June 22, 2016

I and my immediate family have always been drawn to water.  From the time before I was married I would take trips to Cannon Beach where I could be close to the ocean.  Before that I would climb up onto my favorite rock at the diocesan summer camp located on Lake Coeur d'Alene and look out over the water.  Mrs. Ref, The Kid, and I made annual pilgrimages back to Cannon Beach to be near the ocean and walk on the beach.  As a priest in Montana, Mrs. Ref and I both looked forward to my annual stint as chaplain to the diocesan family camp located on Flathead Lake.  And whenever we head east, we almost always stop at Multnomah Falls.  We usually walk up to the bridge, sometimes walking up to the top of the 620' waterfall.

Whether it's sitting with my feet dipped in the lake off the dock, walking along the beach with the low rumbling of the ocean, or watching the power of a waterfall, there is something peaceful, frightening, and awe-full in that water.  Peaceful because the noise of the water, whether lapping at your feet or the constant noise of the ocean and waterfall seem to have a way of taking me to a different place, or at least driving out troublesome and irrelevant thoughts.  Frightening because, for as much as I feel drawn to water, I don't like to be in it; and being in a place where the edges are far away, or where there's a possibility of being swept downstream, or where storms can wash you away in an instant can be worrisome.  Awe-full in that the beauty of the place, the sheer expanse of the water, and the immense power generated all remind me that I am but one small part of God's creation.

Peaceful, calming, challenging, frightening, awe-inspiring – these are just a few words to describe my complicated relationship with water.  They also, as it happens, are the same words that describe my relationship with God.  I am drawn to both water and God.  There are times when both water and God are peaceful and calming, such as a lazy day on the beach or at Morning Prayer.  There are times when both water and God are challenging, as when I find myself needing to swim farther than planned or in dealing with a sick, homeless person on the kitchen porch.  There are times when both water and God are frightening, as in a storm or when being felt called into a new ministry.  Both water and God are awe-inspiring, as when entranced by a majestic waterfall or when meditating on the presence of God.

And, coincidentally, when I am fully immersed in either there's a chance I might die.  If I swim too far from shore, if I walk along the beach during a raging storm, if I allow myself to get pulled into the waterfall, there's a possibility I might die.  If I immerse myself in God, if I listen to where God might be calling me, if I allow myself to get pulled completely into the presence of God, myself as I know it might die.  And, quite honestly, I kind of like myself.

But that's where the similarities end.  Death in the water is death, and there's no coming back from it.  Death in God is a death of our old ways wherein we are resurrected, coming to life in new ways we cannot even imagine.  But sometimes I get hung up on that word death, and rather than see it as a part of growth, as an event that leads to new life, I see it as an end of who I am, and that can be scary.

We probably all have something that is keeping us from immersing ourselves totally in the presence of God.  There comes a point, though, when I need to let go of my fears and jump into the peaceful, challenging, frightening, awe-full presence of God with both feet.  After all, the worst that could happen is that I die; and that can't be a bad thing.

Amen.