to go to heaven, right? That’s why they do it as babies where I come from.” I exhale and smile slightly, feeling like I’m standing on my own two feet in this conversation.
Bridgette cocks her head from side-to-side. “Not exactly. Baptism is meant as a symbol of washing someone clean of their sins. It’s not a sacrament, it’s a ceremony. Like, okay…” she shakes her head as if it’s an effort to organize the thoughts in her head. “God knows that babies and little kids can’t be held accountable for their actions. They don’t have enough consciousness to make a decision about anything salvation related. God’s not going to send a six-month-old to hell if they’re not baptized when they die.”
I nod slowly, because she’s making perfect sense.
“But,” she continues, closing her Bible, “there comes a time when people need to take responsibility for themselves. When they gain the ability to recognize that they need to invite Jesus into their hearts and lives. To choose to follow the way.”
“And what age is that?” I ask smugly.
“Between eight and thirteen, I guess. Each pastor views the age of reason differently. That doesn’t matter, though. What matters is, at some point, we all need to consciously decide to follow Jesus.”
“So then you’re saying I’m not saved?” My cheeks heat and my eyes flash to Eden, who continues to stare at me sympathetically. “That I’m going to hell if I drop dead right this second?”
Eden shoots to her feet. “No, no, no…that’s not what we’re saying. What we’re pointing out is that you’re at an age where you need to consider if you want to invite Christ to live in your heart.”
“When were you baptized?” I ask of both of them.
“Ten,” Bridgette replies.
I look to Eden, who answers. “Sixteen.”
I walk over to my backpack and throw it over my shoulder again, planning my escape. “Look. I was baptized, raised in church, and believe in Jesus. Isn’t that good enough?”
Bridgette looks like I stepped on her Easter eggs. “Don’t you want your relationship with God to be more than good enough?”
My throat constricts and I feel faint. To my right is a doe-eyed Eden, looking at me as if she’s trying to toss me a life preserver in the river of Hades. Straight ahead is a broken-faced Bridgette. Her words bounce around like a spiked ball through my brain.
Don’t you want your relationship with God to be more than good enough?
“I’m taking a walk,” I say, moving toward the door.
I hear Eden behind me, and Bridgette’s chair slides back as she stands.
Turning around, I spit out, “Alone.”
They don’t move another inch, allowing me the peace of hearing the door latch behind me before I lower my head and race down the hallway. I briefly consider stopping at my RA’s room, but decide against it. She’s probably on their side, anyway.
I’m going to hell.
The thought doesn’t scare me as I move across campus, the library in my sights. Because it’s not true.
Right?
Flustered, I rest against a brick wall and dial my sister’s cell phone number.
“Hey you! How’s Jesus U?” she answers amidst her own laughter.
I sigh. “Am I going to hell because I haven’t been baptized as an adult?”
“Wow,” she deadpans, “that good, huh?”
“Jenny!” I growl.
“Calm down,” she quiets her laughter. “Why don’t you give me some context?”
It’s not just medical school that’s given her such a clinical turn of phrase. She’s always been that way. Scientific and ordered, my gorgeous, Barbie doll-like stepsister passed up her senior prom—where she would have most certainly been crowned queen—to attend a stem-cell research symposium. An extra credit paper she’d written earlier in the year was being discussed by a panel of top-notch researchers.
I take a few minutes to catch her up. From my mom’s insanity on the drive to campus, through my first meetings with other students and lunch with Roland, and ending at my eternal damnation, I pause and wait for her response.
“All this in forty-eight hours? Impressive.”
Before I can cut in, she continues. “How much of this does your mom know?”
“That I had a failed lunch with Roland. But no details there.”
“Okay. Look, I don’t know if they’ve tapped your phone there or not,” Jenny jokes, knowing all about the strict media rules ordered by Carter University, “but I don’t think you should tell your mom any of this. Sugarcoat it if you must, but if she thinks you’re being spiritually bullied, she’ll throw a fit.”
She’s right. My mom wouldn’t think twice about driving out here and giving everyone a piece of her mind.
“As for your soul?” She takes a deep breath, exhaling directly into the phone. “All things considered, you’re probably better off than I am.”
“Jenny…” I echo her sigh and look at the clouds.
While I’ve always found comfort inside the walls of church, Jenny is the exact opposite. She graduated high school when I was twelve and then left for college, but before that, when she would stay at our house on the weekends, I remember her fighting to avoid our Sunday services—winning more as she got older. Our parents didn’t want to force her to go.
It wasn’t anything against God, she’d say. It’s just that none of it made sense in her brain. As if that was supposed to soften the blow. That intellect ruled over spirit.
Clouded it may be, though I’ve never said that. I’ve always believed the two can co-exist in harmony. I mean, come on, I’m the valedictorian of my high school class. For Jenny, however, the world is so black and white she doesn’t even own grey.
“Love you, Sis,” she says, dictating the end of our conversation. “Check your Facebook page, by the way. You have a zillion wall posts from your friends asking if you’re alive.”
Naturally. Twelve hours away from social media is enough to file a missing person’s report. I hadn’t been seen in forty-eight. Good as dead.
“I will when I get to a public WiFi… Rules,” I grumble. Carter’s internet is heavily monitored to, you know, keep up the moral integrity of its student body.
“Good girl.”
My Facebook page is far from anything considered wholesome, and I don’t want to open myself up to unintentional demerits since I’m sure the questions I have planned for my professors throughout this year will get me into enough trouble.
Jenny’s techie boyfriend, Paul, yanked the phone away from her during one of our conversations this summer and gave me strict orders to limit my internet access while on campus. “School research only,” he’d demanded, knowing how easily my browsing history could raise red flags.
I mean, how many CU students would spend as much time as I do googling Roland Abbot, his personal history, and his sermons? “Might think you’re a stalker,” Paul’d said with the barest hint of humor in his voice. He was mostly serious.
They were perfect for each other.
Jenny speaks again, interrupting my train of thought. “Have you talked to Dad?” She just calls Dan Dad and I call my mom Mom and it saves us a load of time in our conversations.
“We talked briefly last night, but he was at the airport so it wasn’t too in depth.” I take another deep breath, reminding myself how good it felt to just hear his voice.
“Par for the course, huh?” She’s always been snarky about Dan’s mellow nature. Shallow, she calls it. Relaxed by the rest of the world’s standards.
“I guess. I’m just missing all of you.” My throat tightens briefly, but I scold it to stay open. I’ve never cried this much in my life put together.
“I miss you, too.” She makes a kissing sound into the phone before hanging up. Jenny has never been one for goodbyes.
As I put my phone away, a text message dinging through stops me. I have a text from my RA, who’d sent out an email on the campus server this morning asking us for our cell numbers, and giving us hers, so we would always have a spiritual advisor and friend on our side. Her words.
Maggie: Hey Kennedy, just checking in. How was your first day of classes?
The timing of her text reeks of suspicion. Mere minutes after taking off from my dorm following an unfortunate encounter with my roommates…hmm. I think twice before texting back. That’s my rule: think twice, speak once. Almost no one does that anymore…especially where keyboards are involved. Which is weird since you have the chance to delete or revise before you send.
Me: Standard, I guess. I don’t have anything to compare it to.
Immediately, she replies.
Maggie: Do you have a few minutes to get together and check in?
From day one, Maggie has seemed like the perfect CU RA—interested in the spiritual welfare of her floor, and super spunky and friendly to boot. It’s never a bad idea to collect allies, I concede to myself. So, I respond in the affirmative.
Me: Sure, when?
Maggie: Are you around now?
My heart races at the apparent urgency. My roommates likely went to her and tattled on my bad attitude, not to mention my eternal damnation. For a day there I was thinking I’d lucked out with Bridgette and Eden as roommates. Turns out they’re exactly as I’d expected. Feared. Looking down their noses at the unsaved. I don’t claim to have all the answers surrounding salvation, but I know I have it. Screw them for thinking otherwise.
Me: Be right there.
CHAPTER NINE
Lead Me
Maggie’s door is cracked, as I’ve noted it has been since I moved in two days ago. Perpetually available. I still knock, preemptively upping any points I may have already lost—countering with exceptional manners.
A book closes, a chair slides, and the door opens.
“Hey!” Maggie greets cheerfully. Her mid-back-length brown hair is woven into a loose braid that is slung forward over her shoulder. “Come in. Sit.” She gestures to her bed and I’m grateful for the comfort of her room.
There’s your standard-issue Jesus paraphernalia, sure: Biblical verses scripted in a shabby-chic way inside frames, a distressed wooden cross. But her comforter is loaded with colors and flowers, and a reed diffuser emanates a sweet floral smell that makes me feel like I’m in a yoga studio.
Yoga is frowned upon here, unless it’s scripture-centered. Whatever that means.
Maybe it’s Maggie herself who relaxes me. She has the cutest nose, which kind of makes her look like a fairy—another thought I should keep to myself—and she’s literally always smiling. Literally. I know how to use the word, and I take it very seriously. She even smiles in prayer. I’ve never been able to marry prayer and smiling.
“So,” she starts, her smile dimming slightly, but still present.
I roll my eyes. “You’ve talked with Eden and Bridgette.”
It’s tighter than looks comfortable, but the smile remains. Maggie seems caught off guard by my assumption. My apparently correct assumption.
“It’s okay,” I reassure her, putting up my hand. “I figured they’d come report my unsaved-ness.” I slow down over the last word, recognizing it isn’t one.
Maggie chuckles and shakes her head as she looks down. “Oh, Kennedy,” she says lightly, “we’re going to have a lot of fun this semester.”
My confusion restricts any response, so I just stare and fiddle with the straps on my backpack.
“It seems like you’ve got some judgment struggles,” Maggie continues.
My eyes bulge. “Me? Are you…no.” My speech gets faster and higher pitched as I wave my hands around, pointing in the direction of my room. “Them. They were judging me. Telling me how I’m not really saved and that I should want my relationship with God to be more than good enough.”
Maggie takes a deep breath. “Well, you should. But that’s for another time. I want you to just take a step back and look at the situation. You’re judging them through your world view, just like they were judging you through theirs. As far as all of you are concerned, you’re stating facts based on what you know to be true, right? You think they’re judging because where you come from. Evangelicals and talk of salvation make people think one thing, and where they come from, not being born again makes them think another.”
“How do you know where I come from?” I huff petulantly.
“I get a stat sheet on everyone on my floor.” Maggie winks and I feel a little violated. What else was on that sheet?
“But they acted like they were better than me.” I continue my playground-style arguments.
Maggie scrunches her eyebrows. “Did they? They came to me very upset, Kennedy, and I need you to know that. They’re worried they’d upset you—”
“Oh, they picked up on that, did they?” I snap, then immediately wince. I didn’t mean—or want—to take that tone with someone in possession of a three-ton bag o’ demerits.
She purses her lips and tilts her head to the side. As she puts her hand on my forearm, she speaks quietly. “Look. I get it. More than you know, I get where you’re coming from. What I need you to promise me you’ll work on is not assuming the worst out of everyone here, okay? I know salvation talk can get really heated. That’s not likely to change during your time here, let alone in any foreseeable decade. From where Bridgette and Eden are coming from, they’re truly concerned about you. Acting out of anger, as you did, only solidifies their concerns.”
“That I’m damned?”
Now it’s Maggie’s turn to wince. “Sort of. For the most part, they’re used to being able to have a discussion when emotions run high. You’re used to isolating.”
“How do you know that?” I demand, crossing my arms in front of me.
She moves
her hand back to her lap. “I was raised Catholic.”
A slight breeze could knock me over right now, I’m sure of it. How in you-know-who’s name does a Catholic, of all people, not only end up at Carter University, but be an exemplary enough student to be promoted to the serious position of RA? My mouth hangs open until my tongue is dry.
“So,” Maggie continues cheerfully, “for now I’d love it if the three of you could talk. You can either go do it right now, or we’ll schedule a session where I can be present to facilitate.” She stands and moves back to her desk, placing reading glasses on her nose.
I’m nervous about facing my roommates after our tense parting. “Are you busy right now?”
“Mmm hmm.” She nods passively as she cracks the binding of a novel.
“Doing what?” I challenge.
Maggie looks up without moving her head, her hazel eyes underscored by the black rim of her glasses. “Letting you grow up.” Her eyes move back to her book, which I take to be more of a prop at this point.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I walk out of her room.
“Anytime,” she chirps after me.
It wasn’t so bad, talking with Eden and Bridgette. Despite my negative assumptions about the evangelical pair, the positive assumption that they’d be forgiving was spot on. I told them that I was really sensitive about salvation and baptism and everything, and admitted I felt judged by them.
They looked woefully heartbroken. They spent more time apologizing to me for how they made me feel than I did to them for acting like a wretch. Eden offered up a quick prayer, asking God to help keep our emotions gentle with each other. I squeezed their hands and offered a stern “Amen” at the end. They promised they’d keep praying for me and were quick to add that they’d be praying for peace and clarity. Salvation. They meant they’d be praying for my salvation, but they kept that to themselves, as did I.
The rest of the week carried on much the same, academically speaking. My courses this year flow much like my high school courses did. I have all of my classes every day except Friday. Most freshman course loads looked similar. It seemed to be Carter University’s attempt to facilitate the transition process, and I quite liked it. This meant I had Fridays off; so did my roommates and friends. I assume this is in an effort to offer a day of study and homework, since there’s lots of worshipping to be had on Sundays.
Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father Page 8
