Not too long ago, while travelling to the south of the island, we chanced upon a river that had split into two. The municipal government had deemed it practical to reroute it, but when a typhoon bore down on the mountains with heavy, protracted rains, the river swelled and formed another branch, the second returning to the old, abandoned bed.
This set me to thinking if rivers had memory, and, consequently, a life of its own. In a manner of speaking, of course.
Naturally, if they do not beget. rivers support life, the reason why the folk build their homes and communities near them, from which they draw water for their households and farms. In an earlier, simpler age, rivers supplied an opportunity for social give and take. At times, mother would draw us, her children, to a nearby brook, to join other women who had come to wash their clothes – and the purl of their conversation as they laundered would join the babble of the stream, to which we added our share of playful shouts as we romped around, even as the carabaos held their peace as they cooled themselves in the backwater.
Jesus told the Samaritan woman at the well, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.” Exegetes tell us that by “living water,” is meant the Holy Spirit. In this regard, the Church considers as one of the most beautiful symbols of the Holy Spirit the “river of life” that Revelation speaks about, “bright as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.”
Hence, I find Mark’s account of the baptism of Jesus of a piece with the concept of river as conveyor of life, as living water. John the Baptist said that he baptized merely with water, but one coming after him (and mightier than him, the thongs of whose sandals he did not deserve to loosen) would baptize with the Holy Spirit.
And so, when John saw the dove, after baptizing Jesus in the Jordan, he knew that the water he had poured on Jesus’ head had become living water, the water of the Holy Spirit, which a voice from heaven (the Father’s) confirmed, “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.”
I think of Jesus’ baptism, of every Christian’s baptism, of mine, whenever I see a river. I am reminded of grace, the Holy Spirit, which flows bright as crystal from the very throne of God.
In effect, keeping in mind the river of life, I could say with Langston Hughes, “I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.”
In a manner of speaking, I owe my biological life to a river. Father met Mother when he taught in the mountains of our town. Mother was a shy fifteen-year-old when they met. One rainy day, she went to the village store across a river from her house to buy their day-to-day needs. Father introduced himself, but, suspecting his intentions, she turned to leave, but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw that the river had become swollen and impassable. Forced to wait until the flood subsided, she decided to entertain the man’s suit, and the latter lost no time in turning on the charm.
Within a week, Father asked her parents for her hand in marriage.
That river still runs from the mountains. It was flooded when last I saw it, but had always maintained its course. But I know that at one time it made a detour into my life.