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There is a place, deep in the Colorado mountains that I
call my "home church." It isn't a building, in fact the
closest building is miles away. You can't drive your car
to my home church. Indeed, if you don't want to hike there
then you will have to ride a horse (motorcycles have been
banished from the trail). The only gold there is the gold
of the aspen leaves, but this sanctuary is adorned with
jewels, the deep blue lakes that shine like sapphires in
the morning sun. Its incense is the vanilla perfume of
the Douglas fir, and the smoke from a dying campfire. But
it is a sanctuary. It is a place of worship and a house of
God. It is the place where I feel touched by the hand of
my creator.
My home church, my sanctuary is a pair of high mountain
lakes perched below snow-capped peaks, and above the verdant
Wet Mountain Valley. They are small alpine lakes, just
barely below timberline. So high they are, that they barely
sustain the tiny native trout that years ago were airlifted
into them. Some year in the future, when the water level
is low, and the temperature especially frigid, they will
freeze out and the fish will have to be stocked again.
But of all the places on earth, be it cathedral, church,
stream or river, this place above all others brings me
into the company of the Almighty. I expect that many
fly-fisher people have a similar home church, a place
where the sights and sounds, the smells and all of their
other senses are caressed in such a way that a connection
with the transcendent is experienced. You see, I believe
that fly-fishing is a spiritual discipline. Sure there
are other activities that people find bring them closer
to God, many pursuits that comfort the soul, expand the
consciousness, quiet the mind and open the heart, but
for those who pursue fish with a fly I think many, even
those who know God in no other way, find their hearts
strangely warmed.
Certainly the beauty of the places we fish is often an
integral part of the experience. Betty Hiner I believe
points out that "Trouts don't live in ugly places." And
certainly almost all of the places where we pursue fish,
be it a trout stream, a farm pond, the great and mighty
ocean, or my alpine lakes, they are places of distinct and
profound beauty. Of course I think it is also true that
the existence of catchable (or should I say fishable) fish
and the act of fly-fishing for them also helps us to see
the beauty of a place what we might otherwise miss. I have
fished behind the 7-11 on Fountain Creek in downtown Colorado
Springs, and in my local flood control diversion channel
here in Omaha, both places most would not call pretty, and
found the peace of God there too.
There is something about fly-fishing, maybe not apart from
other kinds of fishing and outdoor activities, but maybe
greater than these, that makes it more amenable to a
spiritual experience. The connection to the land and
the water, the forced cadence of the cast, the increased
attention to every part of your environment that it requires,
all of these seem to draw us in closer to God.
For me, a part of what makes fly-fishing a spiritual experience,
is that little life on the other end of the line. Before the
advent of C&R, this very much was a life and death encounter.
People fished for sustenance, and that nourishment came at the
expense of the fish. But even, now when I release almost all
of my catch, the understanding that this little life is in my
hands, to be respected, to be honored, to be cared for, whether
it becomes dinner or not, is a powerful and moving reminder of
my place in the universe. Just as that little trout, or blue
gill or sucker is created by God with such gentle and tender
care, so am I. I find it AWEsome that God gives such
responsibility to me.
Fly-fishing is a spiritual activity. For many, I truly believe,
the trout stream, or the flats or the farm pond is their church,
and fishing is their sacrament. For those of us who believe in
a revealed God, this will never take the place of our other
forms of worship, though I dare say it often can become an
essential part of our spiritual life.
This so rarely discussed aspect of our common fishing experience
goes a long way, I think, to explaining just why we all too often
become so dogmatic about our fishing. How dare those bait
fishermen defile our church with their worm tubs, and salmon
egg jars! Real fly-fishermen only fish with (take your pick
of fly and method). How dare anyone kill one of these beautiful
fish? How dare anyone deny me the right to take one of these
beautiful gifts from God? Just like Lutherans and Baptists,
just like Christians and Jews and Muslims, we fly-fisher people
invest ourselves heart and soul in our pursuit. How could it
not, we meet God in our fishing. Thankfully, most of us
recognize the sanctity of one another's fishing experience,
and as annoying and disruptive as the occasional "sinner" is,
fly-fishing also tends to bring out a forgiveness and generosity
of spirit, that allows us to share our "church" with others,
even if this is most often a solitary form of worship.
Fly-fishing is a spiritual activity, I think. As we ply the
waters with our imitations of things that the fish might want
to eat, as we attend to such things as water temperature and
air temperature, the breeze in the trees and the position of
the sun, as we listen to the song birds sing and smell the
blooming flowers while looking for bugs in the water and in
the air, as we set ourselves into a casting rhythm determined
by the rod, the wind and the fish themselves, I believe we
open ourselves also up to God. The noise of the world fades
away, and maybe the voice of God can finally be heard.
I don't know, of course, what message God might speak to
others, but I often become intensely aware of my real place
in the universe. I am so very very small, one creature amongst
all of this vast creation. How is it that the creator of all
this, should care enough for me to put me here? It is hard
to be arrogant, with 14,000 foot peaks looming overhead, and
an eight-inch cutthroat in my hand. I sense more than
understand the cycle of life, at once both violent and
terrible, and at the same time gentle and nurturing, and
that seems to put the rest of my life into perspective. I
could after all be the rabbit being chased down by the wolf,
or the baby eagle depending entirely upon the care of its
parents. My petty little annoyances don't seem to much
matter any more.
To be sure, my belief in a particular God, rooted in history,
with a book full of revelation, shapes and forms and alters
my understanding of my encounters with God. But I am convinced
that the God I experience in nature, who whispers in the wind,
and trusts me with his/her creation, is the same God I preach
every Sunday, whom I am trusting with my salvation.
See you all in church. ~ Ed Foster (pastored)
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