I hail from the great state of Florida where alligators are abundant and masks are few. My particular area of the state, around St. Augustine and Jacksonville, has an abundant Catholic population, numerous cultural landmarks like the shrine to Our Lady of La Leche and the Castillo de San Marcos fortress, and various places to unwind like nature trails and beaches.
Over Easter vacation, I was able to spend a day at the beach resting, conversing with my sister, and going boogie boarding. The shore and ocean are easily and intuitively recognized for their natural beauty, but there are deeper meanings to them that can be missed when you don’t have eyes of faith.
Both in the Old and New Testaments, we see the roughness of the sea terrifying men of God who either have betrayed their Creator, in the case of Jonah, or do not fully trust in Him yet, as seen through the disciples in Jesus’ boat during the storm. Though I didn’t experience a dangerous storm, the waves came repeatedly and strongly while I was surfing that day. This is reminiscent of daily life, where, in the life of a believer, consistent crosses are usually more mundane or small. But in a sense these crosses are more difficult as they require daily heroic virtue, rather than a single moment of significant bravery necessary during a big battle in one’s life.
Life within the Body of Christ is also symbolized by the sea. When you’re younger, you see the beauty, truth, and goodness of life in God that others enjoy. They’re doing the backstroke, freestyle, and butterfly out on the horizon in the surf, yet you haven’t jumped in yet. You get close enough to the sea that a wave crashes and the water meets you where you’re at, demonstrating that communion with God starts with initiative on His end. That first moment of touch or connection with the sea, unless you’re in Massachusetts in the winter, is always pleasurable and invites you into greater depths in the life of God.
You wade deeper into the waters of life within Christ through the sacraments, prayer, and showing charity to others. You do this because you hear the voice of Jesus, saying, “Put out into deep water” (Lk. 5:4). At some point you’re going to be made uncomfortable as the chill of the water stings most of your body and the horizon (of Heaven) becomes more difficult to sea with waves bearing down on you. This dark night of the sea, however, is necessary to purge attachments to lesser goods, and at no time is it done without the sea (God in this case) carrying you along the way. St. Augustine Beach is alongside the Atlantic Ocean, which is massive, but is a pale comparison to the inexhaustibility of the vast sea of God’s love that will never leave us wanting in the life to come.
I’ve also always been a fan of looking for and collecting seashells on the beach. The “odds” of me finding a particular seashell when there are so many out there on a specific day is numerically very low. In the same way, our “finding” of our loved ones who bring us towards holiness seems nearly impossible numerically, but we can sense God’s providence at work in all the relationships we have, whether with family, friends, or people we find difficult to get along with. Seashells and our neighbors are put into our lives by God for good, though not always obvious, reasons, especially for our sanctification in love.
On the horizon, one can always see where the sky and the sea meet. This serves as a reminder that earth seeks heaven and heaven wants to meet earth and pull her up to what’s above. This happens everyday at the Masses in St. Joseph’s and St. Mary’s. God wants you to meet Him here. This is where His Son is, and where heaven and earth, the sea and the sky, the perfect and the broken, all meet.
Max Montana is a senior studying philosophy and theology. When not writing for The Torch, he enjoys reading more about the Catholic faith and philosophy, serving the unborn and mothers in need, and hanging out with friends. Max is honored to hail from the state with many gators and the bishop of the moon: Florida.
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