One of the great advantages of living in Canada is that we are rarely very far from water.
Rivers, lakes, streams, ponds, creeks, bays, harbours, and the occasional puddle large enough to require its own municipal government seem to appear almost everywhere.
As a result, many of us develop a curious habit.
We walk beside water.
Not because we have anywhere particularly important to go.
Not because we are training for the Olympics.
Not because a physician has sternly informed us that our cholesterol numbers have become a matter of national concern.
We simply walk.
Along the river.
Beside the lake.
Down a shoreline trail.
Around a harbour.
We wander.
And somehow, we feel better.
I suspect there is a theological reason for this.
God seems unusually fond of water.
The opening verses of Genesis place the Spirit of God moving over the face of the waters.
Israel crosses the Red Sea.
The prophets speak beside rivers.
Jesus is baptized in the Jordan.
The Book of Revelation ends with a river flowing through the heavenly city.
From beginning to end, water appears wherever God seems particularly interested in getting people’s attention.
Perhaps that is why a simple walk along the riverbank often feels strangely holy.
Not dramatic.
Not miraculous.
Just holy.
A few evenings ago I found myself walking beside a river near sunset.
Nothing especially remarkable happened.
No angels appeared.
No heavenly voices spoke.
No profound revelations descended from above.
Although I will admit that one particularly determined mosquito seemed convinced that I might be the answer to several of its prayers.
The river moved quietly along its way.
A few ducks drifted past with the confidence of creatures who have never once worried about mortgage rates.
The trees reflected in the water.
The breeze carried the scent of summer.
And for a little while, the world seemed entirely content to be itself.
There is something deeply comforting about that.
Most of us spend our days trying to improve things.
Fix things.
Organize things.
Manage things.
Schedule things.
Update things.
Respond to things.
The modern world often gives the impression that our value is measured by our productivity.
But rivers are gloriously unproductive.
They simply flow.
They do not maintain strategic plans.
They do not answer emails.
They do not optimize performance metrics.
They do not attend committee meetings.
They simply move toward the sea, exactly as God created them to do.
There is a lesson hidden in that.
Not that we should abandon our responsibilities and spend the rest of our lives floating downstream on an inflatable raft.
Tempting though that may sound on certain afternoons.
Rather, rivers remind us that not everything important requires effort.
Some things require attention.
Some things require presence.
Some things require us simply to notice.
The sunlight on the water.
The call of a gull overhead.
The laughter of children skipping stones.
The rhythm of our own breathing.
The goodness of being alive on an ordinary summer evening.
The spiritual life often grows this way.
Not only through great acts of sacrifice or heroic moments of faith.
Sometimes it grows through noticing.
Through paying attention.
Through becoming aware of God’s presence already surrounding us.
Jesus seemed remarkably skilled at this kind of noticing.
He paid attention to sparrows.
Wildflowers.
Fishing boats.
Seeds.
Vineyards.
Storms.
Fields of grain.
He continually pointed people toward ordinary things and said, in effect, “Look closely. The Kingdom of God is here too.”
Perhaps a walk beside the river is one of the simplest spiritual disciplines available to us.
No special equipment required.
No advanced theological degree necessary.
No committee approval needed.
Just a willingness to slow down long enough to notice what God is already doing.
And perhaps that is why we return to these places again and again.
The river never seems hurried.
The lake never appears anxious.
The shoreline never worries about tomorrow.
Creation quietly trusts its Creator.
Meanwhile, we humans continue working on that particular skill.
So if you find yourself near water this summer, take a little extra time.
Walk slowly.
Listen carefully.
Watch the light dance across the surface.
Notice the life around you.
Say a prayer if one comes to mind.
Or simply enjoy the gift.
The river will continue flowing whether you accomplish anything or not.
And that may be one of the most gracious sermons you hear all week.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of rivers and lakes, shorelines and quiet paths, and for all the ways your creation speaks when we slow down enough to listen.
Teach us to walk more gently through this world, noticing the beauty around us and the grace within us. Quiet our anxious hearts. Ease our hurried spirits. Help us to trust you as the river trusts its course and as the lake rests beneath the summer sky.
May every simple walk become an opportunity to encounter your presence, and every moment of wonder draw us closer to the One who created all things in love.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.