(I like to make Sundays not about me.)
I am the ship that will carry you to safety.
I am the ship dashed upon the rocks.
I am the anchor left behind, heaving against the rock shelf, unable to be broken out.
I am the sea that drowns you.
I am the surf that will wash you in with the tides.
I am the grains of sand, that can be molded, swept and tossed into the wind, or hardened into glass by lightning. I will sift through your fingers, falling back to the earth.
I am the rocks upon which the waves break.
I am the tall grasses waving in the wind, my shallow roots unable to hold fast.
I am the shore.
I am your peaceful place.
I am your secret hideaway.
But I am not your respite, nor your despair.
Each sentence carried a short story and each one tied in with the next. Each one was at once profound and destructive. Each one hit home with a resounding *thwock*. Each one hurt like a son of a bitch and each one was perfectly placed, perfectly told.
Each one, relayed by Sam from his place at the edge of the sea, and then from within as he waded in up to his knees for effect, in the pouring rain, the pages of Jacob's bible becoming wavy and crinkled, his hair curling from the humidity, and the water absorbing up his pantlegs until he was mostly soaked to the waist and still not truly noticing how effective his sermon was.
Until he was finished, holding the first candle of advent aloft as it sputtered in the rain, wading in from the surf, pulling himself along with his hand out for his congregation, using their momentum to bring himself to shore.
Maybe weights have been lifted. Maybe we had a really good talk last night. Maybe he just figured he's got to go one step further to keep interest in church at this time of year, when things get crushingly formulaic for him with advent beginning and he just said fuck it and did something else. He can do that, if he wants. It's a very easy church to helm.
And he's good at it.
