Down by the riverside near to the power station where we had held our first open air more than a year before, we waited patiently to begin our baptism. Archdeacon Roy Mason of Charlottesville, despite a bad case of piles, stepped gingerly into the icy cold waters, his cassock and white surplice billowing out as he did so. Suddenly, I noticed two fellows looking down upon us from the low suspension bridge that spanned the river. "I wonder what mischief they are planning," I thought.
Roy continued, "I baptize you in the name of the Father . . . " To my horror they climbed on the handrail and yelling "Hallelujah," leapt into the air and crashed into the stream below. For a moment, waves, spray and wet bodies were all I could see in the confusion. Nothing distinguished the Critics from the Saints.