On an ordinary day, I stand on my feet in the sand in ankle(ish) deep water. The
ends of the waves coming and going, the water splashing all around me. Some
waves are larger than others, but the one certainty is that the waves are coming.
Few of us in the Caribbean are any strangers to the sea in all its awe and wonder.
For better and for worse, we’re keenly aware of its grandeur and unpredictability.
Yet we know so little about it.
The sea was here when we were born. It’s here as we live. It will be here when we
die. As much as we might pollute and taint it through our capitalistic ventures and
lack of concern for its wellbeing, we can never eliminate its existence.
Being lost in the moment, I found myself likening the Caribbean Sea to God’s
grace. Full of energy and teeming with life, for us and our ancestors, the sea has
been, and continues to be, a major source and sustenance for us all, at least in
some capacity.
Looking out to the horizon, from my vantage point, things seem calm and still. The
view is vast, and the possibilities, endless. God alone knows what kinds of
creatures and wildlife exist within it. I can’t perceive any sort of activity. I can’t
recognise the undercurrents, or the creatures, or whatever else might be out
there. All I can see is this flat, infinite line. Yet I believe there’s more beyond the
line and below the depths, though my naked eye can’t see it.
Shifting my gaze from the horizon to a central point, I can see the waves beginning
to form. No two waves are the same. All ultimately lead to the same place: the
shore. The waves are powerful. They are beautiful. I don’t know the exact specifics
as to how or why the waves form, but I know that they do. As irregular as they are
in their patterns, they’re constant in their movement.
Then, drawing my eyes down to myself, I see the way my feet are immersed in the
water. Tiny little bubbles, foam, sand, all the like, come and go, come and go. I
couldn’t control the movement even if I tried. It’s just pure force, and I have to just
stand here and take it all in.
Speaking of taking it all in, that’s exactly what I’m doing, not only with my eyes,
but with my skin as well. Though my eyes can’t tell me, my pores are open,
absorbing the sea in ways I could have never known before science was able to
prove it. We know what our elders would always tell us what the cure for every
thing is: a sea bath.
Considering all this, I can’t help but see the sea through new sight, in the light of
God’s grace. Regardless of how I look at it, something is happening. If I look out
afar, I can’t tell what’s going on, but it’s clear that it’s there. If I look halfway, I can’t
say how or why things are happening, but it’s clear that they’re happening. If I look
to my own self, it might not seem like much compared to everything else that’s
going on further out, yet it’s clearly there, ubiquitous in the details. And my body
can’t help but take it all in, whether my mind wants to or not.
The currents continue ripping, the waves continue crashing, and the bubbles
continue foaming. That much is clear. Whether it’s the theologians, Church
leaders, or people sitting, liming, talking about it in concrete or abstract ways, the
Holy Spirit moves and grooves in ways no one can give specifics on, yet everyone
can point to as there.
That’s what’s most paradoxical of it all. As “clear” as our Caribbean Sea’s
existence is, it’s just as mysterious. My “knowledge” is balanced with, and
outweighed by, my unknowing. Everything that’s happening ultimately leads to me
standing on the shore. In the same way, everything that’s happening in my life
ultimately leads to God’s grace meeting me where I’m at. So I’ve decided: time to
take a dive.
Angelo Kurbanali
Conference On Thelogy In The Caribbean Today [CTCT] Biennial Conference:
Turning The Tide. November 8-12, 2021.