We Don’t Accept That Baptism

I live in a small town in Texas. If you’re looking for a church, you have options — as long as you’re looking for a particular kind of option. First Baptist. Antioch Baptist. Missionary Baptist. Primitive Baptist. A non-denominational church led by an Independent Fundamental Baptist pastor. Church of Christ. Methodist. Spanish Catholic.

What you won’t find is a Vineyard church. And Vineyard is my tradition — the one that shaped my theology, my worship life, my understanding of the Spirit’s work. But there’s no Vineyard within driving distance, and I believe that being part of a local body of believers is as much about being there for others as it is about what I receive. So Jana and I decided to get involved with the Missionary Baptist Church.

I met with the pastor several times — at my prompting — and learned that we were aligned on the things I cared most about: evangelism and a heart for others. We decided to join.

And that’s when things got complicated.

Transfer Your Card

For Jana, who was raised in this town and baptized at the First Baptist Church as a girl, joining was simple. They just had to “transfer her card” from FBC to MBC. That’s literally the language they used. Like moving a library card from one branch to another.

For me, it was different. There’s no question that I’m a Jesus follower. I shared my entire life story with the pastor — my walk with Christ, the ways God has shaped me, the ministry I’ve been involved in. I told him I was baptized in middle school at an Assembly of God church.

His next statement floored me.

"We don’t accept the Assembly of God baptism. You’ll need to be baptized in our church to join."

I looked at him. “You don’t accept it?”

I told him directly but kindly that I had a real problem with that, because it goes purely against Scripture. Paul addressed this exact issue with the Corinthians, who were dividing themselves based on who had baptized them. “I follow Paul,” “I follow Apollos,” “I follow Cephas” — and Paul’s response was essentially, “Stop it. Was Paul crucified for you? Were you baptized in the name of Paul?” (1 Corinthians 1:12–13). The point was unmistakable: baptism is in the name of Jesus, and the human institution that administered it is irrelevant to its validity.

The pastor heard me. He said, “I get it. That’s just the way we do things.”

Two Pastors, Two Perspectives

I thought about it for a week. And I did what I always do when I’m facing a hard decision: I sought advice from a couple of people. One is Ken who I consider one of my true pastors in my walk with Jesus. The other is Orlando who is my brother-in-law. He and my sister Kim lead a church in Bixby, OK. Both Kim and Orlando have always spoken into my life.

Ken agreed that it was a very hard decision. He said the requirement went against Scripture. He told me honestly that he wasn’t sure he could do it if he were in my shoes. That conversation essentially confirmed what I was already feeling: we would continue to attend, be in fellowship, participate in the life of the church — but we wouldn’t have the membership card. We wouldn’t be part of the club.

But then I called Orlando. I explained the situation. The requirement. My objection. The scriptural case.

I can still hear his response:

"I think you would be saying more to the members of the body by going through with it."

That sentence rearranged everything.

He wasn’t saying the requirement was right. He wasn’t saying my objection was wrong. He was saying that the decision communicated something beyond the theological question. By going through with it, I would be telling the people in that church — the people I’d chosen to walk alongside — that I was committed to them. Not to their denomination. Not to their membership process. To them.

And by not going through with it, I would be holding to a conviction that was theologically correct but relationally isolating. I’d be right. And I’d be on the outside.

The Water

So I did it. I went through with it.

I need to be honest about how it felt: it didn’t feel like baptism. My baptism happened in middle school, in an Assembly of God church, when I gave my life to Jesus. That was real. That was the moment. That was the burial of the old and the raising of the new.

What happened at the Missionary Baptist Church was something else. If anything, it was an outward display that I was committing to a community. A statement to the body that said, “I’m here. I’m not passing through. I’m choosing you.”

To call it baptism, in the sacramental sense, actually cheapens baptism. It reduces a once-for-all declaration of death and resurrection with Christ to a denominational entrance exam. And I wish the church would take a better view of what baptism is and what it means.

But for now, this is who they are. And I chose to be with them anyway.

The Detour That Confirmed the Decision

We actually left that church for a while. We went to the non-denominational church in town — the one led by the Independent Fundamental Baptist pastor. I've written about that experience in another post, though I haven't published it yet. I'm noodling on it. Small towns are like that — speaking truth, even in love, can get you ostracized.

As an aside: in my posts so far, I haven't shied away from sharing my experiences here. There is a real risk / probability that feathers will be ruffled. But that is definitely not my intent. What drives me is that these are real things happening to real people, and maybe by putting them into words, it lets someone else know they're not alone.

But back to the detour. It didn't last long. The leadership model was command-and-control. Everything flowed through one person. Disagreement was treated as disloyalty. We were told, in so many words, that if we didn't see things his way, we should probably leave. My way or the highway.

So we left. And we went back to the Missionary Baptist Church. At least I didn’t have to go through baptism again.

There’s a dark humor in that sentence, but there’s also a genuine sadness. In a town this size, your options are limited. And every option comes with walls — walls that aren’t in Scripture, walls that weren’t in the first-century church, walls that exist because traditions hardened into requirements and preferences became doctrine.

The Walls We’ve Built

What grieves me most about this experience isn’t the rebaptism. I made my peace with that. What grieves me is what it represents.

In my small town, there are at least eight or nine churches within a few miles of each other. Every one of them confesses Jesus as Lord. Every one of them affirms the authority of Scripture. Every one of them gathers on Sunday to worship the same God.

And yet there is no common ekklesia. No shared gathering of the called-out ones. No moment where the body of Christ in this town comes together as one. Each church has its own membership card, its own baptism requirements, its own invisible walls. And a person who just wants to follow Jesus and be part of the body has to navigate a system of denominational checkpoints that Paul would have found deeply, deeply troubling.

"Is Christ divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Or were you baptized in the name of Paul?" (1 Corinthians 1:13)

Replace “Paul” with “First Baptist” or “Missionary Baptist” or “Assembly of God” and the question lands with the same force today that it did in Corinth.

I don’t think denominations are inherently evil. There are real theological differences between traditions, and some of those differences matter. But when a denomination’s membership requirement forces a believer to be rebaptized — not because their first baptism was invalid, but because it happened in the wrong building — something has gone sideways. The institution has become more important than the sacrament. The wall has become more important than the body.

What I Wish Were True

I wish the churches in my town knew each other. Not just the pastors exchanging pleasantries at the post office — the actual congregations. I wish there were a gathering, even once a year, where every church in town came together to worship the same Jesus, take communion at the same table, and remember that before we were Baptist or Methodist or Vineyard or Church of Christ, we were His.

What’s interesting is that the people in the churches do in fact know each other. But my observation is that the friendships our outside of the context of ekklesia. That’s different than the churches knowing each other.

I wish a believer could walk into any church in town and be received as a member of the body without having to prove that their baptism happened in an approved location. I wish the membership card system would die the quiet death it deserves, replaced by the New Testament’s actual standard for belonging: do you confess Jesus as Lord? Then you’re in.

And in all honestly, that’s the way Jana and I were treated initially at the non-denominational church in town. That was refreshing. But then the reality of a command-and-control structure arrived. Being told that if we didn’t agree with that, we should leave… well, too much. As I said, another post.

I wish Philippians 2:3–4 shaped our church structures as much as it shapes our personal ethics. “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.” If denominations took that seriously — not just as a verse for personal application, but as a design principle for how churches relate to each other — the walls would come down overnight.

Why I Stayed

People sometimes ask me why I stay at a Missionary Baptist Church when I’m Vineyard at heart. The music isn’t my style. The theology doesn’t always align. The membership process required me to do something I believe was scripturally unnecessary.

I stay because the church isn’t a building I attend. It’s people I’ve chosen to walk with. And choosing them sometimes means accepting things I wouldn’t choose for myself.

My brother-in-law was right. Going through with it said something to the body. It said: I’m not here for the denomination. I’m not here for the membership card. I’m not here because your theology matches mine perfectly. I’m here because being part of a local body of believers is as much about being there for others as it is about what I receive.

That’s the conviction that got me into the water the second time. And it’s the conviction that keeps me in the pew on Sunday mornings in a tradition that isn’t mine.

Others first. Even when it costs something. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when the walls shouldn’t be there in the first place.