THE HEART OF THE GREAT OCEAN Reflections on Spiritual Community
A Homily by James Ishmael Ford
9 September 2007


The Text
Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me_
As I gaze upon the sea!_
All the old romantic legends,_
All my dreams, come back to me.
__
Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,_
Such as gleam in ancient lore;_
And the singing of the sailors,_
And the answer from the shore!
__
Most of all, the Spanish ballad_
Haunts me oft, and tarries long,_
Of the noble Count Arnaldos_
And the sailor's mystic song.
__
Like the long waves on a sea-beach,_
Where the sand as silver shines,_
With a soft, monotonous cadence,_
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines;--
__
Telling how the Count Arnaldos,_
With his hawk upon his hand,_
Saw a fair and stately galley,_
Steering onward to the land;--
__
How he heard the ancient helmsman_
Chant a song so wild and clear,_
That the sailing sea-bird slowly_
Poised upon the mast to hear,
__
Till his soul was full of longing,_
And he cried, with impulse strong,--_
"Helmsman! for the love of heaven,_
Teach me, too, that wondrous song!" __

"Wouldst thou,"--so the helmsman answered,_
"Learn the secret of the sea?_
Only those who brave its dangers_
Comprehend its mystery!" __

In each sail that skims the horizon,_
In each landward-blowing breeze,_
I behold that stately galley,_
Hear those mournful melodies; _
_
Till my soul is full of longing_
For the secret of the sea,_
And the heart of the great ocean_
Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

Perhaps you’ve heard that I come from the West, California originally. Among the minor dislocations of relocation has been my orientation to large bodies of water. For the first couple of years after auntie, Jan and I moved out here to Eastern Massachusetts, whenever I had call to read a map of the area, I’d unfold and look at it. Then, I’d have to turn it the other way around. Apparently, somewhere deep down, the ocean was supposed to be on the left side of the page. But here that big blue patch is on the right side of the page.

There’s something else, as well. It seems I have some sort of body orientation to the ocean. I have a sense of where it is, pretty much always. And it’s my way of feeling where I am, of orienting myself on the compass. Perhaps some of you have that experience, as well? You just know the ocean is somewhere out in that direction. Unfortunately for me that sense still tells me “that direction” is West and I need to remember to translate. And, still, even after seven plus years on occasion when I see a highway sign that gives the direction “East” or “West,” and start following it I find myself going in the opposite direction I’d intended.

Perhaps it is reasonable that water could be so important, so basic that I might use it as a fundamental point for orienting myself. It’s also perhaps worth noting how if I’m not careful, I can be misled by my relationship to that great ocean. I’d like to spend our last few minutes in today’s gathering reflecting on all that, and what it might mean for us as we go forward in our shared lives within this community of faith.

Water is such a powerful image. It stands so easily for life itself, it is, after all, essential to life as we understand that word. I gather somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy percent of our biological mass is water. Deprived of it we quickly die. Also, water is dangerous. We can easily drown if we’re not careful.

So, perhaps of course water is going to be a primary image for us, the symbol-carrying animal. It has been argued, and I’m pretty much convinced, we think less by deduction or induction and more by metaphor. We gather our meaning of things from how this is like that. Of course we also need analysis, thinking things through. But that’s the second step. Our essential knowing, our body knowing is found largely through images, anecdote and story.

We’ve started our day with a gathering of water, our individual contributions making a great bowl of water, or just one imaginal step out, our individual streams come together into a rushing river flowing toward the ocean. We have, I hope, felt something of this. And perhaps it has triggered thoughts and feelings from other aspects of our lives. It so easily can.

Water’s most common metaphorical usage in most of the world’s religions is as a purifier, to bring blessing. We see this in the mikva of Judaism, baptism in Christianity and in Islam as a necessary preliminary to the five daily prayers. I think appropriately this water we’ve gathered today, or some of it, will be present at child dedications throughout the church year.

Water can be used to bless. And it holds other truths, if we’re willing to notice. I’m constantly drawn back to the images of water: streams, fountains, rivers and the ocean itself. I find myself thinking of Anne’s story of the search for the waters of life and how we best find it, right here, within our hearts. I’m also mindful how we find it right here among our community. Water is the more of which we, you and I, are a part. This more is a powerful thing, a central thing for us to notice. It is so important some call that more God. Of course we Unitarian Universalists struggle with that word. So for today, let’s just call that more of which we are, each of us, a part, the ocean, the great ocean.

And here’s a truth about us that we can find as we consider the ocean. We, each of us, are more like waves on the surface of the ocean. Made of that precious substance, taken a specific form for a while, and destined to return in its time, really so quickly, to the source. One question might be what does that mean for us here today, as we gather together, as we symbolically return to this sacred space? What can it mean?

When I was researching for today’s reflection I ran across a definition from Smith’s Bible Dictionary. It was a masterwork of nineteenth century scholarship, and while it has its limitations it remains useful, and in part because it’s in the public domain you can find it all over the web. Now, it caught me as much for the fact I can picture that book on my grandmother’s nightstand resting as it did right under her King James Bible. I used that book a lot in my adolescence. But, again, that’s often how we think, from picture to picture. And our meanings are always laden with other meanings. To make our way we need to attend to it all.

Anyway Smith’s dictionary tells us “the ordinary Hebrew word for prophet is nabi, derived from a verb signifying ‘to bubble forth’ like a fountain; hence the word means one who announces or pours forth the declarations of God.” I suggest as we come together, if we listen with our hearts to each other, words of wisdom await, ready to bubble forth like a fountain. In this gathering we find a fountain fed by the great ocean.

Of course interpretation of those messages, of those words from the divine are also necessary. That’s when the other great aspect of our tradition finds its place, where we need to reason together, to turn the map in a direction that allows it to be read clearly. But first we need the words of prophecy. And if we’re careful, if we listen wisely, they are spoken here, in our company of gathered waters.
And it is in that spirit I call you back to that closing line in Longfellow’s poem, which was inspired by a sixteenth century Spanish romance which, I believe, has echoes for us.

Till my soul is full of longing_
For the secret of the sea,_
And the heart of the great ocean_
Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

May this be the song of our lives together.

May this be a wondrous year of exploration, of depth, of justice and joy.

Amen.