The Sea of Souls [All Saints' Sunday]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Ephesians 1:11-23

The Sea of Souls

I stare out into the vast expanse, the vast expanse that is this ocean.  And my mind goes to poetry but poetry absent of words.  Because there are no words, no answers, no explanations that don’t feel crass – just feelings and impressions and dreams for which even the interpretations need to be interpreted.  And I stare because this is one place in the world in which staring is acceptable and not odd.  And I breathe.  I breathe in the air, a flavor unique to the shore – though many candles promise to capture it and to domesticate it – all unsuccessfully.  I breathe it in in slow, shallow breaths, as if a deep or suddenly intake of air might scare away the mystery before me.  The air is more than air; it carries the essence of this great sea, like how incense somehow puts form to holiness.  And as I slowly and cautiously inhale, I can feel that this ocean is now, somehow, living inside of me, like a holy ghost, like holy communion.  As if here, I am not alone.

The first thing I notice, every time I stand on the shore, is the vastness.  It is too big to be considered big.  That word, big, is generally useful; but the word proves insufficient in this one overwhelming context.  The water, it just goes on forever – so far that perspective gives up.  For my eyes it ends, though it goes on and on and on.  And I trust that there is another shore, on the other side.  I believe it.  But I have no proof; only faith, a faith mostly steady but known to occasionally waver.  Only the ocean knows for sure, because it can reach places that I cannot see.  And it is, in this very moment, touching this shore and that shore – the one beneath my feet and the one beyond my sight.

There are moments when it occurs to me that really it is no more than a remarkable collection of drips and drops.  Countless drips and drops, knit together in one communion and fellowship, a mystical body of water.  So many and yet they move as one.  From the shore I watch them dance together.  They sway in unison, sometimes calmly and sometimes in a wild flurry of movement.  They approach and then retreat, feeling at times so close and at times so far away.  Like the lungs of God, they inhale and exhale.  I imagine that when they pull away from this shore it is to visit the other.  And then back again.  Closer.  Closer to where I stand.

The water approaches.  It inches toward me, and as it does, I cannot decide if it is inviting or foreboding, alluring or frightening.  There is too much to know.  And I don’t know much.  I know only that there are mysteries in the depths, below the surface, mysteries for which my soul longs.  Mysteries that call to me.  As if the water is waiting to share its secrets with anyone willing to listen. 

Occasionally, usually at this time of year, when the air is magically thinned, the water a bit clearer, when the ghosts float to the surface, and when the crash of the waves seem to speak most intelligibly, I dare to let the water reach me, come around my feet, surround me where I stand.  It gently drags me out to sea.  And I am carried on the waves, invited into the dance.  I can feel this mystical body hold me, cradle me; I sway in the ancient arms of the ancient saints – those gone but not really.

One day, not now, but one day, I hope this sea of souls will be my home.  Because I, like you, and like those ancient saints, the ones whom we remember today, the ones who cradle us in their ancient arms, the ones who bathe us in their unceasing prayers, I was born for the sea.  I came to life in ancient waters, waters thick with Holy Spirit and sacred mystery.  And those waters never dried up and I never dried off; it is those same life-giving waters of my baptism that still live inside of me.  They call me to the shore, to breathe in the enchanted air.  And so I know this ocean is my destiny.  I will, one day, become one with the water.  Holy Communion.  And in the sea I will rest in peace: one among many, submerged in the saints – one of those gone but not really.  I will be buried in their sea.  And in it I will touch, at last, the other shore, on the other side.