“Remember,” the singer says to us all,
“Remember when this happened to you, too.”
The pastor’s quiet voice, often pointedly
Charismatic, echoes a magnified whisper,
The overhead speakers giving voice to unspoken,
Unspeakable reverence.
Who ever said technology was not a miracle?
The pastor remembers his own immersion,
The first of many deaths and daily
Resurrections. He had held the preacher’s hand,
His nose plugged. What words did the man
Utter to imbue the ritual with its cleansing
Efficacy? He knew, of course, that this
Basin was not where the washing took place.
He knew the mystery was greater than the
Words he could not recall, but that, as always,
Words are and do matter. He remembered
The shock of the pool, the momentary
Oneness with water. He remembers so little
Of his first sight as he was raised up to life,
Squinting in the newly bright sun, water
Flowing over his eyes. As he lowers his
Firstborn son, he wonders what he will
Recall of these words. It is not a worry
Of something Ultimate, but for the daily walk:
Will my son remember into whose name
He is baptized? And I remember my own
Two baptisms, a clerical misunderstanding
Unwittingly telling of the many forgetful days,
The momentary ignorances of this call in my life.
But today, how could I but remember this baptismal
Joy? As you rise from the rippling surface. As the
Parishioners begin to clap. As we begin to sing. As you begin.
As your father holds you he does not weep. He
Only smiles. He remembers. He remembers. He remembers.
(April 6, 2021)
