I’m in southern Ohio. I grew up attending a small town “anti” congregation: no instrumental music, no dancing, no drinking, no gambling, no organizational support of outside endeavors, services three times a week, crackers and Welch’s.
I was baptized at 12 (mainly because all my other cousins the same age were doing it–great reason, I know) on a Wednesday night during the Fall Gospel Meeting. The visiting preacher had done a great job with the fire and brimstone guilt sermon that night so I went forward. My aunt helped me dress in the “ceremonial” garments (white robes), one of my uncles put on the hip waders and we went into the baptistry (hidden behind the requisite white board and with the required stream mural in the background.)
I had to confess I believed Christ was my savior and that he died for my sins, etc. The preacher then put a folded up hankie over my nose and bent me backwards and made sure I went completely under the water. From the experience of watching others I know he said “I baptized you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, amen.”
That being said, I’m not sure I entirely grasped the meaning of what was happening. I think I did it more because I knew it was expected of me.
As of now, I will be recieved into full communion at Easter Vigil and things suddenly make much more sense
Tonight, I go for my first confession. The poor priest, I have almost 20 years to cover