Scene 1: The setting is the Baptist church I used to attend. I walk in just before the service starts, prepared to notice all the glaring deficiencies that caused me to leave the Baptist tradition a couple of years earlier. Now I am an Anglican, and, like many in my newfound tribe, my besetting vice is believing that I have a corner on the rich treasures of Christian history. I expect to wince when I open the bulletin and see that there will be no Communion today. I expect to groan at the plain language and the absence of formal prayers.
Then, sitting with some of my dearest friends who still belong to the church, I experience something else entirely. To my surprise, I’m keenly aware of solidarity with these hand-raising believers. I know all their flaws with the sort of intimacy achieved only by long familiarity, but, through it all, I’m reminded that we share the same baptism. And nothing—not even a midlife change in church affiliation—can cancel that watery bond that is stronger than the bulkiest anchor chain.
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