I was a Southern Baptist kid, not by choice of my own, but by my mother and father’s doing. I was a feral six-year-old, and my sister was a swaddled titty baby along for the ride. My father had not yet been dunked, but my mother had been many times at the First Baptist Church in Santa Anna, Texas. I was a captive, unable to escape, so I had no choice but to enter the holy tub of East Fort Worth’s unfluoridated river water.
The good Reverend Augustin Z. Bergeron, our illustrious chain-smoking, iced-tea-drinking preacher from the bayou of Louisiana, was a world champion baptizer. He could hold a body under the water for a good minute while orating the word of God to the congregation on why this sinner had found their way to his tub of holy water. I was a kid, I didn’t know sin, or lying, or anything, I was just a dumb little fart that was dragged to church every Sunday and fell asleep in my own sweat-covered pants sitting on oak wooden pews, holding my feet high so I wouldn’t be dragged to the depths of Hell through the hot wooden floor of the church. My sainted mother thought it was time for me to take the dunking, which marked the start of a once-a-year ritual that would last for half a decade. I was baptized so many times that’s how I learned to swim. It was that or drown. My skin was permanently wrinkled, my scalp was free of Brylcream and dandruff, my skin was soft, and I smelled of Trinity River holy water most of the school week after my Sunday dunking. I may have been the cleanest and holiest kid in school. My teacher, Mrs. Edwards, a strong Christian lady of faith, always knew on Monday morning that I had been cleansed; she treated me better than the other little heathens in our class. I got two towels to lie on at nap time. I rather liked my status.
I remember my first baptism. I was barely six years old. My mother cornered the good reverend and demanded I be cleansed. My cousins, all a few years older, were considered world-class professionals, having been dunked every Sunday for two years. Mother, not wanting to be outdone by her sister, needed me to catch up. Reverend Z was hesitant because I had not been a regular attendee at Sunday School, but that didn’t deter my mother; she was determined to pursue her mission. He finally agreed over a glass of iced tea while my mother smoked three Camel cigarettes while nursing my sister and making her point.
The big-haired church ladies sang the usual hymns, a few of the overly faithful fainted and were carried out of the church. Reverend Z preached his usual knock-down-drag-out sermon, complete with rolling on the floor, smoking a half-pack of Lucky Strikes, and drinking a gallon of iced sweet tea. Not a hair on his coiffed head was out of place, and his suit was creaseless. He was a holy mannequin of God, in a good way, of course. The good Lord appreciates a snappy dresser.
After the two-hour sermon with four or five cigarette breaks, the line of folks to be baptized was down to me. Dressed in my best pants and a starched white shirt, Snap-On tie, and my new Timex kids’ watch, I was somewhat stylish for a boy my age. The young girls in the congregation gave me their toothless grin of approval. I had no idea what awaited me when the good reverend called my name to approach the pulpit and the holy tub. It was a quick affair. Reverend Z lifted me into the water, shoes, watch and all, said a few words, held me under until my legs kicked, and then raised me up, gasping for air. I was terrified. If the holy ghost had entered my body or wrapped their arms around me, I was unaware. I gagged and couldn’t catch my breath. The good reverend, seeing I was in holy distress, slapped me on the back, causing my breakfast to hurl into the holy water, which in turn made the congregation gasp in horror. This dumb-assed kid puked into the baptismal water, blaspheming and ruining the whole experience. I had eaten biscuits and gravy that morning, so the volume and solidity of the puke were rather disgusting. Reverend Z literally threw me out of the tank, lit a cigarette, took a swig of tea, and continued with a remarkable recovery sermon, saying I had rebuked the devil. The mess in the tub was the demon I expelled. It was a brilliant recovery, a saving grace for both of us. I went on to participate in many more Baptisms over the years and improved with each one, learning to hold my breath and refrain from eating before church.
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Notes From The Cactus Patch 
I’ve never heard of multiple baptisms. Is that unique to the Baptist church?
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Yes. There were some of the older choir that brought their own shampoo, sort of like the beauty parlor wash and rinse, every Sunday. My oldest cousin held the record in her church, 15 in one year. She’s still with us, so I’m pretty sure God is going to ask her “why? All it took was one.”
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Now that is a great story! What a mess…and what a quick thinking preacher.
I only got baptized one time in 2012…in the CoC you only do it once…I never heard of it more than once unless you were a baby when you first got it.
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It’s common here in Texas. Folks think the more they do, the better chances of getting into Heaven, although I think God doesn’t mind it, he likely thinks they are a little off.
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I guess that is the insurance plan! Yea I don’t see why it would be wrong…redundant but not wrong.
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Is that image of the good-looking redneck with a smoke you? 🧨
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That was 1964 at a motel in Paris, Texas. We were there to play a street dance downtown for the YMCA. Perhaps a few hundred teens showed up only because we were a band from Dallas, also known for being a big-time rock ‘n’ roll scene. That was the first and only cigar I ever smoked, and it made me green around the gills. Young and stupid, that was me, and my bandmates. The gig turned out to be a success, and everybody danced and had a great time. We also performed a few Buck Owens tunes and a couple of Bob Wills songs, which paid tribute to their country heritage. Who would know that less than ten years later, I would own a cattle ranch in Paris and be a cattle-raising cowboy. Man, does life throw you some curve balls.
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Yep, that is me, standing at the motel with that stogie.
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I am a few years older than you, Phil, but we grew up on a similar path. My guess is that this wasn’t just a coincidence; it might be that all our parents were dealing with some trauma related to the Great Depression, World War II, or visitors from outer space. When I was 12, my parents showed their total disdain for their oldest child by sending me to spend the summer with my stepfather’s mother, Elsie, and her third husband, Guy — both of whom were active members of the Assemblies of God church and political PAC.
If there was one passage in the Bible that Elsie cherished above all others, it was “spare the rod, spoil the child.” To my best recollection, she never spared the rod. That woman tried to beat the life out of me at every opportunity, which started not long after I arrived at her house for the summer—the summer of hell on earth.
It was a Sunday afternoon; we had just finished Sunday dinner (around 5:00 p.m.), and Elsie announced it was time to clear the table and get ready for church. I asked, quite innocently, “Why are we getting ready for church? We only just returned from morning services …”
BAM. Her hand grabbed as much of my shirt as it could before tightening and yanking me out of the chair for my first lesson in “There is no such thing as too much church.” I remember these events now as the Elsie Tango. It was a wild dance with me trying to get away from the buckle end of her leather belt. That’s why I never took dancing lessons as a kid; after the summer of 1957, I was already a pro.
I now see this period of my life as a baptism of fire. At first, I was shocked by what happened inside those churches. I mean, right in the middle of a sermon (while I was drawing pictures of female forms on the church brochure), people would suddenly jump up from their seats, throw their hands in the air, and start speaking in Swahili. They called it “speaking in tongues.” It scared the crap out of me; that’s when I started using the phrase “holy shit.”
I’m not making this up.
One Sunday night, I’m in the back third of the church, where no one truly committed to the Lord would sit, and I’m drawing on the program while the preacher is passionately speaking about the second coming of Jesus. Just as he says, “And the trumpet of the Lord will sound …” some guy stands up in the far back of the church and blows a note on his trumpet.
What followed would keep a team of psychiatrists busy for years. First, 99.9% of the congregation then present jumped up and nearly attacked each other, rushing to the altar, where they fell and prayed for forgiveness, spoke in tongues, and passed out (literally) — the noise was deafening.
Me? My first reaction was that my heart stopped beating for a few seconds. My second reaction was that I was pissed off and thinking that the Lord had returned before I ever got to see what a real female form looks like. Third, I wondered what chance these holy rollers had to sin if they were in church all the time.
Well, it was all a ruse. The Lord never returned, but everyone in the congregation felt a little closer to the Lord. I eventually saw a naked lady. And that experience cured me of any untoward religious behaviors. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I am a believer — but now I believe that God, master of the entire Universe, doesn’t favor this crowd of clappers any more than I did at age 12. I haven’t set foot inside one of those AOG churches in nearly 70 years.
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Mustang, I applaud your writing and story telling, what a great raconteur of a truely miserable time in your life. I was lucky to not have been banished and tortured as you were, but the two old maid sisters that taught our Vacation Bible School were almost as evil and violent. Thanks for the great reply, and you should publish this story on your blog.
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(1) I was also raised a Southern Baptist. I was baptized (only once) in a tank on stage in a church in Golden, Colorado when I was in 3rd or 4th Grade. The preacher didn’t give me any warning, and so I was caught between breaths, and wondered, while underwater, whether I’d survive or not.
(2) Although Pope on the Dole focuses on Catholicism, there is a brief story in the book (that I wrote) about a Southern Baptist bumpkin in Missouri. I couldn’t resist. It’s humorous, of course, and it does take place on a river.
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Thank you, I will read it. I didn’t know you wrote a book, but now it makes sense.
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😆😅😂🤣
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From rock and roll phenom to cattle rancher is an impressive career change. I imagine you sang the songs of Owens and Wills while you rounded up your cattle to sell them to Whataburger. 🤠🐃🐃🐂
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I did sing to them at times, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them about Whataburger, to me they were a bunch of 1200 pound pets.
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😁
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You cracked me up, Phil. We all come to faith–or not–in our own way.
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It took me a while, but it happened in time. I’ve been Baptized so many times my skin is forever wrinkled. But I’m good to go when I get to Heaven. God will say, ” why so many times, when it only takes once?” My usual smart-assed response will be, I needed a bath.
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