Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

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.