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The first time I got baptized was when I was 11-12 years old and attending a fairly liberal church by American standards.


The church had just built its building about a half-mile from our house. Mom noticed, her neighbor friend was a part of the church and invited us to come. And after all, Mom thought, it was about time to do something to give the kids a church background. And on the day my sister and I were sprinkled by the vicar of that church, there was a very strange addition to our number. My Dad, of all people, was there, all dressed up for the occasion. But before he got sprinkled, he had some questions for the vicar. The main one I remember was whether Jesus and this baptism was the only way to God. And the vicar, no, of course not. People who were of other faiths, like Moslems and Hindus and Buddhists just had another name for God, and they would get to heaven in their own way.

Apparently Dad thought that was good answer, and so the Baptism proceeded as planned.

But the one thing I was told would happen to me was that my sins would be taken away.

But that afternoon I went home, and I remember that immediately, my sister and I got in some kind of short fight, and my Dad kept smoking and cursing, and I knew nothing had changed. And after all, what did that matter! It didn’t matter which God I worshiped, what baptism really was supposed to mean. I was O.K., I guessed, because I had tried.


And what really had happened that day, according to Scripture, is that we had been sprinkled in a church that was destined some day to be come a part of the Church of Mystery Babylon!

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