Theology brought my future wife and me together—and almost kept us apart. I met Laurie at a Catholic renewal weekend called “cursillo.” A cursillo is an intense, three-day short course in learning about and experiencing the Christian faith. The program was immensely popular in Peoria, Illinois where I was serving as a pastor. Soon after arriving in Peoria, I met one person after another who told me, “Cursillo was the most important spiritual experience of my life.” As a pastor, I was curious. I certainly didn’t want to miss out on the most important spiritual experience in my life. So I found someone to sponsor me, and one weekend, from Thursday night to Sunday night, I “made a cursillo.”
Normally, cursillo is strictly for Catholics, but Peoria has one of the few ecumenical cursillos in the United States, and as many Protestants as Catholics make a cursillo. After I made my cursillo (which was indeed a wonderful experience, though not the most important spiritual experience in my life), the cursillo staff asked me if I would assist in future cursillo weekends. Since it was an ecumenical program, they wanted a Protestant clergyperson on hand to do spiritual counseling with the Protestants. I agreed.
The first cursillo weekend in which I assisted happened to be a weekend for women. Cursillo weekends are either all-male or all-female so as to keep the focus of the weekend on spiritual growth rather than romantic pursuits. My task during the weekend was to give a talk on sin (they always assigned the talk on sin to the Protestant clergy) and to be available for anyone desiring spiritual counsel. During the weekend I couldn’t help but take note of the most attractive young women who were present. One in particular caught my eye—a small brunette with smiling eyes. So I was quite surprised and pleased when she approached me during every break to ask me a theological question. The questions were thoughtful and genuine, but no one is that interested in theology. She liked me and I liked her.
At the end of the weekend, we all received a list of everyone’s name, address and phone number so we could stay in touch with each other. But, respectful of the fact that cursillo is not a dating service, I waited until a decent amount of time had elapsed before I called her—one month.
On our first date, neither one of us made a great impression on the other. I found our conversation mildly interesting but certainly not exciting. And she found fault with my manners when I dropped her off at her apartment and failed to walk her to her door. I didn’t call her again for another month. She gave up on me. But after this sputtering start, we began seeing each other regularly—and that’s when theology began to interfere.
Laurie was a Missouri Synod Lutheran. The Missouri Synod should never be confused with the mainline (read: heretical) Evangelical Lutheran Church of America. The Missouri Synod is an orthodoxy onto itself (although in fairness I should disclose that my Ahlgrim ancestors were Wisconsin Synod Lutherans—an even more strict bunch).
When Laurie attended a worship service with my small, informal Mennonite congregation for the first time, her evaluation was blunt: “I don’t feel like I’ve been at church.” Where was the liturgy? Where were the vestments and candles? Where was the awe and ecclesial power? And why was my sermon friendly psycho-babel instead of confronting the congregation with the judgment of hell? Laurie was the first person to ever tell me, “I don’t like your sermons.” Since preaching was my strong suit, I was flabbergasted. What was wrong with this woman?
I decided that what was wrong with her was that she was a Fundamentalist. She believed the Garden of Eden and Noah’s Ark were historical documentaries. She believed faith consisted in affirming dogmas and propositional statements. She wanted less tolerance and more judgment.
One day in exasperation I said to her, “I don’t know how I can continue dating you when I have dedicated my life to stamping out Fundamentalism!” And yet, I continued to date her. I wondered to myself, “Maybe it’s alright to let people be Fundamentalists. Maybe stamping out Fundamentalism is a misguided life goal. Maybe I can love even a Fundamentalist.”
But there was still an apparently insurmountable theological obstacle separating us: Laurie was willing to put up with being the wife of a Mennonite pastor and join the Mennonite Church, but she insisted that if we had children, they would have to be baptized as infants so that, in the case of death, they would not go to hell or some sort of limbo. “But Laurie,” I argued, “I can’t baptize infants. My spiritual forebears were burned at the stake for rejecting infant baptism. If I were to baptize our infants, I’d lose my ordination!” But Laurie was adamant. The wrath of God and the stain of original sin must be removed through baptism as soon as possible. Being raised in a Mennonite church, I could not appreciate this way of thinking. Mennonites teach that we are not born in sin and that we are not held accountable for our sins until we are old enough to make our own choices. Mennonites practice believer’s baptism—baptism for those who make their own decision to repent of sinfulness and turn their lives over to Christ. But Laurie wouldn’t trust me—a mere Mennonite—to instruct her in proper theology. I needed an ally.
I approached a Catholic priest friend of mine, Father Tom, and asked him if he could assure Laurie that an unbaptized baby is still in God’s grace if it dies. Father Tom said he’d give it a try. So I invited him and Laurie over for dinner one night, and between bites of food, Father Tom tried to persuade my Missouri Synod girlfriend of a more gracious theology concerning the eternal destiny of unbaptized, dead babies. Laurie would have none of it. She spotted a liberal hidden behind those Catholic vestments and dismissed his wimpy theological notions.
Looking for a way through this dilemma, I consulted with a number of other Mennonite pastors. To my astonishment, they didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. As one good friend of mine said, “Go ahead and baptize your babies—just do it privately.” But I could not accept the hypocritical notion of conducting secret infant baptisms while representing a Christian community that was founded on—and continues to practice—believer’s baptism.
Then one day, quite unexpectedly, the problem was easily resolved. Laurie happened to mention that, as a nurse at a Catholic hospital, she was trained to perform baptisms on infants facing immanent death. My eyebrows pulled together in curiosity.
“So you’ve baptized babies?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered nonchalantly.
“And you considered those real baptisms?”
“Yes.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. The long-sought solution potentially lay before us. “Then would it be alright if you baptized any children we may have instead of me?”
“Sure,” was her matter-of-fact answer.
“So if we have a baby, it’s ok with you if you call up your mother, have her come over, and while I’m in the living room watching TV, you would perform your own baptism ceremony in the kitchen, and when that child grows up, I would offer him or her a believer’s baptism?”
“Yeah.”
The problem was solved.
About a year later, Laurie and I were married. Three and a half years after that she gave birth to our son, Garrett, followed two years later by our daughter, Savannah. Laurie never did call up her mother to come to Peoria for a kitchen baptism. By that time, the milieu of the gentle Mennonites had influenced her, and the wrath of God had faded.