One of the cable movie channels has been running Master and Commander these past few weeks. I’ve not yet read the Patrick O’Brien books this movie was (loosely) based upon, but they’re on my list of things-to-pick-up-and-check-out-when-there’s-time. I suspect they, like the Horatio Hornblower books, will awaken my desire to be out on the ocean with nothing more driving me along than the wild and unpredictable wind.
The movie, for those who aren’t familiar with it, depicts the life of a crew on a British ship of war during the era of Napoleon. There is beauty in the wooden beams that creak and groan as they sail across the waters. There is tragedy when conflict with another vessel takes lives. And, constantly, there is a mass of humanity traveling together in a too-small space amidst storm, heat, and pleasant weather.
Boats are an important symbol to Christianity. Churches, for many thousands of years, have been built to resemble them. The high wooden ceiling is meant to resemble the hold of a ship, where people lived, ate, and rested. The idea is that we within their walls are on a journey. Like the crew of a ship, we must live together, work together, and support one another.
It’s a pretty metaphor, but one that isn’t often stretched. Does the fact that we are on a ship mean that we must take care when we decide to pull up alongside another vessel—be it another congregation, denomination, or even religion? Should we remember, when the gunners are ready to deliver a verbal broadside, that we are opening ourselves to damage that can kill our companions, and sink our ship?
Sitting, as the church is designed, in the hold of the ship should mean something too. One, we are not at the helm that controls the boat. Nor are we standing with our instruments and navigating—determining what course is to be run. We aren’t even a deckhand, at least able to pitch in and capture the wind whenever it changes direction, blows stronger, or else is against us. In the belly of the ship, we are not in charge of controlling where we’re headed. We have to trust that the captain—rarely seen, but whose voice is always there—knows the sea on which we sail.
This does not mean that we have nothing to do. We are each responsible for our fellow travelers. When trouble comes, every hand is needed and everyone must depend upon each other. We all must attend to someone on board who is hungry, sick, or injured in any way.
And all of us know that no matter how well laid our course, how diligent the hands hold the wheel, sometimes that wild and unpredictable wind blows from a completely unanticipated direction. But unlike the sailors in Master and Commander, afterwards our calculations show we are now much closer to finding our way home.
Wild One who blows through our hearts and our lives, melt away the cold parts of me with fire and give me breath to share with all who want to be alive.