Pilgrimage to the Beach Part 2 - Another Family Secret

Gene Sims on a dune at the lake

  I ended the previous post saying that skinny dipping was an act of worship.  It is all natural, and with the right awareness, it's a sacred baptism into the essence of the omnipresent Creator who exists in the lake, the sunset, the forest, the water lily, the broom closet, and...  well, everywhere - if He is really omnipresent.

  And speaking of baptism, that reminded me of another childhood experience that was a perfect example of the generous orthodoxy of my dad, who must have been a misfit as a pastor in an untra-conservative era in the evangelical church in America.  I realize now that much of my own liberality must have come from him, as I am certainly not a legalist.

  Baptisms happened two or three times a year in the Missionary Church, and they took a lot of preparation.  In our church, the baptismal tank was under the podium and had to be opened up by lifting off the heavy platforms, drawing water overnight from a garden hose that ran out of the utility room nearby, and then placing electric heaters into the water for several hours to warm it (cold baptismal water could bring on a sudden manifestation that mimics a charismatic outburst, so it was quite unwelcome in the holiness church where the Holy Spirit was always required to "Be a gentleman").

  My two younger brothers and I watched this process with interest, and at some point that warm water - in the middle of the cold winter - reminded one of us of the warm waters of Lake Michigan where we had frolicked the summer before.  It seemed a waste to let it all drain out after the service without any participation on our part, and the obvious question eventually surfaced:

  "Dad, can we go swimming in the baptistry after the service tonight?"

  After a long thoughtful pause, and much to my mother's chagrin, the answer was, "Yes, but don't tell anybody."

  And sure enough, after everyone had gone home that night, we ran back to the parsonage next door, changed into our swim trunks, and ran back through the cold to our unexpected wintertime beach.  And there we received a second blessing, three boys, splashing around in the church baptistry, while Dad locked the doors and Mom nervously double-checked the parking lot.  After all, that kind of display of irreverence could be seen as a sacrilege to the elders and the church ladies (the other omnipresent entities in the spiritual universe) which could kill the joy in a moment and end a man's ministerial career with a short phone call to the superintendent.

  My dad took chances with his magnanimous and liberated spirit.  He had discovered a "wideness in God's mercy" that other clergy would sing about during the worship time and then refute a few minutes later in their challenging sermons.  I think Dad knew that his kids sometimes needed a break from the legalism that saturated the place.

  "Don't run in the House of the Lord!"  "Your heavenly father is watching you."

  I am convinced that much of the church world still lives and moves in the Old Testament and the Law and has never really discovered that through Christ we are now living in the age of Grace.  "There is therefore now much condemnation." (Roman 8:1 twisted every Sunday morning.)

  Only a couple of years ago I listened to a sermon from a pastor who suggested that it was irreverent to wear jeans to church on Sunday morning (I was wearing shorts that day).  When I questioned him about it later, he said, "If you were going to see the Queen of England wouldn't you dress up to be in her presence?"  And I realized that this man (and millions of others) had never really discovered the omnipresence of God in the world and in everyday life.  Though he had certainly studied the attributes of God in his theology classes in seminary, he was viewing spirituality from a pre-Jesus perspective, an Old Testament framework where God dwelt in a holy temple.

  The New Testament is clear that God no longer dwells in brick and mortar buildings but in us, his children, for we are "living stones being built up into a spiritual house". (I Peter 2:5)  I am no more in the presence of the Lord in the church building than I am in my garage or my pickup truck - or in the bathroom changing the baby's diaper.  Or down at the river fishing.  Or water skiing.  Or skinny dipping.

  If a person only feels the presence of God during a twenty-minute worship set every Sunday morning, then they really need to open their eyes.  God is all and in all, and "in Him we live and move and have our being." (Acts 17:28)  That indicates an all-the-time-ness and everywhere-ness to our co-existence, our oneness with Him.

  Dad's been gone for five years and I miss him.  But his Jesus-filled irreverence will live on in my brothers and sisters and me and in generations to come (I don't remember my two sisters ever swimming in the baptistry, but it might have happened).

  This is probably why I've spent my whole life celebrating.  Jesus launched his ministry at a wedding party, and he ended it at a meal with friends, bracketing his ministry with feasting.  Fasting is so Old Testament.  Feasting is New Testament.  I'm living in the New.  My kids will recall the countless times as they were growing up that I said, "Let's order a pizza to celebrate!"

  "Dad, what are we celebrating?"

  "I don't know, but I'll think of something."  And I always did.

  Loosen up friends,  God is everywhere.  Enjoy Him.

  Now, since I'm telling family secrets, let me tell you about my mom, who broke the rules too....

  

Pilgrimage to the Beach

  In a few days I'm heading down to the beach.  As an act of worship.  Well, that's not how it started out, but I'm sure worship is in there, because it is a by-product of my life.  The main motivator for my relocation is that the harsh Michigan winters seem to stage a hostile takeover of an otherwise friendly and pleasant environment, the Great Lakes state being a beautiful place during the rest of the year but nasty and almost life-threatening in the winter.
  I have negotiated a reduced long-term rent with the owner of an apartment on the eastern seashore of the Dominican Republic, so Kaye and I are going to be living and working on the beach for the winter.  While Kaye works on a writing course - her Kindle loaded with books to read by the pool -  I am planning my next photojournalistic project, to compile and publish a book on the culture of the local fishermen, our next-door neighbors in this laid-back caribbean community.
  Years ago Kaye and I conducted mission trips to the Dominican Republic, and our accompanying pastor, Gary Butterfield, once made an off-handed statement about how it would be a sacrilege to bypass the enjoyment of God's creation by missing our day off to be spent at the beach and snorkeling over the coral reefs.  The implication was that God put it there for us to enjoy, and we would insult Him if we didn't do it.
  I have never forgotten that thought, and had it re-enforced years later when I read John Piper's book Let the Nations be Glad in which he explains how the glory of God is magnified by all of creation.  I was sitting under palm trees in El Salvador on another mission trip when I read that book, and it made an impression that was both significant and long lasting.  Right in front of me I could see the palms forever lifting their arms in praise.
  The concept was not difficult for me to adopt, because my dad was one who had caught on to the idea a long time before worship became the main objective for Christians.  I remember camping on the sand dunes on the shore of Lake Michigan when I was a boy, and I can still see dad at sunset, a silhouette standing at the crest of the dune that separated our campsite from the beach.  He would take it all in - for about a minute, then turn around and hurry back to where his kids were sitting around a campfire after supper and say, "You've got to see this; it's one of those great million dollar Lake Michigan sunsets; Come on!"  And we'd leave our fireside - hey, the box of marshmallows wasn't opened yet anyway - and climb the dune and plop down and soak in the red and orange grandeur in silence until the sun was gone.  Then we would skip a few stones on the calm water as the twilight faded and the fireside welcomed us back.
  Dad didn't call it worship, and at twelve years old I was quite unaware at the time that we were partaking in something that was, in a way, holy.  As I've traveled and pursued my own adventures over the years I've come to appreciate the careless and extravagant glory that nature exudes without the least bit of effort, and I look at these experiences as something of a spiritual pilgrimage, whether they come daily or once in a lifetime.
  You know, one of the five pillars of Islam is the Hajj, which is a pilgrimage to Mecca, their holiest site in Saudia Arabia, a once-in-a-lifetime trip that every good Muslim will make if they are able.  One of the rituals that they observe while they are there is the throwing of stones at the devil, a virtual act of spiritual warfare.
  It seems to me that if one of the holy rites of one of the world's most prominent religions involves the throwing of stones, then there is even more of an inherent holiness in a man skipping stones on Lake Michigan with his kids as the evening twilight fades.  Enjoying God's creation is worship.  And worship is the best kind of spiritual warfare.
  Though off-handed and casual about it, nature seems to be quite aware of its creator.  A few years ago I traveled to the other side of the world on a prayer trek with five other guys, our mission was to pray and worship as a means of piercing the darkness in the spiritual realms in an all muslim island country.  I felt strongly that I should follow the prompting of Psalm 108 and "awaken the dawn", so I rose before sunrise to worship on the seashore.  I thought I would be the only one there, but when I arrived at the water's edge there were about fifty worshippers already there, little sand crabs on the shore all staring east toward the sunrise.  They turned and looked at me and those nearest to me scooted sideways politely and made room for me to sit down, not surprised at all at my arrival and not distracted from their purpose.  We sat quietly together, fifty-one of God's children, worshipping in silence as the sun came up.
  This winter I will celebrate the glory in the white sand and the palm trees, and I'm planning to snorkel among the reefs just offshore almost very day and see if there are other water-loving worshippers there who, I'm sure, are already waving their fins to their creator.  And next year I'm planning on going to the mountains at Denali in Alaska and see how the tall pines and the snow-covered peaks raise their praise to their maker.

  Now let me say that a one-time pilgrimage to join in the glory of nature is a wonderful thing, and if you can take one cruise or visit one fiord in your life you'll be doing a good thing, but really, if you could do it every day wouldn't it be better?  I'm not talking about all of us going and living on the beach.  I'm talking about assuming an attitude of acknowledgment and appreciation wherever you are on a regular basis, more as a lifestyle.
  My oldest daughter has caught on to this.  Stacy gets home from work, puts on her hiking shoes and heads to the nearest nature trail and gets into the woods several days a week.  My middle daughter, Angie, a busy mom with a calm and quiet spirit, finds rest and glory in a sanctified cup of gourmet coffee or a visit with the kids to the neighborhood park.  And Wendi, my youngest, creates culinary offerings in a saucepan that are nothing short of divine, and her characteristic celebration of cultural diversity is innately righteous.
  Every day glory is all around us.  So if a pilgrimage is out of reach for us at the moment, we can at least achieve a moment of sabbath or rest and enjoyment at just about any time and any place, and it doesn't have to be anything as grand as a beach.  Psalm 148 has a long list of ordinary beings that bring praise to their maker, from trees and mountains to sea creatures, wild animals, and even cattle.  There's nothing that glorious about a cow, but somehow they give glory without even being aware of God or getting saved, and they don't give milk in the name of Jesus (although every good thing comes from Him).  They bring glory to God simply by instinct, simply by being.
  And it's in your nature too.  Just be a human BEing every day and you will instinctively get the job done, but there's even more joy in it for those who are aware of the world and its beauty and who take the time to acknowledge it.

The sunset from Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes

  Okay, one last thing.  If you are ever in Michigan in the summer and are looking for a pilgrimage to the million dollar sunsets over Lake Michigan, here are some directions.  First find your way to the virtual ghost town of Glen Haven.  When the road seems to end at the shore, turn left and keep going till the road ends at a trailhead parking lot in the woods.  Take a flashlight (for the return after dark), your camera, and you'll need your flip flops or sneakers for the first two hundred yards of the gravelly trail.  Kick them off when you come to the base of the sand dunes and hike the 1/4-mile trail up to the summit of the dunes.  You can observe the sunset from there, or head down the long, gently sloping dunes to the shore and plop down there and soak it in.  After the sun goes down and the twilight is fading, skip some stones on the water, and if you feel so inclined, take your worship one step further and step into the water.  If it's not too cold, and if you're the sort of uninhibited worshipper who throws up your hands at church, this would be the time to throw off your clothes and go skinny dipping.  Because skinny dipping is an act of worship. Raw worship. 100% pure and natural.
  Wow. Now I'm even more anxious to get to the tropics to work and live and... worship this winter.

  Where do you see the glory of nature and of existence?  Is it close to home, like the exquisite pizza on your table, or is it far away?  How do you honor it; by skipping stones or taking a picture, or throwing off your clothes, or what?