Saltwater Theology

I’m vacationing at the beach, and surprise, I can’t help but think about it theologically.

Some theology smells like stale coffee and forced certainty. But not this.

This is the kind you get standing at the edge of the Atlantic, barefoot, sun-warm, no creed required.

No one here is handing out tracts. No one’s asking what church you go to. The waves don’t care about your theology degree. They just keep coming.

And somehow, in that rhythm (in the hush between high tide and low) there’s a kind of wisdom you don’t have to decode or dissect. You just feel it.

Saltwater theology doesn’t quote chapter and verse. It doesn’t argue in Facebook threads. It doesn’t write books with footnotes or host angry YouTube debates. It doesn’t speak in Greek or Latin or Christianese. It just is.

It says, "Try again. Try again. Try again." And also, "Rest. You've done enough."

Saltwater theology is gentle. But not weak. It reshapes whole coastlines one wave at a time. It carves cliffs. It wears down pride. It sneaks into your sandals and reminds you you’re not in control.

It doesn’t care if you have imposter syndrome or spiritual credentials. It just lets you float.

And floating is enough.

The thing about the ocean is… it doesn’t try to impress you. It doesn’t put on a show. It just shows up. It moves. It breathes.

And it invites you to do the same.

Saltwater theology doesn’t shout. It doesn’t perform. It doesn’t check your background, your browser history, or your baptism record.

It welcomes you without agenda. It baptizes you without asking first.

If that bothers your theology, maybe your theology is trying too hard.

You don’t have to prove your worth. You don’t have to explain your presence. You don’t have to be right.

You just have to show up. Like the tide.

Like Love.

Like waves that have never once gotten your name right and still make space for you anyway.