Last week, when it was hot, hot, hot, I wanted to go to the beach. I had spent the money earlier this summer on beach passes for myself and a friend, and yet hadn’t gotten myself down to the water. There was always a good reason, and some beyond my control: poor air quality, too much bacteria in the water. Beaches closed for lifeguard training. My own schedule too busy.
And on the day I was absolutely positively going to do myself a favor and go lay in the sun for a while, read a book, and take a dip, I cleaned my condo. Took my dog on a playdate. Had a nap.
But something in me – maybe it’s the part that takes external accountability super seriously – prompted me to go anyway, because I’d told a few people I was going to. I remembered that, last summer, during a similar heatwave, I packed up some things, drove Zoe down to the beach with me, waited for the lifeguards to leave at the end of the day, and then went for a swim.
So that’s just what we did.
We waited, cautiously, until all of the Parks Department staff had left, the “no lifeguard on duty” signs were up, and much of the crowd dispersed as twilight settled in. We watched for signals of other dog owners bringing their companions onto the beach, and lurked by the entrance with some other unsure pet parents. And finally, one brave man tucked his little chihuahua under his arm and strode confidently onto the sand.
That was all it took. Zoe and I raced out into the fast-emptying beach. I threw down my towel, took off my cover-up, hooked up her long leash, and dove into the water.
I remembered what I love so much about the beach at night.
As we played in the waves, and watched other dogs run around, chasing balls, sniffing at the water, digging in the sand, I felt so free.
I noticed other people coming onto the beach, now that the crowds were gone. People like me, coming by themselves. People who might not have had companions to come with earlier in the day, or who weren’t comfortable baring their skin before harsh sun or critical eyes. People who wore headscarves or hijabs instead of bikinis, or had a kid who behaved just a little differently and needed extra space and permission to just be, and not be explained or excused.
It was a community of the quirky, the different, the “others.”
And it felt so good. So welcoming, and accepting, and free.
We splashed in the water, Zoe running in and out and across the beach and as far as her long line would let her, me trying to dive in to the water while the waves got higher and faster as a storm crept in. And when we finally came up onto the sand, and sat on my towel, watching the lightning move east, I breathed my deepest breath in days.
I remembered that I love these nighttime swims, because they are always ultimately about more than getting Zoe into the water on a hot day.
Because they remind me, in a surprising way, of what the church is, at her best.
That welcoming, beautiful, accepting space of everyone who might not fit somewhere else. Who might be “too” something or “not enough” something: too big, too loud, too talkative, too direct; not accomplished enough or rich enough or smart enough or connected enough.
There is space for everyone. Perhaps especially those that the world rejects, or ignores.
Of course, this isn’t always how the church behaves. But it is who and what we’re called to be. And at our best, this is very much what we look like: like the crowds at the beach at night. Where everyone is welcome and no one is turned away.
I hope, in these complicated and divisive times, that we can continue to pursue this way of being. This holy and welcoming space in the world.
And if you need to see an example – well, come find me and Zoe some night. We’ll take you to our beach. And remind you of what could be.
-Pastor Jen
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