Colorado Confluence Conversion

Photo by Jeffrey Louden

I HAVE BEEN TO WHERE the Colorado river begins its life near the crags of Longs Peak. I have walked in the first waters of the Roaring Fork as it begins to gather itself on Independence Pass and Hagerman Pass and McClure Pass. All rivers begin at boundaries. These ribbons of water come together at Two Rivers Park, two rivers of the stuff that makes life possible, a miracle we hardly ever notice. Just a few hundred yards east of this confluence, the Glenwood Hot Springs flow with their water warmed from earth’s tensions as the continents collide and the core of our planet reluctantly gives up some of its primeval heat. Truly we live in an amazing place of beauty and mystery.

Now some of the Baptist preachers in town baptize in the Hot Springs pool. Tourist and locals watch and gawk. Talking slows down and someone is pushed under three times for the Trinity. I’ve told some of my Baptist friends that if they had guts, they’d baptize in the river. But I never thought I’d be given that task and gift. Nor did I think it would be in October.

Many things come together in a person’s life before God becomes present, right there, up front close, in one’s midst, so that one can’t avoid God anymore. A confluence of events gathers momentum, like the waters which come together in the mountains giving prolonged birth to the Colorado and Roaring Fork Rivers. Conversion takes time. A stream of happenings, half-remembered events, people and places form a watershed which channels the spirit of God into a mighty stream. Finally one stands Moses-like at this baptismal boundary and dies.

After worship we drove to the mortuary and began the liturgy there. From death to life. Cold and threatening to rain. The sponsors promised to lead him in the ways of life. We heard the stories of water and promise. The Roaring Fork flowed outside. We walked along the cement path in blustery winds and 55 degrees across the bridge and down to the Colorado. No strangers were watching as Bob took off his socks and shoes, only thirty odd members of his church. He waded in barefoot and slipped on the round rocks. I walked in afterwards in my Tevas and dress pants, wearing the cross made by John Rupley, the pastor who baptized me. Some of the small kids threw rocks into the river. Bob was wet to the waist and I poured water from several western watersheds over him three times as ancient words were spoken. We leaned on each other for support. The sign of the cross in oil marked his forehead. Water and oil do mix. They are a sign of the kingdom. Neither one of us was too cold. The sun broke through the partial clouds and we walked back for homemade chocolate chip cookies at the mortuary.

Jeffrey Louden