Scott Simpson · Poetry

Baptism Junkies

Restoration Blues · source pages 26

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Source page 26

Baptism Junkies

We rolled our eyes at the ones

who ran forward every youth rally,

rededicating, re-immersing,

hungry to make it stick this time.

Like villagers bored with the boy who cried wolf,

we smirked as they went under—

again and again—

the water barely dry on their clothes.

We learned detachment young—

how to mouth the hymns and smile at the invitations,

chanting silent mantras to drown out the doubts:

"I’m fine, I’m fine—Dad put me under,

Joey was only eight, I was older than that—

if I go forward now, it means it didn’t take."

The New Testament never mentioned this—

no red ink on re-baptisms,

no footnotes on making sure it was real.

But we all knew someone who couldn’t sleep,

someone who woke at night

sweating brimstone,

trying to remember if they’d believed hard enough.