Waters Deadly and Domesticated

The Catholic Thing, 15 July 2025

The Spirit moves over the aboriginal waters, and man participates in that continuing creative work. Would that our stewardship had saved lives in the Texas floods.

The floodplains of the Guadalupe River in Texas seem to be a place of elevated Biblical literacy. I imagine then that when the raging waters brought death and destruction, more than a few turned to Psalm 69:

I am sunk in the abysmal swamp
where there is no foothold;
I have reached the watery depths;
the flood overwhelms me.

But I pray to you, O LORD,
for the time of your favor, O God!
In your great kindness answer me
with your constant help.

That psalm will be prayed at daily Mass today. And more than a few congregants, and perhaps a few preachers, will think about those who were overwhelmed by the floods in Texas.

The twentieth anniversary of the Sumatra tsunami of 2004 fell last Christmas, a reminder of the ferocity of the waters, which killed more than 225,000 people, displaced millions more and ravaged coastal towns for hundreds of miles in fourteen countries.

Floodwaters remind us that the prevailing Biblical view of the waters is one of chaos, disorder, danger, and death. That’s hard to appreciate in an affluent 21st-century country.

The waters have been domesticated. In the summer, they are for recreation, sailboats, and jet skis; in winter, floating hotels cruise the oceans. Year round, unimaginable quantities of freight are shipped serenely downriver – and upriver – and across the oceans.

In the ancient world, contrariwise, there was fishing and transport and gentle rains to soften the fields, but always in the context of waters that could kill. The Biblical view is obscured when waters are yet another part of nature conquered by human ingenuity.

A typical Catholic couple, asked about the symbolism of water in the Sacrament of Baptism, say it means that their baby will be washed spiritually clean. A good answer in a culture where daily bathing is the norm. It’s also a true answer, for baptism washes away all sin, original and actual.

Few parents will recall St. Paul: “When we were baptized into his death, we were placed into the tomb with him.” (Romans 6:4) Who thinks of the baptismal font as a tomb? What parents would lay their newborn in same?

Baptism by immersion makes “the tomb” clearer. We die if held underwater long enough; even a short time can be fearful and anxious. A priest who performs baptisms by immersion takes care precisely to avoid such fear and anxiety. The baby (or adult) is only under water briefly.

When St. Paul wrote of the waters of baptism as a tomb, it would have resonated. A watery death was not rare. Paul himself knew the mortal danger of shipwreck. When the late Pope Francis would refer to the Mediterranean Sea as a vast “cemetery” for migrants, he was evoking ancient Biblical imagery.

The response to the flash floods on the Guadalupe River illustrated the dominant view now: that the waters should be domesticated, under our control. Leave aside the particulars of what should or should not have been done by whomever, the premise is that we can control the waters. Or at least we think we can.

There are implications for baptism as the ordinary path to salvation. If, in the natural order, we can and ought to save ourselves, is there need any longer to pray Psalm 69? If we can tame the natural waters, do we need saving from supernatural perils?

Today’s Old Testament reading introduces us to Moses. (Exodus 2:1-15) A Levite woman puts her three-month-old son into a papyrus basket and leaves him among the reeds at the riverbank. The mother would have chosen a safe place, where the basket could easily be found, rather than setting the baby hurtling along the main current.

The animated film, Prince of Egypt, imagines something different. Baby Moses was threatened by crocodiles and hippopotami and the churning oars of Pharaoh’s ships. The animators knew that the Biblical waters were fraught with dangers.

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