By the waters

It being the first day of the month, it was time for Pray In The Sea. Inspired by, this was something we did in Brighton in 2014 and 2015, and we have revived it this year – after all, climate change has not gone away and the average sea level continues to rise. We meet just after low tide and stand in or near the sea, edging back as the tide rises. We keep silence for about 20 minutes, which means that it’s open to anyone of any or no religious practice or affiliation, and then there’s the opportunity to share any thoughts with the others, and that’s it.

2015.10.01 Praying for planet. Brighton beach 2This picture shows the time, in October 2015, when we were joined by Maina Taila from Tuvalu and Rev. Maleta Tenten from Kiribati. This was especially poignant, as the Pacific islands had been a particular focus for us, as they are so vulnerable to the rising sea. Also in this picture are a couple who were just walking along the beach, saw our banner and joined in.

Today, even though it was May Day, the sea was grey and wild, with dark threatening clouds scudding across in a cold easterly wind. I was thinking about Maina and Maleta and their island communities, where people are already leaving their ancestral homes for the safety of places like New Zealand. I thought about the people who are still, daily, crossing the Mediterranean to escape famine, drought, war, poverty or whatever other reason is so great as to force someone to leave their home and spend everything and risk everything to seek a different life in a new land. In a new land, their accent and perhaps skin colour will always mark them out as a foreigner. They will have to work hard to learn a new language and learn the unspoken rules of a new culture; they will have to work hard just to survive. As the West becomes increasingly hostile to migrants and refugees, they may never feel welcome and may never feel truly at home again. How does it feel to look out on an angry sea, across which a new but hard life may await, knowing that you can’t go back to an old life that civil war or climate change has destroyed?

Mucking about on my banjo yesterday, I discovered how to play Don McLean’s ‘Babylon‘ (capo at 3rd fret – seems obvious when you know). “By the waters, the waters of Babylon / We laid down and wept, and wept, for thee, Zion / We remember thee, remember thee, remember thee, Zion.” The Jewish exiles in Babylon, as described in Psalm 137, felt very homesick, to the point where they couldn’t sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land and hung up their harps on the willows. There is some linguistic fluidity in the psalm between the words Jerusalem and Zion. In verses 5-6, which perhaps express most deeply how far from home the exiles felt, it is Jerusalem that they vow never to forget. But in verse 1, they remember Zion, and in verse 3, their captors ask for “One of the songs of Zion.” In the bible, Zion is often simply an alternative name for Jerusalem, perhaps referring to the hill on which Solomon built the temple. But sometimes, Zion also takes on a greater symbolism to speak in ideal terms of, say, the messianic kingdom, and this utopian sense gets reflected in later thought, for example in modern Zionism, or in the spirituals of American slaves, or in the songs of Rastafari reggae. Zion becomes a metaphor for an ideal homeland yet to come. So, going back to Psalm 137, there was a challenge to the exiles not to hang up their harps in (understandable) sadness and despair, but to learn how to sing, in a foreign land, the songs of Zion: songs of the world to come when they would be free. For the exile who has hope, home is not where you came from, or where you are, but where you’re going.

As I stood by the waters of Brighton this morning, I thought that a similar challenge presents itself to climate activists and anyone else who feels that the world is not as it should be and longs for a better world. I think it’s to do with acknowledging the sense of dissonance we feel – that sense of being out of step with a narcissistic consumer culture – and making something creative of that sense. It’s about identifying yourself as an exile, a foreigner, a migrant, whilst living in this culture and participating in it for the common good – but always with a foreign accent and always out of step, always finding the cultural norms weird and un-natural, always refusing to assimilate. It’s odd because we are exiles within the culture we have left – it’s an inner migration but with an outward effect. The challenge is about learning to sing the songs of Zion in this foreign land: imagining how a world of justice, peace and life in its fullness might look in its different aspects, and putting that vision into conversation, song, story, poetry, art and a life lived out of step with what is, but in step with what we hope for. And I wonder if standing by (or in) the waters and weeping because of the distance between Babylon and Zion is the beginning of learning the songs of Zion and the journey home.

My feet in the sea

Along life’s cycle-path, remember to stop and smell the sea

My daily ride to work has to be one of the best, if not the best commuter routes in the world.


The sea looks different every time.  Even on dull, damp, autumn mornings, it’s something worth looking at.


It’s so easy to rush by it.  I may be late for an appointment.  There’s stuff to do in the office.  It’s raining.

I am trying to establish a new habit – to stop for a minute and watch the waves and breathe in the salty air and smell the seaweed.  It seems somehow disrespectful to rush by something so utterly beautiful and wild.  The emails won’t go bad and I’m already wet. I can stop for a minute – in fact, perhaps I don’t have time not to pay attention to the sea and there be some point in being alive.



Last Sunday, our eldest child, Zac, was baptized.  It was a great occasion for us all, especially for him, of course, and especially for me as I got to perform the baptism.

The baptism happened in the sea.  By the scheduled time of 6.30pm, a sunny day had turned cloudy with a chilly strong wind, and the gentle, almost smooth, swell had become quite lively.  We all got cold, two of us more than others. But the sea was really alive, and I think this added to the significance of the event.

In the Old Testament, the sea is usually an object of fear and a symbol of chaos.  Genesis 1 describes a wind from God hovering over the waters that covered the earth, and God calling land and life into being.  Biblically speaking, the sea is where we came from, but whether it’s creation or exodus or baptism, God delivers us from the waters.

But to me, the chaos of the sea symbolizes life.  Swimming off this beach can be dangerous in high swell, but I have loved frolicking in the breakers elsewhere, and when the wind is up and the grey sea seethes and broods and the waves crash relentlessly on the shore, I feel really alive, even standing on land.

Zac and I walked into the breakers and we scarcely needed to do any more; by the time I baptized him, we were pretty soaked.  But down he went into the living waters and out he came again to a new life – a life immersed in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.

It was a proud moment for this Dad, and it felt like a rite of passage for me as well.  The young lad will shortly be going to university, 350 miles away in the frozen north.  These children were never mine to possess.  They haven’t even been on loan to Mrs. Mabbsonsea and me.  They are themselves.  But we are privileged and blessed to have them in our lives and love them, and that will never change, no matter how old they grow, where they go or what they do.  Zac is on the threshold of a new life, but as we loosen our hold, we know that God holds him, and us, in God’s heart and hands always.


Something seems to have got into my eyes, so let me re-direct you to a video of the great event, made by John Brewster, one of our Boys Brigade leaders.

Zac’s Baptism.