Sailing the Sea of Faith

     At work during the week someone pinned a large piece of paper to the lunchroom wall. At the top of the paper they wrote "Things I Am Thankful For", and left it there, an invitation, or a challenge, perhaps, for the rest of us to contemplate and comment. It was an unexpected holiday greeting, a letter from everyone to everyone, or to be more exact, it was a letter from a few, to the rest of us.
     Just as unexpected, I am awake now wishing I could go back in the anonymity of the darkness and pin a list to that poster because in truth I found it difficult to be spontaneous. I needed to mull it over. It isn't that I find it difficult to be thankful, but that it seems too important to speak in haste. The comments that appeared during the week (there weren't many) were spoken from the surface of life: "I am thankful for my job...", "I'm thankful for my family..." and "I'm thankful that I am healthy..." All good sentiments, of course, but I didn't get the feeling anybody had lost any sleep thinking about it.
     For me, thankfulness opens the door to a great sea of understanding that we don't often risk. The ocean makes us nervous, and rightfully so, because we neither own it nor control it. It is big. To live on the sea means to go with great humility because pride embarks, but never returns. Thankfulness is like that. Pursuing it, following it, tracking it means going out among shifting waters. Our path disappears behind us. Past the horizon, we must find new signposts. We chart our course, but it is only lines on paper--looking up, there is nothing but the sea. That is the life of thankfulness. We go out into the immense heart of God and live in faith and trust.
     The journey of conversion is like making small trips. At first we stay inside the harbor learning the rigging and tackle. We practice our reckoning. We go from end to end and get our balance. We grow used to the sliding, rolling gate of the boat. But eventually we grow eager, dissatisfied, almost hungry for the sea. And so, one day, we head out of the harbor.
     Now we are in open water, but we hang close to the shore, keeping it always at our shoulder, like a walking companion. Day after day we venture farther out to sea, out on the rolling waves, still learning the wind, the currents, the heft of tides. It's a wonderful freedom but on the other side, the outside, there is vast emptiness, and it's scary. But over time cruising the shoreline loses its glamour. This boat is made for making journeys, and at last, as before, we leave the harbor well-provisioned and turn our back on the shore.
     I've never sailed, but I can imagine how it feels, pushing out directly onto the breast of the sea. Now everything is changed, everything is sea and seafaring, and though one is "green" at first, seasoning comes with time. We proceed according to our best skills and understandings and discover that while isolated we are never alone (radios are good metaphor for the connectedness of grace). All things working together bring us safely across the waters to our destination, land, always land. Nobody sails to arrive in the middle of nowhere. And the value of landfall is increased by the journey. We have crossed the open waters. We can now call ourselves sailors. But here's the catch. Once crossed, we are no longer in "our" country. The world has grown.

     I have come to understand, by sailing the sea of faith, that "catholic" is not the whole Christian world. Perhaps it's the contrast of new country, but I have found, across these waters, people who are better Christians than myself. It's not the card you carry that makes you a disciple, it's the years you spend sailing. There are storms out here, dangers and yes, sometimes loneliness. But we embrace them all for the chance to be free of the land, to stand the dancing road for a time until distance and the compass bring us someplace new. We go ashore on unsteady feet. We smell strange smells, taste new foods, listen to new stories, new angles, new perspectives and realize that we know the stories--we take out our own stories from our sea bag and swap them with those we meet and there, in a handshake or in a kiss, we recognize someone familiar. We know these people, and they are us.
     Perhaps we stay awhile, sharing. Perhaps it's just a tip of the hat and wave of the hand before we shove off to new destinations. But as we go from shore to shore across the great waters, we are stitching the many pieces of our world together in a cover that spans everything. Building the body of Christ one heart at a time. Making faith grow.

     Though most of my journeys happen right here at the keyboard of my computer, and though in most respects I have been a timid sailor, I can say this morning that I am grateful for the sea... and I am thankful for all those who have taught me how to sail.

Tom McNamara, Thanksgiving Day, 2010