In the name of my father, his son, and the freezing Pacific Ocean

Sometimes it takes a couple of baptisms

The water is making my body shiver. All of our bodies shiver. We rub our arms and smile at each other through chattering teeth.

I'm 8 years old. The youngest of the group. There's half a dozen of us standing waist deep in Lake Travis in Austin, Texas. The rest of the crowd is on the warm shore, watching us freeze. Mostly watching my dad, listening to him as he yells across the water, reminding us why we're here. They all look to him as their pastor. But my eyes just see dad.

"Baptism is an external symbol of an internal commitment. These six people are here to publicly demonstrate their decision to put their faith in Jesus Christ…"

He goes on but I'm just trying to breathe deeply, to calm my shivering. And my nerves. All I have to do is say, "Yes" when my dad asks me if I have put my faith in Jesus and then dunk my head under water. But I still feel the adrenaline.

It comes time for me to wade over to my dad, for me to be baptized. He puts his hand on my back and quietly asks me if I've put my faith in Jesus. I nod and say, "Yes." He then speaks loudly, for all to hear - the crowd, God.

"In the name of the Father. In the name of the Son. In the name of the Holy Spirit…"

I take a sharp inhale, plug my nose and go fully under the cold waters.

From under the water, I hear him say, "Buried in the likeness of his death…"

He pulls me back out.
"And raised to new life."

A crowd claps from the shore.
My dad picks me up and hugs me. His little son. My giant of a dad.

This. This is what I'm really wanting. To feel safe and held.

I would get baptized every day if it would make me feel secure.

---

Attachment theory is the study of how we form emotional bonds with other people. It shapes our sense of safety, trust and belonging.

When a caregiver is consistent, attuned, and responsive, we form what’s called secure attachment. We feel safe enough to explore, to play, to risk. When that safety is missing, we adapt - either by clinging tighter (that’s called anxious attachment) or pulling away (avoidant attachment).

Secure attachment is linked to things like greater emotional regulation, higher resilience in the face of adversity, healthier relationships, lower levels of anxiety and depression, a stronger sense of self worth and acceptance… you know, all the good stuff. Anxious or avoidant attachment is linked to… well, the less good stuff.

Thankfully, I had consistent and attuned parents. Growing up, my dad would often kneel down to get on eye level with me and say, "You are my beloved son, in whom I'm well pleased." I knew these words well. They were the words that Jesus heard when he came up from his baptism - the words his Father/God spoke to him.

To hear that as a son. From your father who you so want to make proud. Sometimes it was hard to look back at him as he'd say that. It's all I wanted, but still could be hard to receive. I would laugh nervously. Or sheepishly hug him. Or simply say, I love you too.

Sometimes it's hard to accept what we most want.

I grew up with that kind of dad. And because of it, I was able to develop a (mostly) secure attachment style to people. And I'm forever grateful for that.

My attachment style with Reality - a different story.

I've come to see spirituality as the journey of developing a secure attachment to Life itself. Living with a deep, embodied trust that Life is safe enough to hold us. It looks like belonging, presence, and resilience - the capacity to be present even amid uncertainty, paradox, and pain. It's a whole-being exhale of "I fully belong. Every damn part of me belongs."

None of us start out with a secure attachment to Life. We first have to learn how to survive, to protect our physical and emotional selves. That is how we get started. We have to learn to be a separate, fragile self in an uncertain world.

Healthy religion can then guide us through the journey of learning to trust and belong to Reality. Learning how to deeply feel safe in this world. But that usually has to start by meeting us where we are at - in our insecurities, our avoidance or anxieties about Life.

At 8 years old, I had plenty of insecurities about life. I was not ready to trust Life. Some people develop an anxious attachment to Reality - cling to certainty, control, or the “right” beliefs to feel safe. Others an avoidant attachment - preferring to keep their distance, numb out, or reduce God to an idea so they don’t have to risk vulnerability.

But I was an overachiever. I developed what is called an anxious/avoidant attachment style. (Sometimes called a disorganized attachment style). I both tried to control Reality and avoid it. I sought control through my prayers and rigid beliefs. And at the same time, I avoided Reality by numbing, by keeping distance from my own doubts and emotions, by pretending I was more certain than I really was. It was like squeezing tight with one hand and pushing away with the other.

I couldn't freely swim in Reality - I needed a life jacket to hold me afloat. That life jacket was my religion - my beliefs, scriptures and church community. I could not yet trust that I could be fully present, that I’m always held by something much larger.

I'm so grateful for that life jacket. I'm so grateful for a version of the gospel that met me in my insecurities and gave me something to cling to for a while. I'm so grateful for a church community that kept me afloat for the awkward and overwhelming years of growing up.

But eventually, I needed to take that life jacket off and see if I could swim.

---

In my mid twenties, the faith that I had been baptized into at 8 years old began to fall apart. I tried desperately to hold on to it. But something in me was expanding. And that version of God could no longer hold my experience.

It didn’t feel like expansion at first. It felt like drowning.

This was scary for many reasons. Not least of which was wondering how my dad would feel about me. Would our connection fall apart the way my faith was falling apart? Would I still be his beloved son, in whom he's well pleased?

I was afraid of his reaction, but I felt I had to tell him. He was my dad. Pastor dad. The one who baptized me. Would he still love me? Would I still be his beloved son, in whom he’s well pleased?

I asked him if we could do a video call - I needed to see his face when I told him this. To scan his expression and see if I was still accepted.

He answers the call, and after a few seconds of pleasantries, I cut to the point.
"Dad, I don't know if I can believe in God anymore…"
I start crying.

I try to explain. I fumble through communicating what I don't even understand yet.

He just listens.

When I finally stop sobbing and trying to explain, he just smiles. Then says, "I love you." And I believe him. That was all I needed for the time.

We agree to talk more about it later. And we do. Many times. Most of which are me trying to argue and debate with him. I have a lot of anger to work through. Anger that is masking my fear - I feel scared and vulnerable without my belief system to buoy me. I’m drowning.

Life feels confusing and uncertain. I want answers that will make me feel safe again. I’m still anxious, still avoidant. Only now I don’t have my usual religious coping mechanisms - a dangerous recipe.

I want to grab onto my dad, for him to hold me like he did in the lake when I was 8 years old. Yet I can only bring myself to argue with him.

I had lost my life jacket and now I’m flailing in deep waters, grabbing at my dad and trying to pull him down with me.

What I didn’t know yet was that there was something more safe and dependable than a life jacket - the ocean itself could hold me.

---

The contemplatives and mystics have taught that salvation is less about what we believe and more about how we relate to Reality. The goal for them was learning to have a secure attachment to Reality, to God. To rest in our belonging to the moment.

But belonging to Reality isn't something you can simply believe or earn. It's something we must discover, practice and embody. Often very slowly.

It takes a lifetime. Because safety is not a one-time switch - it's a lifelong rewiring. Every grief, every joy, every rupture and repair teaches us: "Can I trust Reality, even here?"

Religion is often turned into another system for anxious or avoidant attachment. Another attempt at certainty or control to help us feel safe in Life.
If I can just trust the right God, put my faith in the right person, believe the right things, accept the right gospel… then I will be safe, secure, okay.

This may be how many people need to get started on the journey, but it's not the whole journey. It can be a helpful life-jacket, but the goal is to learn to swim.

Salvation is developing a secure attachment with Reality. And that is a whole-body journey. And a whole-life journey. It's something we all want, but requires allowing our mind, body, and soul to be slowly rewired by love.

We must learn to regulate our systems - because we have these seperate selves that scan for threats and seek safety.
When anxiety floods, we practice grounding, breath, movement. Not to escape, but to stay with Reality as it is.
We face our trauma, the places where Reality once felt unsafe. Learning to repair that attachment and belonging to Life.
We find genuine connection with others who can witness our full selves, helping us learn safety by being seen and still loved.
We practice presence, training the body to stay in the moment instead of fleeing into control or distraction.

Until we can deeply embody what St. Julian of Norwich came to trust: "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

You can't think your way into safety. You have to breathe your way into it, cry your way into it, sing and sweat and risk your way into it. Because salvation is not a concept to agree with. It's a nervous system learning to rest in love.

It's a baptism of your whole being. One that I began to experience in the freezing waters of the Pacific Ocean at 31 years old.

---

It's a few months before the birth of my first kid. My dad invited me to go on a father-son trip before I became a father. A time for us to connect before I enter into a new season of life.

We decide on Santa Barbara, a place we could walk along the beach and dip in and out of cafes as we reminisce about our childhoods and talk about the journey of fatherhood that was ahead of me.

For three days, we walk, talk, connect. More deeply than we ever had. Often the conversation would turn to faith - a touchy subject after years of my angry tirades. This time, though, I’m able to let my dad be my dad. And I let me be me. No defenses or debates needed.

Maybe it was the sounds of the waves and the salty air. Maybe it was years of working through the trauma of losing my belief system. Maybe it was years of being loved by my dad even when I was determined to argue.

Here on the beach, I could finally meet my dad in presence.

On this particular day of the trip, we are walking along the beach. Shoes off. Feeling the sand and the chill of the wind. When my dad dares me to run into the ocean.
It's November. It's the Pacific ocean. And we both hate cold water.
But we love a little competition.

I sprint into the water as fast as I can, trying to make it up to my shoulders before my mind can talk me out of it. My dad is close behind. We are squealing and gasping. Just trying to breathe deeply, calm our shivering.

Then he dares me to put my head under. Always eager to impress my dad, I go under frigid water.
In the name of my father…

I pop back up, gasping. Now how about you, old man?
He gets up the nerve, goes under.
In the name of his son…

He quickly jumps out of the water, screaming a few octaves higher.
We're so cold yet feel so alive.
In the name of the Spirit…

We run back to the shore. No towels to comfort us. Wet and shivering, we hug each other.
Raised to new life…

This feels like an external symbol of an internal truth. A new kind of connection. We don’t need to believe the same things. We don’t need to share the same worldview. We just need the ability to meet each other in presence. To trust that we are both held in something larger, something good and trustworthy.

The first time my dad baptized me, I grabbed onto him and his beliefs to buoy me in the chaotic waters of Life.
The second time, I began to learn to swim.

As we shake dry on the beach, my dad tells me to get out my phone - take a video, so we can remember this moment. I start recording. We narrate what we just did to the camera.

"I love you, dad." I say.
"I love you too, son."

I’m still his beloved son.
And he's my beloved dad, in whom I'm well pleased.