evangelicals

Born again, again

I got into a gentle argument with a born-again sister the other day. She was foolish enough to claim exalted status by virtue of having been baptized at the tender age of twelve, which meant nothing to me. My own sacred conversion happened when I was ten, dunked in the chlorinated baptismal pool behind the pulpit at the Second First Baptist Church in Newport News, Virginia. Under the watchful eye of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, my being born again was witnessed by a huge congregation of foot-stomping, hallelujah-singing racists, not a single black person in sight.

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