I dream of one day gliding through the clear waters of a pool, with its abundantly chlorinated surface reflecting light like a beacon of sanctification. Against all odds, I envision myself as Michael Phelps’ significantly shorter, less talented, but far more melanated friend, moving with grace through the liquid resistance.
The pool has become my safe space. The open waters of lakes, oceans and rivers, however, are off-limits since that is what crustaceans, water snakes, algae, sharks, and lurking swamp monsters of Scooby-Doo fame call home. I know my limits.
Although I have come to this game late — entering the world of swimming in my mid-forties — I have quickly discovered a deep love for it. Not for the technicalities, mind you, as I am still on the struggle bus when it comes to any semblance of a stroke that makes me feel efficient or that is pretty to watch. But the freedom of relative weightlessness and the richly diverse community of fellow swimmers keep me coming back.
Surrender
James Ellis III
It has led me to seeing a beautiful parallel between swimming and preaching. Both require surrender — to the flow, to the rhythm, to something far greater than ourselves. In swimming, as in preaching, it is not about flawless execution. If you get caught up in that you will go bananas. Rather, it is about connection, vulnerability and trusting the current to carry you where you need to go, with God’s help.
Preparation and execution are essential in both swimming and preaching and always will be. Yet, in each, no one benefits from posturing as an independent contractor, siloed for personal or professional glory. We need one another. We need the critique, the care, the lighthearted fellowship of peers, right alongside the testimony of the Spirit that honors our efforts while, at times, overcoming our pulpit flaws on any given Sunday.
Community
While it never should be the end-all, be-all, community matters greatly. As rapper Benny the Butcher says in his track “One Way Flight”: “What’s a stage with no mic and no voice of a poet? What’s more important, the flower or the soil that grow(s) it?” The communities that birth and nurture us are not as dispensable as today’s throwaway “cancel” culture would have us believe.
That said, healthy solitude is real and right. Like all things, there is a necessary co-mingling of independence and interdependence. Grocery shopping, going for a morning run, stopping by the post office or spending hours on a phone call with Lowe’s or Kohl’s about a refund — these are solo adventures for good reason. Preachers, too, maintain a fundamental fidelity to an audience of one.
Sermons simmer in the crockpot of hardship, joy and the blessed ordinariness of life privately before ever going public. Each week, Sunday summons its strength, punctual and unfazed. It never misses a beat even if we are weary, unprepared or annoyed. No matter the arguments with loved ones or bad dreams we have had, those who preach stand before all who gather to proclaim, “Thus saith the Lord.”
If Lil Wayne is right that “Real G’s move in silence,” in swimming it only makes sense that a lot of the time you do laps and practice your breathing alone. But within the disciplines of water and words, the goal is never to become so engrossed in your regimen, in the pulpit or the pool, that you grow deaf to the cries of someone nearby struggling to stay afloat.
Although people make their own choices, we are still our brother’s and sister’s keeper, something Cain tragically rebelled against. To encourage my new hobby, my wife, Renata, pointed me to Julie Otsuka’s award-winning novel The Swimmers. One character reflects, “One of the best things about the pool is the brief respite it offers us from the noisy world above: the hedge trimmers, the weed whackers, the horn honkers, the nose blowers, the throat clearers, the page rustlers, the incessant music that is playing wherever you go — at the dentist’s office, at the drugstore, in the elevator taking you up to see the audiologist about that strange ringing in your ears.”
Concentration and consistency
Swimming insists on concentration and consistency, and so does faithful preaching. These efforts can be a balm that protects us from sloth, emptiness or a misappropriation of devotion. The story of Mary and Martha in Luke 10:38-42 teaches us that pious prioritization, focused on being before doing — although the doing still matters — is vital.
“Swimming insists on concentration and consistency, and so does faithful preaching.”
And yet, community is imperfect and messy, I know. That’s life. But in the wild, wet world of swimming, we take care of our own. Preachers do the same. We are better together than apart. While there are levels to this, we value everyone as best we can. The puzzled novice taking lessons and the arthritic veteran who has been swimming for what feels like two lifetimes can become buddies while chatting across the lane dividers.
Prejudge if you want, but you will be humbled quickly. Different shapes, sizes, ages and styles of swimmers are never proof of prowess. I have been lapped by goofy, unfocused 7-year-olds as easily as by hobbled octogenarians.
Clouds of support
Plus, preachers never swim alone — not the wise ones, anyway. We are surrounded by colorful clouds of support.
Andy Davis led Belton’s First Baptist Church for 32 years. Now, as pastor emeritus with 50 years of receipts in vocational ministry, he enthusiastically takes on interim assignments. He is a pastor’s pastor, and I do not say that just because he officiated my wedding and ordination service at that picturesque downtown church off I-35, where “The stars at night are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas.”
Beeson Divinity School’s late professor Calvin Miller helped me grow as a writer and student of preaching, as has the recently retired Robert Smith Jr. — whom the preaching center there is named after — as a father in ministry to me.
There is David Renwick, formerly of National Presbyterian, and dearly departed laypersons like Jean Young and Judith Paterson. Paterson was a mentor from my undergraduate days as a young punk at the University of Maryland until her passing in 2021. The Baptist statesman Emmanuel McCall and his wife, Emma Marie, have hosted Renata and me in their Southwest Atlanta home multiple times for grits, scrambled eggs and biscuits. One day he passed on to me an old leather portfolio embossed with his name on the front, which I still use to carry my manuscript into the pulpit. When people ask about it, I get to explain that preachers help preachers preach. It is what we do.
Pastoral buddies my age make a difference as well, like Dave Dack in Lemoore, Calif., who I went to seminary with, and Bryan Dunagan, who, before his sudden passing in 2023, contributed an essay to my book Dysfunction in the Name of Jesus: Confronting the Idolatry of Pastoral Workaholism. And from the snowy Cottage Country of Ontario, there is Karen Stiller. The four years we spent in Canada were some of life’s hardest. Becoming close confidants with her was a life preserver thrown to us directly from the Almighty. When I preach, I hope I honor her and her late husband, Brent, who was a pastor, by comforting and critiquing the church for the sake of the gospel.
“It takes a village of hydrophile friends to keep you afloat.”
You may not know these people from a can of paint, but they help me swim — and that is the point. You need your own team.
If you didn’t know, water is a humbling equalizer. We honor its pillowy caress and vast power for good reason. In the relatively domesticated safety of the pool, we appreciate the soothing smell of antiseptic products that keep germs at bay. The more antibacterial spray that wafts around, the better. Chlorine is our friend.
Around these parts, we support the lifeguards, too. There is no running or horseplay in this dojo of aquatic peace. Although we are welcoming, we will happily tell you about yourself if you spark division or disruption. And please know that around here, we honor our elders. Put some respect on their name and refrain from reckless splashing around them.
While swimming relieves stress and percolates endorphins, it also is a cardiovascular challenge — building muscle and burning calories — all with minimal impact on the joints. I am invested in it. I have goggles, fins and paddles for my hands. Just as in preaching, I am under construction by the Holy Spirit. It takes a village of hydrophile friends to keep you afloat. Stop worshipping theory as an end itself and, for the love of God, get on with the business of being a practitioner.
Keep swimming
This means you will preach impressively and underwhelmingly, sometimes in the same sermon. It happens to everyone. Get over it. Keep swimming. Let it help you shed the misnomer that you are the smartest person in every room or that your voice does not matter. These are lies. But please do not fall into the trap of needing a sea of armor bearers and research assistants — none of it represents the holy dependence that is essential to sustainable proclamation.
As Haddon Robinson wrote in his groundbreaking book Biblical Preaching: The Development and Delivery of Expository Messages: “Ministers can proclaim anything in a stained-glass voice at 11:30 a.m. on Sunday morning. … Yet when they fail to preach the Scriptures, they abandon their authority. No longer do they confront their hearers with a word from God. That is why most modern preaching evokes little more than a wide yawn. God is not in it.”
Without Scripture at the center, the pulpit becomes just another platform for personal opinions or fleeting ideologies. As Renata often quips, “Bad TED Talks masquerading as sermons” have no place in the pulpit.
Any swimmer worth their salt knows a cardinal rule is to never underestimate or disrespect the water. Thinking you have it all figured out is a wicked recipe for disaster. Avoid it at all costs. As I find myself putzing around in the water nearly every day now, I hope even more God’s living water — God’s word — also is in me for the sake of my discipleship, before anything to do with preaching happens.
We should revere the water without being afraid to get wet, accepting that for good reason, we never will master it. Becoming proficient at preaching and preaching means embracing the accountability of the call, which cannot be done from the sidelines, so get in the game. Get in the water. Get folks who will swim with you.
James Ellis III is an ordained Baptist pastor and assistant professor of practical theology at Winebrenner Theological Seminary. He holds a doctorate from Western Theological Seminary, master’s degrees from Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and Baylor University’s George W. Truett Theological Seminary and a bachelor’s degree in African American studies from the University of Maryland. His latest book is Dysfunction in the Name of Jesus: Confronting the Idol of Pastoral Workaholism, with In Those Days as Today: Preaching through the Book of Judges next to be released. Learn more at his website.