He had never attended a revival but here he was — the host pastor of one. As the still-wet-behind-the-ears pastor of Presbyterian persuasion, his first-out-of-the-gate parish was a small, rural, Mid-South congregation, the members of which prided themselves in saying, “Don’t pay attention to the name over the door; were just all Baptists here.”

Well, not all. The pastor wasn’t; but this Calvinist with a covenantal theology found himself pastoring a congregation with an Armenian theology that believed salvation was in their hands and the best time of year for their children who had arrived at the age of discernment to “get saved” was the annual fall revival.

Oh, and there was one alcoholic member who didn’t care much for the city slicker pastor so he never attended a regular service but would faithfully attended the fall revival to get saved again and again and again, year after year after year.

The alcoholic’s dubious claim to fame was that he dated, much to the chagrin of his wife and children, a country-western singer down in Nashville who ironically sang a popular version of the song “Stand By Your Man.” Apparently, she didn’t stand by her husband or she didn’t consider her husband her man and the alcoholic certainly didn’t stand by his wife. Every year he resolved to be faithful to his wife and a better father to his children, but he just couldn’t resist temptation and “back slid” into the arms of the singer thus requiring repeat repentances and what were becoming countless, tear-filled trips to the altar accompanied by his long-suffering and ever hopeful wife and children.

The congregation loved the guest preacher for the week, for his preaching with conviction, his sincerity, and his eloquent altar call during the quiet singing of “Just As I Am”: “With every eye closed and every tongue hushed and every heart open, ask yourselves where you would spend eternity if you were to die tonight in an automobile accident on your way home without having accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior.” Parents didn’t close their eyes, but stared down their noses in the direction of their children whose decision had now become a matter of eternal life.

The revival preacher wouldn’t quit until every kid age eight and up and the old drunk had walked the “sawdust trail,” which was actually pretty nice carpet. Some folks were seen to be elbowing their children out of the pew.

After the revival ended and the “Best Preacher in the Great Commonwealth of Kentucky” was on his way to the next revival and the adoration of the next congregation, the pastor started practicing his believer-baptism skills. The baptisms wouldn’t take place till the following spring when the water in the creek was warm enough, but the parents didn’t care about the time-lapse because they were assured their kids were saved from hell that star filled night the previous fall when they decided to accept Jesus.

The pastor had only seen infant baptisms by sprinkling so he had to get the technique down. A Baptist minister friend told him to be sure to support the back of the person to be baptized by putting an arm around the small of the back and to hold the person’s wrist and to let them cover their own nose and mouth so they wouldn’t get scared that they were going to suffocate by the pastor’s death grip.

When the day arrived they all gathered at the creek and sang “Shall We Gather at the River?” He thought of a funny joke about a revival preacher telling the story about leading a raid and confiscating all the booze in a dry county and dumping it into the river before the choir director called the congregation to sing the final hymn “Let Us Gather At the River,” but thought better of the idea.

The alcoholic was missing in action, presumably in the arms of his paramour, but the kids were there along with all the parents. One girl about ten years of age had a mound of curls done up in a permanent for the occasion and the pastor couldn’t get all the hair underwater before the girl ran out of oxygen. When the baptism was over he joked that she would always have unruly hair. The folks on the bank were not amused. Believer’s baptism was serious business. He should have thought better of that quip, too.

When his daughter was born, he could have baptized her by sprinkling in the county seat town church that was part of his yoked ministry. They practiced infant baptism there, but he decided he wanted to teach his rural parishioners a thing or two about baptism from a Presbyterian perspective so he chose that church for the sacrament.

When the elders discussed the statistics at the end of the year, his daughter’s baptism was missing from the list. He brought it to their attention and they reluctantly listed it.

Later, an elder told him that if you’re not dipped, you’re gypped. He guessed his daughter was gypped in the eyes of those parishioners, but, thankfully, not in the heart of Jesus.