I grew up in the Southern Baptist Church. We didn’t wash each other’s feet, but we did do the whole dunking routine. In retrospect, the Methodists, down the street, were much more for civilized with their sprinkling! Not ones symbolism, we went for the full-contact baptism.
Our family was the poster family for being in church anytime the doors were open. Sunday. Wednesday. Budget meetings. Funerals. And, especially revivals.
That all said, my parents (to my everlasting thankfulness) kept their country-bred common sense. Growing up in south Alabama, Baptists railed against dancin’ (there is a good joke in that phrase, and those to whom I have told it, are chuckling right now!), but my brother and I went to high school dances and parties.
Once our church scheduled a Bible-thumping, fist-pumping, spirit-jumping, pew-filling revival for a Friday night just to see how many of the teenagers would come to church or go to the homecoming game and dance that followed it. I went to the dance. Never any question at my house. Mamma and daddy buffered us from the craziness that sometimes infects people of too much faith.
It seems to me that the world sure could use some of mamma and daddy’s commonsense right about now.