Flyfishing is a very sensual endeavor, capable of producing rapid heartbeat, overactive sweat glands, heightened periods of otherworldliness, and momentary lapses of good judgment. Allow me to state this once again: flyfishing is a very sensual pursuit.
A person's libido doesn't automatically shift into high gear at the donning of fishing gear�although some say there's little difference between the two. Nor does watching a fly line dart across the water's surface kick ones reproductive hormones into high gear. Simply stated, in the pursuit of a rainbow's end (or that of a brook or a brown) we utilize all of the senses with which God has gifted human beings: sight, sound, smell, taste and touch. All senses are intricately connected in the passion of flyfishing, and those who have hooked a worthy trout and let loose a cry of delight comparable to those found within the pages of the Karma Sutra1 know of what I speak/write.
Can any sight in this realm equal a trout leaping out of a stream and snagging a well-tied fly? Can any spectacle rival the sight of sunrays intercepting the bronze, the blue and the silver scales of a trout gliding towards its radiant demise?
Can any sound compare with that of a gurgling brook, or the wisp of a trout line whipping back and forth, or of rushing water as it parts company around rubber waders?
Can any aroma ever approach that of ice melting on a thawing trout stream, of the fetid fins of the first fetched fish of Fall, or of south-born winds in the spring bringing bouquets of flora and fauna that culminate in an olfactory orgy?
Furthermore, consider the sensuality of touch in flyfishing. Those who have never been initiated have not known the strange pleasure of holding a squirming fish with its scales cutting across the grain of a fisherman's palm, of the oneness with God's creation that can only be experienced by falling into a dark, deep pool while untangling a snagged line, or of the thankful caress of a trout's rear fin as it is released back into its domain, spared to engage you in battle for one more round.
For many, flyfishing is more than sport, more than fanciful pastime, more than simple recreation: it is a time when the soul is drawn closer to both Creator and His creation. In its own way, flyfishing can become a worship experience as:
Those who have had their knees brought to shaky naught, those who have stood mesmerized and blithering over their insignificance, those who have been overwhelmed by the Numinous present in a trout stream know of what I speak: there are times when flyfishing becomes a worship experience, when one is drawn closer to the Almighty in a way hardly possible in a church sanctuary. The Psalmist may have had the Sea of Galilee in sight when he composed the 118th Psalm, but had he battled a beatific brown in the Straight River of northern Minnesota, he may well have waxed, "This is the trout which the Lord hath made, let us rejoice and be glad in it."
Although a trout stream has it all over a church sanctuary in many ways, it is not the everyday (every week) locus of worship that God intended. I have yet to preach a sermon on Justification by Faith with a flyrod in one hand and a copy of the New American Standard in the other. John the Baptist notwithstanding, I have yet to celebrate the sacraments in the middle of a trout stream, although the frequent closeness to God experienced there can be deemed by some as sacramental. Nor have I shared the joy or born the sorrow "gathered with the saints by the river" with a ten-pound test line. The Reformed tradition of which I am ordained states that true worship always takes place in the context of the local church, and the church is deemed as the place "where the Word is preached faithfully, the Sacraments celebrated correctly, and church discipline is exercised wisely."
Can one worship God while trout fishing? Absolutely. Can one fish for trout in the context of a worship service? Not even in the most open-minded, liberal setting can one get away with such a thing.
The Lord can be worshipped, adored, thanked, praised and in turn produce goosebumps and warm fuzzies in practically every situation. I have broken forth with ecstatic praise of God upon seeing the moon's rays bathing Lake Superior at 4:00 in the morning. I have sung His praises while eating a piece of coconut cream pastry so sinfully good that I almost began speaking in tongues right there in the restaurant.2 I have sat transfigured while listening to the Largo Movement of Bach's Concerto for Two Violins, a piece of music so beautiful that even God probably weeps when hearing it.
But while flyfishing, the sight of the greatest of the Great Lakes, the taste of an ungodly good piece of pie and the countermelodies of Bach are capable of sending one into worship, for me, one experience rises like incense and places me at a level beyond comprehension. That experience happens, almost surreptitiously, at times when I am smoking my pipe.
Some months ago, I penned an article for the Church Warden entitled "Is Pipesmoking One of the Seven Deadly Sins?" Since its publication, I have been flooded with E-mails and letters from folks expressing their experience of something that sounds like spiritual schizophrenia. At one level is a sense of guilt for partaking of tobacco, a substance demonized not only by its usual base of Fundamentalists, but increasingly so by the purveyors of political correctness. At the other level is a sense so heavenly, so ethereal, and so otherworldly that the billowing plumes of luscious Latakia and Matured Virginia Flake actual brings one closer to God. In other words, how can something so obviously detestable, harmful, wicked, evil, and demonic actually draw me closer to the Almighty? It is a contradiction, an enigma, and a veritable quotient of quagmire.
But let's face it: the sense of smell is a powerful force. I can remember a few months ago finding a blouse my mother had inadvertently left behind after visiting with us. Nonchalantly, I managed to sniff the blouse as I was putting it away. Mom still uses the same laundry detergent and fabric softener she did when I was a yardape, and one simple whiff of that fabric instantly transported me back decades ago, to those many times I found comfort in her arms. I was overwhelmed with a sense of comfort and thanksgiving for this remarkable woman God gave to be my mother. A simple sniff initiated a true experience of thanksgiving.
All of us have, I imagine, similar inexplicable, serendipitous occasions where a passing scent will transport us to different plains: the smell of turkey roasting, a brush against a pungent evergreen, an nascent remembrance of baby oil, the lingering presence of our beloved's perfume or cologne on our collar after a wonderful evening alone together.
While Protestant worship possesses, of course, many positive characteristics, it has--at least in the opinion of this Nordic Northwoodsman--at least one glaring defect: it relies solely on but two of the senses--sound and sight--to the exclusion of others.
Sound is, of course, paramount in the worship of God. "So faith comes from what is heard," SAYS Paul, "and what is heard comes by the preaching of Christ (Romans 10:17- RSV)." Most scholars believe that the genesis of Genesis and much of the scriptures was passed on in the oral tradition many years before it was committed to written form. This is true not only in the Hebrew Scriptures but in the gospels of the New Testament as well. The stories of Christ circulated for a few years before being compiled into the Gospel According to Mark. To the best of our knowledge, Jesus wrote only one thing during His lifetime,3 yet His spoken words and the fact that He was the incarnate4 Word are more than paramount to life itself. And while these remarks are largely concerning worship, it is essential to note the primacy of preaching in Protestant worship. The sermon is THE focal point of worship, augmented by audible prayer and often fueled by the singing of hymns, choruses and choral anthems.
While sound is the primary sense used in Protestant worship, one cannot minimalize the sense of sight in it as well. Many worshippers may as well shed their clothing at the door as to not have a weekly bulletin to pore over prior to worship and to follow the flow of worship. The use of symbolism employed in the sanctuary--the cross, pulpit and use of liturgical color--is an important part of worship in all but the stodgiest of church buildings. And if you believe that Protestants aren't concerned about color, I urge you to bring a few people together to discuss paint and carpet d�cor for a church remodeling project: it usually makes the taping of The Jerry Springer Show tame in comparison.
This is not to say that touch is completely obliterated in Protestant worship. As a pastor, I am the one who actually gets to touch most if not all persons in attendance as I'm on the giving and receiving end of handshakes and hugs following worship. As a pastor, I am the one who breaks the bread and pours the cup during Communion/Eucharist/Lord's Supper. I am the one who gets to hold the baby while I douse its head liberally with water in infant baptism or get to dunk the grown-up in one of Minnesota's ten thousand lakes in a believer's baptism.5 But I am but one worshipping member, and as such touch is minimalized for most of the other saints in attendance.
Nor is taste constantly placed on the back burner. At my communion services, I encourage people to truly savor the cup and loaf when it is received, to not gulp down the elements as if they were traversing the drive-through at McDonald's. I may be wrong, but to the best of my knowledge, Communion/Lord's Supper/Eucharist is the only time that taste is employed during worship. If one wants to count the taste of Mrs. Carlson's tuna-noodle hotdish6 at the monthly potluck following worship, then be my guest. Lastly, one cannot say that the sense of smell is sanitized in a church sanctuary during worship. One thing I've noticed about church buildings is that church buildings have their own particular plume. Churches smell churchy. I don't know if it's the combination of candle wax, chalk dust, 47-year-old chewing gum stuck underneath the pews and the lingering scent of a million versions of Chanel No. 5, but there's nothing one can do to dispel that smell from a church building. And I'm not even sure one would want to do so. After all, it is that smell, the sum total of all the saints who have come and gone throughout the years combined with the walls and the furnishings that make a church a church.
That being said, the measure of sensory usage in Protestant worship are tipped heavily in favor of sound and sight, no matter how much you put your thumb on the scales of touch, taste and smell. And in that, I believe that Protestants are much poorer in the worship arena, at least in some ways, than our Catholic and Orthodox brethren. We are particularly poverty-stricken in the sense of smell.
If you are in doubt of our nasal-deprivation, I encourage you to attend an Orthodox service some day, particularly on a high feast day when incense is being employed. The aroma and impressions of burning incense, symbolic of prayer ascending to the Almighty, is one that will stick to both your clothing and your soul for eons to come. There is something about the sight of the priest, chanting and swinging the scepter back and forth, that is both hypnotic and electrifying. It is as if you were at the dedication of Solomon's Temple, where "the house, the house of the LORD, was filled with a cloud, so that the priests could not stand to minister because of the cloud; for the glory of the LORD filled the house of God (2nd Chronicles 4:1-14)."
Perhaps this is why I find smoking a pipe and worshipping God such a tremendous combination. Perhaps, in my own way, I'm an Orthodox wannabe. Perhaps I'm a tad envious of Irish priests, whose rectories are notoriously pungent with the lingering smoke of their Petersons.
Whatever it is, there is something about cradling my Croci in my mouth, drawing in a potent measure of a great matured Virginia cake, watching the smoke ascend like prayers, and smelling that awesome aroma of a great tobacco.
I once read of a student who asked his theology professor, "May I smoke while I worship?" to which the professor curtly replied, "No!" The student thought for a moment, then asked, "May I worship while I smoke?" to which the professor grinned, pulled out his Dunhill, and said, "Why, of course!"
Enjoy God wherever you are, beit in a church sanctuary, a trout stream or in the confines of your Study. After all, it IS biblical. If the Psalmist can "Praise Him with timbrel and dance, and praise Him with strings and pipe!7 (Psalm 150:4)" then so can we.
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©copyright 2003, Perry S. Fuller
