Coastal Spirituality

 

"Keep looking down, okay?" I reminded my companion as we scrambled over piles of rocks, worn smooth (and slippery) by the combined efforts of wind, ice, and water.

"Yeah, yeah..." came the response, a North Mississippi hill country drawl.  I'd brought my then-partner from college some 2000 miles back to my home-state of Michigan on a two-week camping trip around the state, determined to show him the widest variety of the natural wonders I'd grown up surrounded by.  I'd intentionally driven us up the middle of the state en route to our first campsite at Leelanau State Park.  Our rustic campsite was nestled in the woods under a canopy of white pines with no view of Lake Michigan, so as sunset approached, I suggested we go for a little walk, "to say hello." Now as we picked our way along the stony shore, I could see the very tip of the Leelanau Peninsula, surrounded in nearly all directions by the churning confluence of Thunder Bay and Lake Michigan. My companion dutifully kept his head down, focused on putting one foot in front of the other until finally we could go no further.

"Take a deep breath," I said. "You're going to need it."

"Sure," he said, humoring me.

"Okay. Look up."

The wind and the waves quickly stole the breath from my companion's lungs. He stood, in stunned silence, taking in the magnitude of the vista before him.

"Well," he said shakily. "That's not something you see every day."

Except, when I was a child, it was... at least, it felt that way.  For me, the Great Lakes were like old friends. I swam in the fresh water of Lake Huron for decades before I ever experienced the ocean. I floated in the gentle sunset embrace of Lake Michigan countless times on family vacations.  When the heat and humidity of midsummer took hold, I rode shotgun while my father drove us out to some sleepy small town hugging the coastline, where we could be sure the temperature was at least five degrees cooler.  One of my favorite places, near an old lighthouse long-employed to warn freighters headed to Chicago of some especially tricky waters near the tip of Michigan's thumb, there's a bluff overlooking Lake Huron where a local farmer grazes cows. I imagine not many bovines experience such magnificent sunrises.

I've lived most of my life within an hour's drive of two of Earth's largest bodies of freshwater. I sat in awe in science class when I learned how, tens of thousands of years ago, glaciers had carved the Great Lakes. I was struck with gratitude that I had been blessed to be born in such a special place. The Great Lakes are, indeed, a special place... one that we must protect for our children and grandchildren and their children and grandchildren. But they are not alone.  

While America’s “third coast” may have the distinction of being a freshwater coastline, it is, nonetheless, a coast… defined by being a liminal space between solid ground and the ineffable depths of great waters. Throughout scripture, those great waters were places of chaos and formlessness, but they were also with the Spirit of God before God even spoke “Let there be Light.”  There is wisdom to be found in those ancient depths.  Our souls seem to know this, so we seek the great waters, and the coast is where we go to seek them.

Liminal spaces are often uncomfortable.  What may be perfectly suitable attire in late spring inland may leave one shivering and gasping as the wind whips across still chilly waters. We may encounter the mucked-up refuse of folks who have gone before, heedless of the impact their lapses in judgment may have on unknown others. Perhaps we may just be chased by especially persistent gulls who are certain we have something to offer, in spite of our empty pockets. Maybe a few too many pebbles find their way in our shoes alongside the inevitable sand that creeps in on our journey.

We each have varying levels of comfort and desire to engage with the liminal space of the coast. Some aren’t particularly keen on lingering in these spaces.  Others may frolic all day on a beach, but have no desire to enter the waters.  Some dip toes. Others wade in so far as they can still touch bottom. Then there are those who take to the water like fish, delighting in swimming through and floating upon the depths, letting waves rock them to and fro… going with the flow.

Anyone who remembers learning to swim may well remember the challenge of learning to float.  This requires trust, relaxing one’s muscles, and letting the water take over.  If one is too uptight, or tenses one’s muscles, they will sink. This is often a key part of why people drown when they encounter a rip current. They panic, their bodies tense up, and even if the current stops drawing them down, they are unable to float. The best thing to do when encountering a rip current is to relax, try to stay facing upwards, take a breath whenever one encounters air, and wait to be dropped. By not struggling, one saves one’s energy to swim back to solid ground once conditions allow. It’s a terrifying prospect: one cannot know when or where the current will end or what the swim to safety will be like.

Yet for all the dangers and unknowns, many of us return again and again to the coast.  Perhaps we find peace in simply stopping for a while and recognizing how vast is God’s creation in comparison to our own selves. Maybe there’s something in particular we’re looking for… some sea glass or Petoskey stones. Maybe we need some nourishment, so we’re going fishing. Maybe we just need to play for a while. Regardless, the coast offers us the opportunity to change our pace, get what we need, and shift our perspective.

It’s significant to me as a life-long aficionado of the coast that Jesus’ first disciples were fishermen.  These were folks who knew well the dangers and the possibilities that came with leaving solid ground… who were well-versed in striking out into the unknown and engaging in a certain amount of risk. Some days, the catch was abundant...other days, not so much. Fishing requires patience, diligence, and frankly, a whole lot of hard work. Jesus knew these were folks who would be up to the task of this wild, new thing God was doing in the world.

God is still doing wild, new things in the world. As God’s people, we’re called to be fishers in our own right, drawing up from the great waters whatever, and whoever, we may be presented. Our faith calls us to trust that God will support us in this.

It can feel as though we’ve been swept up by a rip current hell-bent on drowning us. The challenges we face from plagues, unrest, insecurity, and climate change can seem utterly inescapable.  The many unknowns with which we wrestle can be terrifying… but God has created us for and called us to this journey. God remains, as surely as the great waters will hold us up if we relax into them. Meanwhile, the liminal space of the coast encourages us to imagine the vastness of God and the limitless possibilities before us if we keep breathing and trust in our God.