on being cold

Something was amiss in Shell Bay. There was plenty of us, it was a beautiful day with lots of potential to encounter God in the elements. Still, there was one nagging feeling that affected our time there. Obvious to some. But not me.

It was cold.

I felt it more on Saturday, trudging into the harbour for a cold dip. The initial shock stole my breath and my body didn't seem happy. As soon as I put my shoulders in, I thought it was now time to get out. I realised later that I had seen the dip as a challenge, something to achieve and overcome, not something to experience or be present to. It turns out that organising dips might be easier than actually dipping. 

Sometimes at Ocean Church, we have a "battle through" mentality. We keep going with what we have planned regardless of how people are feeling, pushing forward because we think the program is more important than how the conditions are affecting us. But perhaps the cold teaches us something different. Perhaps it's not always about pushing through, but about listening—pausing to notice what the moment is asking of us. Sharing information on the beach can be difficult—words get lost in the wind, attention shifts with the waves, and sometimes, what we try to say doesn’t land.

So how, then, do we deepen faith? how to we tell the Christian story to each other? Maybe faith isn't just about resilience but about responsiveness, about knowing when to press on and when to let the cold shape us, guide us, even change our course. Maybe deepening faith isn’t just about talking but about experiencing, about paying attention to what’s happening around us, what’s stirring within us, and how God is already moving in the silence, in the elements, in the very things we often try to push past. God might be objective, but our experience of him is so fragile and changeable. Ocean Church provides the chance to prioritize embodied faith—engaging with God through experience first, before processing it cognitively. 

Cold exposure triggers a series of physiological responses in the body. When we are exposed to cold, our blood vessels constrict to preserve heat, redirecting blood flow to our core. This helps keep our vital organs warm but leaves our hands and feet numb. Shivering then kicks in—our muscles contract involuntarily, generating heat but also making it harder to move with precision. Prolonged exposure can slow brain function, making it harder to focus, process information, and even articulate thoughts clearly. The cold is hungry. It demands energy, drawing our attention inward toward survival rather than outward toward engagement.

So what does this mean for faith in outdoor spaces? The cold/ wet/ heat/ (insert other distracting conditions here) shouldn't be an elephant in the room, nor something we tut about. It means we need to recognize the effect of the elements on our ability to be present and call it out into the open. It means adapting how we worship and learn, making room for movement instead of stillness, for action rather than long discussions. It means embracing warmth—through shared physical activity, storytelling, or even simple rituals like holding a warm drink together. If cold narrows our focus to what keeps us alive, then maybe faith in these spaces needs to be about what brings us life. Not just enduring the elements but responding to them in ways that deepen our connection—to each other, to creation, and to God.