The thermometer screamed “103” and then cried for mercy. The concrete around the pool was significantly hotter, fulfilling its role in the cruel game it had coauthored with the pool itself. The latter promising sweet respite from a sweltering summer day. The former torturing the soles of even the toughest feet on their pilgrimage to promised relief.
I watched this game unfold from beneath an enormous triangular umbrella suspended above the corner of the Minden Community Pool. I try not to go to the pool for biological reasons – bacteria, viruses, genetic mutations caused by ultraviolet radiation, and because I’m large and hairy. As progressive as I have become, I still believe it’s my wife’s job to take the kids to the pool.
But in a grand and humble display of mutual submission, I grabbed some towels from the basement, plastered my girls with sunblock, begged and bargained for them to wear hats and long-sleeved shirts, squished their slippery bodies into the back seat of my Forester, forgot the towels, and drove the six blocks, hearing a ghostly chant, “Dead man walking” the entire way to my execution chamber.
I never know what to do at the pool. I once took a book, but this sparked an unsolicited conversation with a stranger – a twelve-year-old boy. He asked me what I was reading. Prepositions in the Greek New Testament. Cool, he said. I didn’t ask, but he told me what he had been reading. Twilight. Darn books.
But as hard as I’ve tried, I’ve only come up with one other option – watching. But how does one watch people at a public swimming pool without looking like a creeper. Sunglasses on – he could be looking anywhere. Sunglasses off – everyone knows where I’m looking. It’s a real catch-22. So I look at the ground. Then the sky. Then the ground. Then behind me even though I know there is nothing there. Then my arms, flexing my biceps but knowing right away that this is strange. Then my children because this is a special moment. Then the ground. Then the sky.
Then a sign catches my eye. Next to the bathhouse, down by the deep end, positioned like it doesn’t want to be read, is a large sheet metal sign affixed to the wall. I would say about three feet wide and five feet tall. The font looks old and maybe hand-painted, but it’s probably too precise and too wordy to be old and hand-painted. The title tells me that these are the rules of the pool as handed down by the Nebraska Department of Health. One commandment immediately hooks me and reels me in without a fight because I see the word “nude.” That word is as intriguing to me now as it was when I was a twelve-year old boy. “Before entering the pool, all swimmers must take a shower in the nude with soap and water.”
I cannot contain my smile, so I put my hand over my mouth and squint, like I’m having a profound thought or like I’ve been living on a remote island and my stomach hurts because it’s weird to go number two in an outhouse while someone is waiting outside for you to finish. But the shaking of my stomach betrays me.
What in the world happened, somewhere in Nebraska, that the state had to write a rule containing the phrase “in the nude with soap and water?” I’m imagining all kinds of scenarios. “Eight local middle schoolers disappear from public pool. Officials suspect they showered with their bathing suits on.” “Mother of three contracts giardia from public pool. She says she didn’t shower because she just took a bath while her husband cleaned the house.” “Elderly man struck blind because he only showered with soap.” Is that even possible? Is not “water” implied in “shower.” Maybe not. People are crazy these days.
I learned a lesson that afternoon. When you read something unexpected, you should ask, “What must have happened to cause someone to write that.” I’ve read something else unexpected, shocking even, and it didn’t contain the word “nude.” And it’s a lot older than the sign at the Minden Community Pool.
For all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female – for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.
What in the world happened to cause the apostle Paul to write this? The answer is, I’m sure, multifaceted. This passage has been used to prove a lot of points. But what must have happened? Would Paul have written anything like this to our churches? Probably not. To the churches on my attendance resumé, Paul would have written this: There is Greek, there is free, there is (for all practical purposes) male…Never mind. The most obvious reason that Paul wrote this is because the body of Christ in Galatia was composed of all of these kinds of people, and probably more. Jews and Greeks. Slaves and free. Males and females. Educated and uneducated. Rich and poor. Republican and Democrat. American League and National League. Cilantro lovers and cilantro haters. Vegan and Paleo. Wine and grape juice. Homeschool and Public School. Young earth and old earth. The list could, and should, go on and on.
Christ obliterates these differences. How? Paul prefaces this bold assertion by referencing our baptism into Christ. Baptism is death and resurrection. At Ovilla Road Baptist Church, in the summer of 1989, Brother Nick, my pastor, just before he pushed me under the water one Sunday evening said these words, in his kind and caring Tennessee drawl, “Curtis, what is your profession of faith?” This profession unites us despite our differences. I probably said something like, “I just believe that Jesus is just really awesome and that sin is just really bad, and like, I can be in heaven if I just ask Jesus in my heart, and it feels awesome to be saved, oh, and that he is God’s son.” I butchered it, but God accepted it.
Next, barely hearing it because I was headed under water, “Buried with Christ in baptism.” Without Christ, we are all equally buried. But by faith, we can be buried with him.
Finally, hoping he could lift me up, “Raised to walk in newness of life.” In Christ, we are equally raised. Gifted and challenged. KJV and NLT. Soda and Pop and even Coke. Brisket and pork shoulder. Unity without uniformity. In the Greek, this passage begins with Christ and ends with Christ. Maybe our churches should do the same.
I guess I don’t mind, so much, taking my kids to the pool.
Shapes and Stories 