My first sermon at the first church I ever served (which is also the only church I have served) was called “Swimming Lessons.” Countless seminary papers and exams had brought me to this moment. Now, time had come to climb into the pulpit to impart the kind of great wisdom available to a young man with a divinity degree on his wall.

Here’s the gist: as a swimmer learns to trust that water will hold a body, so, too, must a person learn to trust in the Holy. With my pressed khaki pants, and a haircut that shone, I delivered the message with messianic conviction. I told the congregation that they and I would be learning to risk faith together. It would require us to allow ourselves to be known and to be held in the Spirit, as a swimmer is held by the water. As a sign of my willingness to be seen as imperfect—lest there be any doubt—I confessed to them that I didn’t know how to swim.

But, I assured them, I intended to learn. Was willing to do whatever it took. So, as their new pastor literally learned how to swim, we would all learn to navigate the metaphorical waters of the newness we shared with each other.

What I imagined the congregation would take from the sermon was a fresh understanding of the nature of faith. But, a couple days later, it became clear to me that this was not what most had gained from my talk. What seemed to stick, instead, was that the new pastor was bent at long last on mastering a basic childhood skill.

Obligingly, a few of the church elders had, on my behalf, already inquired at the Civic Center about adult swim lessons. They learned I’d be welcome in a morning class offered for seniors that met three times a week. It was all   arranged. The coach would be waiting. The class was made up almost entirely of women several decades older than I was, and was called “Swimmin’  Women.”

After a lifetime on dry land, had I really intended to learn how to swim? Sure. Almost certainly. Well, probably. I would have, no doubt, looked into the matter. At some point in my life. But the congregation seemed to believe that, simply because I had declared from the pulpit my intent to take swimming lessons, that I actually had an intention to do so. They assumed, in other words, that I meant what I said, and would follow through.

Either I live in a small city, or else a large town. Whichever, news here travels fast. So, within a few days, it seemed that everyone around was aware of my future with the Swimmin’ Women. At the grocery store, at the video rental store, everywhere. Wherever I went, there were kindly smiles that only barely masked gentle smirks. People knew.

To that point, my history of physical exertion had been sporadic, half-hearted. I tended to sign up eagerly for activities, then not follow through. It was my way. No one seemed to mind, least of all me. But it seemed I was now living a life in which my preferred sluggishness might become a matter of public concern. Giving up before I’d really gotten started ceased to be an option.

Bobbie, the coach of the Swimmin’ Women and a retired gym coach, was all business. She lined up her charges according to skill. This meant that, while swimmers who had swum since the Hoover administration took up the far lanes, where their perfect strokes sliced the water, I had the slow lane entirely to myself. Well, except for the kickboard. Bobbie, it turned out, was a stickler for form. I was not going to dog-paddle, nor run out the clock with my limb-draping version of the dead man’s float. No. More was expected of a Swimmin’ Woman.

Bobbie was determined. Consequently, I had no choice but to be determined. As I churned through the water behind a kickboard, making my way lap after lap, there she was, right above me at poolside, calling down corrections to whatever my legs were doing.

Four months later, at the Christmas party, the Women gave me a new swimsuit in recognition that, while any of them could have beaten me in a race, it could now charitably be said that I knew how to swim. The gap between my declared intent and my actual life, at least with regard to swimming, had been closed. In its place, a grudging pinch of integrity, a hint that I was capable of doing what it took to get the thing done.

Everyone knows that congregations are boring, old-fashioned, and more political than Congress before an election. But, on the bright side, they can also be judgmental. Think of an old friend who lets you know exactly the one thing that you need to hear. Now, picture a whole community like that in your life.

Maybe how things are for you matches precisely how you intended them to be. All I know is that, when it comes down to me, for a long time I was only floating. And it was a congregation that finally required me to apply myself to practice, and persist in the struggle of effort. Which, as it turns out, is what it takes to swim.

Attached media: https://web.archive.org/web/20211109022241/https://www.questformeaning.org/podcasts/18_10/04.mp3