It took me forever as a child to learn to swim; I was probably nine or ten when I realised that the water would hold up even me. It was a matter of trust; yes the water would hold up all the others in our class who were thrashing around the pool; but me? the jury was out on that one.
I can swim, after a fashion, but I don't like to get too far out of my depth. I remember sailing across the Atlantic in 1969, and the thought of so much water beneath the ship- who knows how many feet, maybe miles!- of water lay beneath the hull, filled me with unease. ( By contrast, 33000 feet of air beneath me in a plane leaves me quite unmoved.)
I am drawn back to the little I know of St. Isaac of Nineveh, that 7th century eastern, (and watery) saint. Born in Qatar, he likely saw and was familiar with pearl divers in his youth, and that knowledge informed some of his writings. He asks us to dive into God, as if seeking pearls. To realise that although my boat is so small and your sea is so large, O God ( part of the well-known prayer of the Breton fishermen), we can be sustained and thrive in the sea of God's love; we can seek and find pearls if we leave the boat. And dive, or swim, or float in the ocean of God's love.
It's a call to a deeper communion with God, a call which I'm convinced God is making all the time. Few hear, it, and I should think that fewer still respond. The call is still there. I for one am attempting to answer it. Just off to get my speedo's on- as it were.
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