The Parable of the Crossing

There once was an island cut off from other lands.  The people of the island heard stories of distant lands they could not reach lying far beyond the great deep.

Over the years they developed legends about the land-beyond-the-island, which became in their imaginations a promised land, a heaven-unseen.

After many generations the land-beyond became a fable to the residents of the island, separated and isolated by the water on all sides.

There were some few travelers who claimed to have returned to tell the tale, and their tales often sound fanciful to those who heard them.  Accustomed to coconuts, what could this thing called a "croissant" possibly be?

The gulf stretched between them and the promised land.  Years and generations passed, as far as their eyes could see, and only water.  But on some nights, standing under the stars, they could almost smell the fresh bread carried on the sea breeze from beyond.

Some few foolhardy souls attempted to brave the waters, setting out with surf boards and rafts and (when times were good) upon great ships in groups.

Prophets arose and warned the seekers: "You can take nothing with you across the deep waters."

Nothing?  The idea of swimming naked through the ocean's churning waves sounded horrible, when they thought of the sharks, the stinging jelly fish, and chances they'd drown.

Those who set out, attempting to reach the distant shores of legend, would return worse for wear.  Many lost belief.  Many who set out returned crestfallen, having failed.  Yet some few held hope.

Many swimming schools dotted the island, for there were those who believed in the lands-beyond and they decided they could reach distant shores by building strong muscles with which to conquer the ocean swells, believing their powerful arms would carry them over the mighty waves.

But all these failed, not understanding the nature of the journey (although their muscled, bronzed bodies were impressive to look at).

Then came a simple man, a man of no repute: he told the people he had been to the other side and knew the way.

Most scoffed, looking at his puny arms.  But the man gathered a few people who heeded his word. 
"It is time," he said.

The man's followers were confused.  Time?  They had not prepared; they were not strong enough to test the waters yet.  What foolishness was this, to go into the deep, weak and untrained as they were?  No way they could brave the pitiless ocean and survive.

But the man simply dived into the sea and began to swim.  Some few (very few) had faith enough to follow.  Naked as little children, they set aside their garments and plunged into the cold waters.

When they had swam out a distance, far enough to have lost sight of the island's shoreline (beyond the gaze of those who had watched them from the beach), the man revealed the mystery to those who had faith enough to follow.

For the mystery of the crossing was this: one reached the promised land not by conquering the waters, but by succumbing to their depths, and being reborn upon the opposite shore.

​The man showed them how it was done, losing His life.  He disappeared beneath the surface of the dark deep.

Some of his followers had second thoughts, and decided to return to the familiar shore.  But some few (very few, now), followed the man's example, and stopped paddling their arms and ceased kicking their feet.

In faith's fierce embrace, they felt the water surround them.  And take them.

​