Baptized Rage, Transformed Grief - Cheryl A. Kirk-Duggan

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Divinity School, who have welcomed my prophetic voice crying in the wilderness, I say thanks: Interim President Paulette Dillard; Gaddis Faulcon, Dorothy Cowser Yancy, Tashni-Ann Dubroy, Marilyn Sutton-Haywood; Divinity School Dean Johnny Hill, Asst. Dean Jamie Ashmore, former Deans Bruce Grady and David Forbes, Sr., faculty and staff, notably colleagues Mike Broadway, Linda Bryan, Pat Powell, Mena Lewis, Stella Goldston, Reginald High, Lonieta Cornwall, Lafayette Maxwell, Brad Hunnicutt, Bobby Sanders, and Timothy Brock; of special thanks, Lizette Tapp, Tom Clark, Librarians.

      And always for his love, strength, laughter, challenges, expertise, support, and comfort, I give eternal thanks to my beloved husband Mike; may he rest in peace. For years he served as chief cook, bottle-washer, cheerleader, and editor; the joy of my life. As we walked together over three decades, especially during the recent past, he showed an indefatigable relationship with God, a profound deep love and caring for me, incredible sense of aplomb, gratitude for the little things I did as caregiver, an unfathomable passion and compassion for others, an amazing sense of acceptance, and a gift for living in the moment. This work is a testament and testimony of faith, pain, joy, hurt, grace and divine mercy unspeakable.

      Introduction

      Sometimes, we think we have it all together. Others might have the same impression of us. With spouses or partners, educational degrees, a home, cars, name recognition in some circles, and modest notoriety in our chosen fields, it might appear that life is good and success abounds. And in many ways we do have, and have had it together. Yet, sometimes there are loose threads to the garment of our lives; threads that we find in the lives of others and in culture in these United States and the world. In my own life, though I was sometimes not consciously aware of it, the loose threads of anger, grief, and the related loss as betrayal were unraveling. When I was physically active, I was always more connected and at peace. Those little threads did not seem to bother me as much.

      Time and time again, however, I would often get out of the habit of physical exercise. When I got too busy with work to work out, I did not have the spiritual revelations that happened when I jogged, power walked, did yoga, or circuit training. In the midst of hit and miss exercise, I could recount problems that were taking an emotional drain on me. Infertility compounded by the seeming onset of spousal Alzheimer’s, seemed to push me over the edge. All hope of having children – biological or adopted, and the possibility of celebrating a 50th wedding anniversary with my beloved spouse, disappeared over the course of twenty-four months; the saga of the Alzheimer’s presentation lasted roughly another four years. The threads began to disentangle. My anger seemed to be right below the surface, at the same time quite deep. Without consistent workouts, some of my senses were dulled and I was oblivious to the depths of pain. After doing yoga and later Body for Life fitness program, I really began to see the rage I could no longer deny. With all hope of having children – biological or adopted snuffed out and with my spouse seeming to lose his former genius status wit, brilliance, and cognitive ability, I became more uptight and troubled. In hindsight, I lived at the intersection of rage and grief for months. The catalyst for my initial realization and the awakening of “the Furies” began while jogging on the shores of the Atlantic, on the Island of Puerto Rico, in the shadows of Viesquez, where the United States’ frequent rehearsal of bombs bursting in air was making a population deadly ill. For months I lived at the intersection of mania and misery.

      I met my rage through baptism, during my dawn exercise ritual, as I rounded the curves on the track, on a beautiful, sunlit morning. The Spirit compelled me to re-experience my baptism. “You are holding on to rage about the middle passage (the experience of millions of enslaved persons packed like sardines in the bowels of ships from Africa to the Americas), and you still mourn and hurt around your parents’ deaths. You have much anger regarding the death of your fetus.” After our brief love affair with what we hoped would be our first born nine months later, that dream died in the time it took God to create the world, in seven days. I knew positively that I was pregnant seven days, before I had to then submit to a D & C, because there was no heartbeat.

      As I continued running around the track, the voice continued, “You are ravaged by fury that must be released. You are carrying around pain that’s not your own. Let it go! Rebaptize yourself in these waters, so that you can release this agony, and can be reborn and restored.” I heard all of this in amazement, panting as I ran to complete one more lap, with the waves from the Atlantic lapping against the shore and the breezes rustling in the palm trees a few feet away.

      Re-experience my baptism? Yeah, right. I’d heard of people doing this, but for my money, wasn’t once enough? Yet, relentlessly, the Spirit tugged at my heart and kept intruding my mind. Being obedient I said, “Sure, why not?” Totally embarrassed, I told a couple of male ordained friends, for no other women clergy were present at this intense focus session of the Faith and Order Commission, National Council of Churches. I gingerly explained to them what had happened and invited their assistance. You never saw men who are usually quite suave, professional, and in control get so agitated and uncomfortable. You could see them thinking about dogma and correct practice. They were worried about protocol; I was focused on my sanity and the recent revelation. In exasperation, one said he was leaving early the same afternoon, so thank you, but no thank you. My other friend, with whom I had a much longer standing collegial relationship, made a noncommittal response and didn’t bring the subject up again, even when I glanced his way knowingly. Not to be outdone, I told him of my plans for baptism the next morning before our meeting ended that night.

      Morning came and he was not in the decrepit exercise room where he’d been the last two mornings. I realized for whatever reason, he was incapable of assisting me in this venture. I also realized that I could rebaptize my own self, in the spirit of the priesthood of all believers, and the gift of my own ordination. With a little trepidation, I left the hotel lobby with towels in hand, out to the beach of nearest proximity. To my relief, part of the ocean was enclosed with a reef, so I would not feel the full impact of the ocean as I began my ritual. I knew that people did outdoor baptisms in rivers or lakes, but I had neither; I had an ocean. Another part of my skittishness was not about the ritual I was called to experience, but that I am not a good swimmer. I feel safe in three feet of water, for despite my goal to enter a mini-triathlon, which requires biking, running, and swimming, the swimming and to a lesser extent, the biking is still a dream. Not to be out done, I persevered.

      I sat on the concrete embankment for a while meditating on the ebb and flow of the water. I took off my running shoes and dangled my feet in the water so I could adjust to the temperature. Slowly, I waded out into the water. As I stood there, the first revelation was that what had seemed to be solid, the ocean floor, actually shifted. Every time the tide came in and went out, the sand where I’d been standing shifted, so I was slowly sinking. Each time I shifted my position on what initially felt like sturdy ground, I would feel the shifting sand beneath me, again and again. I waded further out into the water. Bravely, I lowered my body and got on my knees and let the water kiss my torso. I finally sat down on the ocean floor as the water pushed my body back and forth. When it was time for me to baptize myself, rather than push my head backwards, which is what would have happened had I had assistance, I lowered my head forward and baptized myself in the name of the Creator, in the name of Jesus the Christ, and in the name of the Holy Spirit. My mission was now accomplished; accomplished but not completed.

      I heard no music, felt no overwhelming sense of peace or anxiety, and experienced nothing other than the water. Where was the chorus of angels, or the fireworks, or at least my own rapid heartbeats? Nothing happened. A little disappointed; no, a lot disappointed, I dried off, got rid of some of the sand, and then went back inside the hotel, up the stairwell, and to my room. Still nothing, though I had been obedient. Faintly resigned, I turned the shower on, adjusted the temperature and stepped in. And then, in those moments, came the release, the release that I had desired.

      My tears gushed forth; my whole body shook. With the tears came a powerful spiritual, emotional, and physical release. With the release, came the second revelation. I needed to write about my rage, the anger that was brewing, fermenting beneath my skin. These boiling elements were

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