There are few places that capture the spirit of a Canadian summer quite like a swimming dock.
Whether it is a weathered wooden dock at the cottage, a floating dock on a quiet lake, or one of those municipal docks that has seen generations of children launching themselves into the water with more enthusiasm than precision, every swimming dock tells stories.
It is also, I have come to believe, a rather remarkable teacher of faith.
The interesting thing about a swimming dock is that it always invites a decision.
You can sit with your feet dangling in the water for hours. Many people do. They cautiously test the temperature every few minutes as though the lake might suddenly decide to become warmer simply because they are being patient.
“It still feels cold.”
“Give it another minute.”
Five minutes later…
“Still cold.”
The fish are probably having their own conversation.
“Do you think they’ll ever get in?”
“I doubt it. They’re discussing it.”
I’ve participated in enough of those dockside theological conferences to know they rarely change the outcome.
Eventually someone simply jumps.
For a brief moment there is a great splash, a surprising amount of dramatic shouting, and then comes the inevitable announcement.
“It’s actually not bad!”
Of course it isn’t.
It never was.
The hardest part was not the water.
The hardest part was letting go of the dock.
Faith often works the same way.
So much of our spiritual lives is spent with our toes in the water.
We wonder if we’re ready to forgive.
We wonder if we’re ready to begin again.
We wonder whether we should volunteer, change careers, retire, reconcile with someone, join a church, take a risk, or answer one of those persistent nudges that God seems unwilling to stop whispering.
We keep waiting until every uncertainty disappears.
But certainty is remarkably elusive.
God seldom says, “Once every possible question has been answered, then you may begin.”
Instead, God gently says, “Come.”
Throughout Scripture, people rarely receive complete road maps.
Abraham leaves home without knowing the destination.
Peter climbs out of the boat without knowing exactly how long the water will hold him.
The disciples leave their fishing nets before they have any idea where the journey will end.
Even Jesus continually invites people into trust before they fully understand where grace is leading them.
Faith has always involved stepping beyond the familiar edge.
Now, before anyone becomes concerned, I am not suggesting that reckless decisions are somehow holy. If the dock has a sign that says “No Diving — Rocks,” please do not imagine that this blog has suddenly become a commentary on ignoring common sense.
God gave us wisdom for a reason.
But there is a difference between wisdom and hesitation.
Wisdom asks good questions.
Fear asks the same question over and over again until summer is over.
Ordinary Time has been quietly teaching us this all season.
Growth rarely happens while remaining perfectly comfortable.
Seeds split open before they grow.
Gardens stretch toward the light.
Birds eventually leave the nest.
Even dragonflies don’t spend forever climbing reeds before they discover they can fly.
At some point, every living thing trusts what God has already placed within it.
Perhaps disciples eventually must do the same.
Looking back over thirty-three years of ordained ministry, I can see plenty of docks.
There were calls I wasn’t certain I could answer.
Congregations I wasn’t sure I was ready to serve.
Conversations I would rather have avoided.
Doors that opened with no guarantee about what lay beyond them.
If I had waited until I felt completely prepared, I suspect I would still be standing on the dock discussing the water with the fish.
Instead, time after time, grace proved deeper than my fears.
Not every plunge was graceful.
Some felt more like spectacular belly flops than elegant dives.
There were awkward landings, unexpected currents, and moments when I wondered if I had mistaken courage for foolishness.
Yet somehow, in every season, God was already present in the water before I arrived.
That may be one of the loveliest truths of the Christian life.
We are not called to leap into emptiness.
We are invited to step into the presence of the One who has been holding creation together since the beginning.
Long before our feet leave the dock, God’s love is already waiting beneath us.
Perhaps that is why Isaiah can say, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.”
Not, “If you become brave enough.”
Not, “If you never feel afraid.”
Simply, “I will be with you.”
That promise changes everything.
So maybe today is a good day to stop endlessly testing the water.
Offer the forgiveness.
Begin the conversation.
Take the first small step.
Volunteer.
Pray.
Dream again.
Trust the gentle invitation of God that has been waiting patiently beside you.
Because the remarkable thing about faith is this:
The water has been ready all along.
And by the grace of God, it is deeper, kinder, and more welcoming than we ever imagined.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the quiet invitations you place before us each day. When we find ourselves standing on the dock, hesitant to step forward, remind us that you are already waiting in the waters ahead.
Give us wisdom to discern the difference between caution and fear, courage to take the next faithful step, and trust that your grace is always deeper than our doubts.
When the path feels uncertain, help us remember that we never leap alone. Your love surrounds us, your Spirit goes before us, and your faithful presence will always hold us.
May we grow a little bolder in hope, a little freer in love, and a little more willing to follow wherever Christ leads, knowing that every step taken in faith is held securely in your hands.
In the name of Christ, who continually calls us to “Come,”
Amen.