Just Keep Swimming

A few months ago, I took up swimming. What began purely as a means of exercise soon blossomed into something of a religious experience—though not in the kooky, New Age-y way, mind you.

In His wisdom, God determined that we as His image-bearers should be both body and soul. Or, more simply, humans are what you might call embodied souls. We have a human soul, or spirit, but it is tied inextricably and mysteriously to our physical, human body. We can distinguish between the two, but we cannot divide them entirely and permanently without some lasting consequence.

When we die, there is a temporary separation of body and spirit—a separation which will be remedied at the final resurrection, either unto eternal glory or everlasting torment. But in either case, we shall be embodied. As Paul says in 2 Corinthians 5:4, “For while we are still in this tent, we groan, being burdened—not that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.” All that to say, our physical bodies are of the utmost importance, and caring properly for our bodies will yield many benefits—whether physical, mental, or spiritual.

“Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body” (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).

Indeed, my physical body benefits tremendously from my weekly swims. My heart health is increased as I flex my cardiovascular system, forcing oxygen-rich blood to pulse throughout my body. My lungs, in tandem with my heart, are forced into a disciplined regimen as they learn to maximize each breath between strokes. And unlike some other workouts, swimming very nearly strains and stretches every muscle in my body as I cut through the water.

In my experience, however, these physical benefits pale in comparison to the spiritual riches of swimming. There’s nothing quite like entering that other world beneath the water—the stillness and silence of it, broken only by the soft rhythm of my own breathing and the lapping of the water as it plops and clops against my arms and swim cap.

I love the silence of the water; I relish its stillness. Even as the water has taken me into its shimmering fold, I bask and delight likewise in it. It is here that I meet with the Lord—sometimes in prayerful conversation as between two friends, or sometimes in quiet meditation, allowing my thoughts to wander freely upon some knot that my mind has been trying to unspool.

On one occasion in particular, only a few laps in, I got to looking around at my surroundings in the pool. Perhaps “looking around” isn’t the best set of words. Indeed, there wasn’t very much to observe, as the pool was cloudier than usual that day—either because of a chemical imbalance, low chlorine, or much-needed cleaning, or all three.

All I could see was the roughly foot-wide tiled strip that ran lengthwise up the lane. You might not think it, but swimming, like all exercises, has a lot to do with balance. Even though you are suspended in water while swimming, it’s always important to ensure that your strokes, kicks, and movements are harmonious, or else you will veer too far off to the right, left, or into another swimmer. I swam with a young man in high school whose Olympic trajectory was derailed because he collided with a swimmer going the opposite way, shattering his shoulder—and Olympic dreams—in the process.

In an effort to keep my shoulders in one piece, not to mention equally worked, I tended to stick pretty closely to that foot-wide strip.

“That’s just like life, isn’t it?” I thought to myself as I swam. Sometimes I talk aloud to myself, but I resorted to thinking aloud on this occasion (on account of being underwater and all that). “Oftentimes, the way before you is cloudy and dark, with dangers to both the right and the left, with hardly a path before one’s feet. Lord, though the Way be narrow, I thank you that there be a way at all, and that your hand leads us gently along it.”

“Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few” (Matthew 7:13-14).

I looked up from the narrow line that I had been following and began to see a shape dimly taking form out of the gloom. As it reached the vertical concrete wall marking the end of my lane, the horizontal strip I had been swimming along began suddenly to make its way up the tiled wall and join arms with another section of tile running the other way. I had never noticed this before—for out of the cloudy water, a cross was taking shape before my eyes, marking the end of my lap.

Almost immediately, my mind turned to words from the familiar hymn,

“I have decided to follow Jesus;

No turning back; no turning back. 

The cross before me, the world behind me;

No turning back, no turning back.” 

“The cross before me, the world behind me / No turning back, no turning back.”

Although if you are lane swimming, you must turn back sooner or later. I suppose all analogies, even the best ones, break down at some point.

And so that’s just what I did when I hit the end of my lap—I turned around. I caught my breath, did my flip, and pushed off the tiled wall with all my might and propelled forward into the water, following the narrow, foot-wide strip once more, just as I had done thousands of times before.

In that moment, my mind turned to another tune to stave off the fatigue that was quickly setting in. Some years ago, my sisters and I were visiting our aunt and uncle in Florida. The family had three young boys at the time and, presumably, only a single DVD to their name—the animated film Finding Nemo. Each time we loaded ourselves into their minivan to leave the house, no matter whether the destination was five minutes away or an hour, the boys demanded that their favorite movie, Finding Nemo, be turned on (always starting from the very beginning, might I add). I got to know the movie, and one of its popular songs, rather well:

“When life gets you down, you know what you gotta do?

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming,

Swimming, swimming, swimming...”

A few more seconds of swimming passed by, but the fatigue remained. Just then, awaiting me at the end of the lane as I drew nearer, another cross began taking shape.

Another lap, another year—maybe the analogy is sturdier than I supposed. As we make our way through this life, some years and seasons are gloomier than others. We have put our trust in the Lord and in His promises; we are walking the narrow and hard way that leads to life, abiding in His love and in His word. But much of the time, we can scarcely see far off on account of the gloom, let alone have sight to see the twists and turns which lie just beyond our next few weary steps.

That is why we must walk by faith, and not by sight. In and out of season, we have to diligently preach the Gospel to ourselves afresh, familiarizing ourselves intimately with its everlasting truths—“I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Galatians 2:20). To stave off spiritual fatigue in all its many forms—unbelief, despair, discouragement, doubt, apathy—the cross must ever be both before as well as behind us.

Like Paul, let us endeavor to know nothing in this life “except Jesus Christ and him crucified” (1 Corinthians 2:2). Elsewhere, Paul says, “But far be it from me to boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world” (Galatians 6:14).

Along every lap, we must keep our eyes and hearts fixed on the cross, tightly fastening our hope to Him who was fastened there ever so tightly; fastened to the cross not only by Roman nails, but by our sin and His everlasting love for us. “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed” (1 Peter 2:24).

The more laps around the sun Paul got in, the more he realized he wasn’t the star of the show; that he wasn’t as special or capable as others made him out to be. As he matured, as he grew up into the fullness of the stature of Christ, the more Paul saw of himself as he truly was—and more importantly, the glory of Christ became greater, clearer, and more lovely to his eyes, even as he shrank in comparison. Writer and pastor Scott Sauls once observed this very point:

“Read Paul’s letters in the order he wrote them and watch what happens to the way he describes himself. Early on, he calls himself ‘Paul, an apostle.’ Years later, ‘the least of the apostles.’ Later still, ‘the very least of the saints.’ And at the end of his life, in his last letter to Timothy, he writes that ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom he is the worst.’ Notice the trajectory. The longer Paul walked with Christ, the smaller he became in his own estimation.”

As you make for a fresh lap, look back at the cross and all that it represents, and then turn your eyes forward and strain with joy for the hope of the cross which will soon be revealed. In everything, bookend your life, thoughts, and affections with the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, even as Paul did. For the way that leads to life is narrow, but not so narrow that two cannot walk it abreast. It was our Lord Himself who promised, “And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

And until your faith becomes sight, just keep swimming. Narrow as the lane may be, you’ve never been in it alone.

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Photo by Matthew Sichkaruk, Unsplash

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