Backs to the Beach
I once saw a young couple reading their Bible at the beach, their backs to the surf. I was confused. Why sit on the sand turn your back to such a wonder? Were they missing something?
I was walking along Carpinteria beach one morning, the sun rising behind me, admiring the changing gradations of the surf in front of me, my heart leaping with wonder, my spirit marveling at God’s creation.
I saw in the distance the shape of two people sitting cross legged on the sand, looking like they were huddled next to each other. As I neared, I noticed their faces were down, both of them seeming to examine something in their lap, faced away from the surf. Hmmm. Backs to the surf? Why would you even be at the beach? As I got closer, I saw they had a Bible in their lap.
About 20 feet away, I stopped and watched them for a minute. Why face away from the ocean? They were steps from one of the great wonders of the world and they had their face buried in a book. The ocean, with its overwhelming size, its connectivity to every shore on the planet, its ever-changing tides driven by the moon’s gravitational pull, its own vibrant world operating under that glassy surface, was begging for their attention. Why head down in a book? Even if it’s the best book in the world.
After all, the book itself says that God’s power and his nature can be seen in what has been made. “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.”
Then I realized, I used to do that. I was so fixated on the book that I missed the movie. I remember going to a retreat in the Rocky Mountains and barely getting into the woods because I was too absorbed in the manuscript. There is a time for text. And a time for immersion into a movie.
And I’m an all-out fan of the book. As a pastor for 15 years, I developed a near-photographic memory of the text and where passages are located.
But now I’m trying to awaken other spiritual muscles.
I want to see God in what has been made.
I want to learn the ways and nuances of the Spirit, how he’s communicating with us today.
I want to understand Bible characters deeper by writing about them in historical fiction.
But back to seeing God in what has been made. Last weekend I was hiking in the mountains and noticed the layers of sediment in an exposed cliff. There was a one-foot layer of boulders, followed by sand, followed by small pebbles, followed by clay, followed by large boulders again. I thought of the huge eruptions and earth-forming that must have caused those layers. Can you imagine the rocks flying through the air, crashing into each other, blackening the sky with the dust.
Then I turned and looked across the ridge at the rolling mountains in front of me, the pines and junipers growing evenly, the discrete valleys with established creeks at the bottom of them. This pristine, luscious, settled, predictable, relatively safe world I live in was not always so. Huge cataclysms were once the norm. Eruptions happened frequently. Formations spontaneously jutted up from the bowels of the earth. Inland seas were randomly formed when new land masses blocked water. Raucous weather cleaned and covered the new land with green.
I thought about how I exist in a narrow window of tranquility. I live in the aftermath of great forces colliding. I, in the scheme of things, am very small. We, in the scheme of things, are just a blip.
All this humbles me. It puts my place and time in the universe into perspective. It’s good for me to see how small I am, yet how important my soul is.
Next time I’m at the ocean, I’m going to look up from the book. I’m going to think about the cosmic pull on the tide. I’m going to appreciate the million years it took to create the smooth sand I walk on. I’m going to imagine the fantastic, fascinating world happening under the watery top.
I want to see God in all of it. I want to see how it speaks to his power and his nature.
I want to see God in the ocean.