This is the message I wrote for the Water Communion Ceremony at my Unitarian Universalist Church.

The Joy of Water

Good morning and bright blessings to you all. Today we are celebrating our shared commitment and community with the intermingling of water.

“The need for connection and community is primal, as fundamental as the need for air, water, and food.”- Dean Ornish.

The joys and sorrows of our friends and families are brought together in this significant ceremony that honors our most primal need, our fundamental need to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. Ryunosuke Satoro said “Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean.” They aren’t wrong. As we unite our vision, we flow like water, gentle and soft, yet determined to ripple into the smallest nooks and crannies of those we interact with.

As individuals we can find joy in the absolute absurdity of the flow of our lives. We can also sit in stagnant pools, forgetting our purpose, our direction. What we share today is our complex history, our integration into each other’s lives of this; our bless-ed home.

What we’ve given to each other today isn’t just water, it is a legacy promise to allow ourselves to be buoyant life preservers, the purveyors of goodwill, the people of a responsible and joyous citizenry to one another and to the “church” outside these walls.

My personal relationship with water is unique and has affected my spiritual existence since I was a young human.

I grew up in West Michigan, 35 minutes from the shores of Lake Michigan. My Gram lived much closer in Grand Haven, 10 minutes away from the lakefront on VanWagoner Road. When I was lucky enough to get to visit her, it was nearly always punctuated by a trip to the water, a long walk on the pier that stretches out from the shores to a lighthouse at the end.

I’d spend hours climbing up and over great sand dunes to overlook the water. Once I was good and worn out and maybe had a Ray’s burger (Still delicious as of a few years ago) for supper, I’d walk over to the waterfront to anxiously await the start of the Musical Fountain.

The voice would boom over the loudspeaker as a single spout of water shooting upwards lit by a white light would “talk” to the gathered crowd.

“Good evening, and welcome to the Grand Haven Musical Fountain.”

The voice would continue with the particulars of that night’s program which, as a child, I disregarded because the best was yet to come. As the music began through tinny speakers (Now since upgraded), the real show began.

Sprays of water enhanced by multi-colored lights would dance the hillside across the waterway. Fans of brightly colored sprays, tall and short straight shots into the night sky, a helix shape, swaying rotations lit in time to the music. It was exciting, beautiful, and one of my favorite childhood memories.

The harbor of Grand Haven called to me in a familiar way, as if it understood my need for connection, my sense of belonging wasn’t questioned by its shores. I was accepted unquestionably by its vastness.

When I was ten years old, I went with South Congregational Church to the shores of Lake Michigan where they had a retreat. We stayed in cabins, did activities together, sang, and spent our free time doing whatever we wanted to.

I found myself walking to the outdoor chapel that had rocks for benches, pine trees as the altar, and the edgeless view of the Great Lake. As I sat in solitude, staring out over the water, taking in the beauty of nature, I heard a voice.

It wasn’t male or female. It was outside of my body, yet, somehow, so close I thought someone had snuck up behind me. Alarmed, I looked around. I was still alone. The birds were singing, the not-so-distant waves were washing the sandy shores, and the cool breeze brushed my skin ever so lightly.

The voice said, “I am with you.”

I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t worried. It was a deeply comforting reassurance. I tried to describe it later to Rev. Richard Rowlands, but he was inadvertently both dismissive and skeptical. I didn’t tell anyone else because of that, holding onto that secret until now.

Fast forward several years in my life.

I was living in Northern Indiana at the time. I had set up the perfect bath. I had vanilla scented candles lit. I had hot water with lavender bubbles. On my boombox I had a cassette of whale songs playing.

As I relaxed in the luxurious bath, I closed my eyes and found myself drifting into what seemed like a different dimension. When I opened my eyes, I could hear the water that encompassed me. I could taste the sunlight that poured in through the window, warm and honey-like in flavor.

I eased myself up out of the water, maintaining my receptiveness and tied my bathrobe around my waist. Every bit of contact I had with the external world brought me a different level of understanding. As I stepped out my front door to witness the tree that shaded my front yard, the leaves were singing like chimes. The grass gave off a scent of satisfaction so aromatic that it deluged my nostrils with its perfume.

I heard the voice again. “I am with you.”

I don’t know exactly how it happened, but I understood things at that moment that I’d never known before then. I “got it.” I heard a language so ancient that it resonated with my spirit even today.

I heard the voice again. “I am with you.”

It didn’t last long, maybe fifteen minutes or so before I left that state. I kept that secret too, until now.

I became enthralled by nature. I felt the call of the wild. I embraced the natural world as if religion could only be found in the shells on a beach, the sandy shores of the state from which I was born or the Ponderosa Pine Forest on the Mogollon Rim with spring waters filling the streams with icy cold run-off.

I heard the trees telling stories of what they’d witnessed throughout the decades of their knowing. I felt the coalescing of my spirit with the earth where I planted my flowers and herbs. I became a devotee of Mother Earth.

I moved to Tennessee when I heard that voice again. It said, “Go now,” and showed me a picture in my mind of the exterior of the old church, I had no intention of ever setting foot inside a church as a congregant. But the voice seemed far more confident than I felt.

As each tradition of the Unitarian Universalist became revealed through my attendance, I fell into depths of pure spiritual joy. I found and cultivated relationships as deep as any I’d ever experienced.

My favorite song, written by Singer/Songwriter Peter Mayer, “Holy Now,” sings:

“When holy water was rare at best

It barely wet my fingertips.

Now I have to hold my breath

Like I’m swimmin’ in a sea of it.

It used to be a world half there,

Heaven’s second-rate hand me down.

Now I walk it with a reverent air,

‘Cause ev’rything is holy now.”

As we share our water together, there is not only a sense of unity but one of devout joy, knowing that we Are, together. Knowing that we can be filled with sustainable joy through our common communion with one another.

A smarter feller than myself once said:

“The power of water is a reminder of the power of community, and the strength that can come from working together towards a common goal. It is a symbol of life, flowing through everything and connecting us all.”

“Water flowing is a reminder to stay in harmony with nature and honor the vital role that water plays in sustaining all life on Earth. The beauty of water flowing is that it is a reminder of the power and mystery of the natural world, and our interconnectedness with it.”

See you further on up the trail. Blessed Be!