I have written about this event in more length in my memoir, Dreaming Me: An African American Woman’s Spiritual Journey, but I provide an excerpted version below.

The Holy Opens Its Arms To Me

"Get outta this house," my mother said. "And don't come back here a sinner before God's eyes!" She was sending me off to Docena's annual tent revival. She meant for me to join the community of the faithful, to become a good Baptist, and finally, at age fourteen, to join church.

Years of gentle cajoling had done no good. I was always ready with some argument about the preacher's faults: his greed, his hypocrisy, something.... It was not really so much the preacher I minded, though I certainly had no love for him. Rather, it was the unease that the services stirred up in me each Sunday. Each week the congregation was swept up in a mysterious spiritual frenzy that began gradually but soon rushed ahead uncontrollably to its cathartic end. Quite simply, nothing scared me more than black women engaged, as good feeling Christians, in the activity known as "shouting."...

Docena's tent revival had been going on for the previous three days. Tonight was the final gathering for the year and this, my mother declared, was my final chance to make amends. I left the house more worried and frightened than I was angry. There was no getting around it this time. I walked heavy-hearted but resigned, down the graveled road.

When, at last, I reached the grassy field and the big open-aired tent, my entire body was trembling like a leaf. The tent was spilling over with people. Everyone in the
Camp, I thought, must be here. Almost all the folding chairs were occupied. There were even some white people there. We never joined together at any other time, but they liked to hear good old-fashioned preaching, too.

I quickly scanned for a safe chair and luckily spotted one on the outside and near the back. Almost faint, I sank into a seat with a sigh, and thanked God for it. It was almost evening, and being summer, hot as anything. Everywhere, thin cardboard fans were trying to do battle with the intense heat.

The matrons were out in full force, leading the songs and waving their fans. One of them, seeing me, motioned me to move up a few rows; but I shook my head and said, as respectfully as I could, "No, Ma'am. Thank you." I was drenched in sweat. "Please save me," I prayed to someone up there, "from having to do this!"

A song ended and a hush fell over the audience. The Reverend from St. Matthew's stood to introduce the guest preacher. As usual, the pastor reminded us, guest ministers were invited in from outside to lead revivals. This particular guest preacher was famous in the area for his many successful campaigns. He was a hell-destroying, fire-and-brimstone exhorter, recognized as having received the call at a very early age, and we were extremely privileged to have him with us. There followed a rousing round of "Amens," as a young man of about sixteen or seventeen years stood up and stepped to the center of the podium.

I was afraid to look directly at him at first, knowing that I would have to give myself over to him. When I did look up, I saw that he was a well-dressed boy, in suit and tie, and he did not seem to be sweating at all. He had large eyes but usually kept his head reared back, as if resting delightfully upon some invisible but divinely fluffy pillow. His smiling face was serene and seemed to be enveloped in a sort of radiance. His first words were spoken softly: "Friends, won't you join me in a good old song?" Then he began the tune himself:

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I'm found,
Was blind, but now I see.
'Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear
And Grace my fears relieved....

The song went on for a long time, with its lilting strains and gentle encouragement. It was one of my favorites; and for a while I almost forgot the fears I had come with.

"Amens" circled the tent at the end of the singing. With a soft voice he began: "You're not the only sinners the Lord God has seen, friends. He's seen many a sinner over the long course of His days! But don't you want to rest in Jesus, now? Don't you want to rest in Him?" His remarks were begun gently; but it was not long before the Spirit entered into him and the "Hahs!" started to echo. As the pitch and intensity of his sermon mounted, so too that of the congregation. If Sunday services were serious, then this was a thousand times more serious. This was revival; nothing short of our very souls was to be won, or lost.

All around me people were shouting, fainting, and falling out. My mind was reeling; my body felt like jelly. I was hot and cold at the same time, sweating profusely. When the young preacher began to wind things down, he offered the invitation. It was the cue I had been waiting for; the time when I would have to stand and be counted. Softly, he said, "Now is the time. For all those who want to be right with Jesus. For all those who want to take a seat on His right side. Come up, now. The doors of the Church are open. Won't you come, to Jesus, right now?" Without a moment's hesitation, the matrons took up his cue and began to sing softly:

Come to Jesus! Come to Jesus!
Come to Jesus, right now!
Right now!
Come to Jesus! Come to Jee-e-e-sus!
Right now.

Their voices were feeble, high and straining, but the message was what was important. As they continued to sing, the young preacher stepped down from the podium and walked through the tent, his hands and arms outstretched. "Won’t you come to Jesus, sister? Now's the time." He looked, I thought, in my direction, but then turned to a man seated on the other side of the tent. "Aren't you tired of being a sinner, brother?" The man stood up and began to move forward. I knew it was now, or no going home. I stood up too. A number of us were now wading through the crowd of already saved onlookers.

Seeing people standing up in response to the preacher's invitation fueled even more shouting. By this time all my strength had left me. Trying to make my way to the front, I stumbled and fell over onto people. They each caught me and buoyed me up, with arms that said, "Well done!" and proud faces that said, "It's time. Praise the Lord!"

I started to cry; and then the floodgates opened. Someone took my arm, carried me forward, and sat me down facing the congregation. Along with a number of others, I sat now, on the "mourner's bench." It had all been too much for me. I sobbed and sobbed, completely and uncontrollably. And the more I cried, the more the onlooking Christians shouted and praised the Lord. To them my tears meant I was truly repentant. One more lost sheep was found!

After some minutes, the young preacher approached each of us on the mourner's bench. He asked us our names and whether we were truly ready to abandon our sinful past and accept the Lord, Jesus Christ, as our Savior. Through sobs, I managed to blurt out a "Yes, Reverend" and with my hand in his, he turned to ask the Church formally: "Are the members of St. Matthew's Baptist Church willing to accept this young lady, sister Janice Dean Willis, as a candidate for baptism into its fellowship?" Through my sobs, I heard several voices respond to the question with the standard reply: "Yes, Reverend, we the members of St. Matthew's Baptist Church are willing to accept her, and do so gladly, in the name of Jesus."

The hot night seemed to stretch on interminably, but at last the revival service was ended. People rushed forward to congratulate the preacher; and to offer those of us who had "declared" the hand of fellowship. A group of people who lived up in my direction accompanied me part of the way home. When I reached our front door my mother swung open the screen with anxious eyes. She asked me some questions but I don't remember all of them. Yes, I had joined church. In a week, I would be baptized. And now, all I wanted to do was sleep.

I had declared my intention to join Christ's fold on a Friday evening; and my baptism would be held on Saturday of the following week in order to make me a full-fledged member of the church by next Sunday's services. During the ensuing week, the older folk in the community smiled when they saw me and reminded me that this week's interlude was a dangerous time. Miss Virginia, my grandmama's oldest friend, one day expressed the danger explicitly: "Don't let ole Satan change your mind now, child. Keep vigilant!"

The neighborhood kids poked fun at me. As I walked home from school they chided: "Dean's gonna get dunked! Don't you drown in there now, Deanie-Pie!" Drowning was a genuine fear. I could not swim and wasn't anxious to have this fact verified during my baptism!

On Saturday morning all my old fears--and some new ones--had rolled themselves up into a rock-hard boulder that balanced itself right in the middle of my chest. My mother's excited wake-up call left no doubts: "Get up, Dean. Today's the day! Get up and bathe down good." She had cooked a big breakfast of eggs, bacon, and biscuits. The mood in the house was cheery, like Christmas.

When I asked what I was supposed to put on, Mama came in and handed me a long white terry-cloth gown. It was scratchy.

"Just this?" I asked, dissatisfied.
"Just this," she answered, "and some good underwear!"
"But won't I be too cold?"
"You'll be alright. Now hurry up! We can't be late. A lotta folks, I hear, gettin' baptized today."
"Well good then," I thought. "Maybe if we're late, I won't have to drown!" (As it turned out, Mama was wrong. Later, I thought I was going to freeze to death.)

For Baptists a whole universe revolves around the ceremony of baptism. A sprinkle on the forehead just will not do. Lord Jesus had appeared before John and waded out with him into the blessed River Jordan to be baptized; no mere sprinkling of water could substitute for that. In the yard to the side of the church was a deep tank. It measured eight feet long by six feet wide and was about five feet in depth. For baptisms it was filled with slightly over three feet of water. There were concrete steps leading down into it.

That Saturday morning my father had already gone off to work at the Ensley steel mill. But the three of us--my mother, me, and San--headed up to the church at a clip. Sandy carried towels; my mother, a change of clothes for me. I was flanked on either side. Escape was impossible.

When we reached the church, there were throngs of people there, and to my surprise, a lot of them were wearing white gowns like me. At first view, all of them looked a lot younger than me. I moaned. "Out of place, again!"

"Shush moaning and carrying on!" my mother swiftly chastised me. "This is a blessed and a joyous occasion! Go on now and stand over there with the others." My will was looking for a backdoor, but came up empty.

It was then that I noticed Mr. Sledge. He was wearing a white gown, too. Mr. Sledge was the Camp's old drunk. He could always be seen wandering through the streets mumbling to himself, with a bottle in his hands or stuck in his back pocket. He worked as a miner when Docena's coal mine was open, but since it'd shut down, he'd taken to sitting on his porch staring off into space or wandering the streets mumbling. People said that the Klan had gotten after him, I didn't know for what. They'd taken him off and beaten him up bad; and he'd just been no good since. People kept coming over to him congratulating him, saying that this was the right step to be taking and they were proud of him. I was glad he was there, too. It meant I was not the oldest candidate.

Reverend Moseley came out of the church in his long gown. The throngs of people pushed for a place close to the edges of the tank. The line was ushered over.

One by one we went down. When my turn came, I balked. The steps were wet and cold to my bare feet. Two deacons took each arm to lead my trembling body down. I looked up in desperation, wanting to flee; but among all the wide-eyed faces my eyes settled on my mother's stern expression. It said silently but firmly, "Go on, young lady. Get in there!"

The water was dark, murky, and cold. The bottom of the tank was gritty. My teeth began to chatter. When the deacons let go of me, I waded over to Reverend Moseley, reaching for his hands. I thought I was going to fall, but just then, he caught me. And so the thing was underway. He turned me around and put one of his arms behind my back. He closed his other big hand over my mouth and nose. I knew I was going to die. Then, raising his voice and saying, "Lord, we baptize this young sister, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," he bent me over backward and dunked me into that dark water. My feet came off the bottom. I was floating. I was drowning. I seemed to be held under for a long, long time. Then it was over. My feet found the bottom of the tank. Murky water was flowing off me. It was in my ears and in my eyes. For a few seconds I floundered about. I wiped my face as I lunged for the steps.

Then something wonderful happened. I couldn't see anything very clearly, but from all around the sides of the tank, arms and hands were extended down, reaching out to me, for me. Hands welcoming me into the community of the faithful. Into the community. Reaching out for me. Joyously welcoming me. I had a new home now. A much bigger family.

Maybe this was what Jesus had felt when the dove appeared in the sky above him. These hands were wondrous things. They were like the Holy opening its arms to me. There was more love there than I had ever felt; and it felt bigger precisely because it was extended not just to me. This love, in a flash, dissolved all fears. These hands took me completely beyond myself. They reached out with equanimity toward all. Toward any and everyone reaching back, up to them. For the first time, I felt that I belonged to a family as big as humankind itself; and yet even bigger than that, taking in all creatures who breathed and cried and struggled and sang.

Of course, the next day things would return to normal and I’d find myself again in a divided camp, with whites on one side and blacks on the other. This spiritual connection with all things did not erase the racism of the everyday world I inhabited. And it would take many years and a trip halfway around the world before I again experienced anything like the grace and serenity of that joyous immersion into community. Before I felt so at home again.

Nevertheless, on that day, though my teeth were still chattering as I walked home, my spirit--like that dove's--was soaring.