Skinny-dipping with Jesus
My first day in
seminary, each of us new students was given a blank piece of paper and some
crayons and asked to draw our image of church. I still have my drawing: It
shows a group of people up to their necks in a pool of water below a giant
waterfall, with rays of sun shining on their spot in the river as it continues
to flow forward.
I did not have to
imagine my image of church. All I had to do was harken back to church camp, in
Middle Tennessee, where we campers spent many blessed hours swimming in the lake—vying
for the spots warmed by the sun or, as we used to tease each other, duck pee—and
devoted much of our free time to playing in the creek.
One afternoon my
buddy Renita and I took our swimsuits and towels and ventured along the creek
until we came to a pretty secluded area where the water was deep and wide enough
to bathe. We were far enough into the woods that we couldn’t hear the din of
activities going on at camp. We laid back and let the rolling stream wash over
us and under us. The current filled out our swimsuits and gently but constantly
pulled, stretched, turned, and returned our bodies, causing us to grab hold of
the odd tree root along the bank or some sturdy rock in the bottom of the
creek. The water was cold until you got used to it, and then it felt fine. This
individual free time, during a week of organized fun and fellowship in the
middle of a summer reprieve from school schedules and academic requirements and
peer pressures, was just that: individually freeing.
What my seminary
drawing doesn’t show is that the people in the pool of water are naked. Each
one of them is in their birthday suit, experiencing a baptism of light and depth,
warmth and coolness, individuality and togetherness. It’s an in-the-body existence.
Which is also my image of church and one I don’t have to imagine—I simply
recall the time Renita and I went skinny-dipping in the creek. We started out
in our swimwear and then after a while decided to take them off just to find
what it might be like without the drag of our water-logged suits. I immediately
became weightless and part of the rivulet. To my surprise I felt bold—not at
all embarrassed—and quite sure of myself. It helped that Renita, who was a
couple years older than me, was mature and self-confident.
Then we heard
voices. Boys’ voices. They were somewhere in the woods and, from the sound of
it, getting closer. Renita and I had our swimsuits close at hand, but rather
than rush to put them on, we waited. Then one of us got a brilliant idea: We
each tied our towel around our torso, tucking the knot inside so as to be
hands-free, and sank back down into the creek bed with only our head showing.
The water was relatively clear beside the shallow banks, but there was a
rippling effect midstream—baby rapids, if there is such a thing—such that even
we couldn’t see ourselves.
When the group of
boys came around, we shouted to get their attention. They were on a nature hike,
keeping an eye out for snakes and dead animals and anything else of interest.
They noticed our clothes beside the creek.
“What’re ya’ll
doin’?” they asked, being Southern lads.
“We’re
skinny-dipping,” we let it be known.
“No you’re not.”
“Are too.” And we
both raised our arms, revealing our bare shoulders and holding our swimsuits in
our hands.
They left. Whether
they believed us or not, we’ll never know. What they made of it, we didn’t
ask.
Some ministers
confess that they have a dream in which they find themselves standing in the church
pulpit naked. It’s an anxiety dream about being found wanting, exposed, vulnerable.
I have anxiety
dreams but not about being naked in church. Rather, my image of church is a
body of individuals who dare to get real—real with themselves, real with God,
real with one another. Folks who immerse themselves in living with joy and
confidence, who aren’t afraid to dive deep into the cold unknown when it’s
called for, and who gravitate to the warmth and the light and make the most of
this free time.
