Linda, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit for the forgiveness of your sins. Amen." The words came out with practiced ease, slightly slurred. We stood together in the baptistry, Linda beaming with joy, I in panic.

This wasn't my first baptism. What caused my panic, what I couldn't tell Linda and her parents, was that I was drunk. Not falling-down drunk, but drunk enough to be dangerous driving to church that night.

There we stood, a glowing teenager and her flushed pastor, ruddy for different reasons. A teacher of mine once said that if he could persuade the devil himself to baptize a truly penitent person, it would still be a sacred act. I was hoping (not daring to pray) he was right.

This was a private baptismal service, not uncommon in our tradition, and only the immediate family was present for this event.

As I lowered her, the thought had crossed my mind that I might drop her, and indeed the whole operation was a little wobbly. Abruptly, when she came ...