OUT OF THE SWAMP: HOW JESUS RESCUES US FROM SIN Or, The Gospel in “Where The Crawdads Sing”
I saw the film Where the Crawdads Sing—and though it wasn’t quite my favorite, it had a haunting beauty about it. The scenery was rich and full of atmosphere, and the story, though uneven, seemed to hold a quiet parable beneath its surface. As I watched, I began to see in it an image of the human soul, lost and misunderstood, wading through the marshes of its own making. The movie may not have reached its full potential, but it stirred something deeper—a picture of sin and salvation, of the swamp that traps and the Savior who rescues.
There are some places that seem beautiful at first glance. The wind whispers through the trees, brushing across the water’s skin like a breath of peace. The reeds sway like a hymn being sung to no one in particular. The light dances on the surface, and the air feels alive with a promise that can’t quite be named. The swamp—quiet, shimmering, and full of mystery—calls to us. It beckons us deeper, through a soggy terrain of uncertainty, until the beauty becomes treachery. Beneath that mirror of still water lies a rot that never sleeps. Beneath the hush, there is hunger. The swamp takes what it can and gives nothing back.
Sin is that swamp.
It looks harmless enough from a distance. It has a certain song, soft and outdoorsy, almost romantic. It tells us that this is freedom—this is life, this is adventure. But as soon as we take a step into its shallow water, we begin to sink. The bottom is soft and deceitful. What looks like ground gives way. The deeper we go, the harder it becomes to turn around. Soon our feet are trapped, our strength gone, our hearts heavy. The stillness becomes suffocating. The peace is a lie. The swamp, for all its beauty, is empty—a hollow log with no life inside.
Every sinner learns this in time. What begins as curiosity ends as captivity. We wander off from the solid path of God’s Word and find ourselves surrounded by mist and shadows. The air feels thicker here. It smells of decay disguised as sweetness. The vines wrap around our ankles, slow and quiet. The sins we thought we could manage become the chains that manage us. And while we struggle, something in the fog whispers that we belong here. That no one will come. That even if they did, we are not worth saving.
But the truth is that Someone has already come.
Across the water walks One who does not sink. His steps ripple with power, His voice breaks through the fog. Jesus wades into the swamp of our sin, not because it is safe, but because He loves us too much to leave us there. He finds us where we have collapsed in the mud, filthy and afraid, and He lifts us up. He washes us clean. He places us upon solid ground. “He brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock” (Psalm 40:2).
And just when we think the trial is over, another begins.
For there is a courtroom in this world, and Satan stands at the prosecutor’s table. He points to the evidence—our failures, our rebellion, our shame. He lays it all before the Judge and demands a verdict of death. We can say nothing in our defense. The record is true. We are guilty. The silence in that courtroom is heavy as the swamp itself.
But the door opens. Jesus enters.
He does not deny the charges. He does not argue for our innocence. Instead, He shows the scars in His hands and side and declares that the penalty has been paid. The gavel falls, not on us, but on the cross. Justice has been satisfied. Mercy has triumphed. We are free to go, not because we are righteous, but because He is.
The world watches and shakes its head. It does not understand why the Judge would pardon the guilty. It does not see that the Judge Himself has borne the sentence. It calls the Gospel foolishness. It prefers its own reflection in the murky water, still pretending that the swamp is beautiful, still pretending that it can save itself. But those who have been rescued know the truth. We remember the mud on our souls and the Voice that called our name. We know that grace is not a myth—it is a miracle.
Even now, the swamp calls to us again. Its old song floats across the wind, promising that we can return and still remain clean. That we can live half in light and half in darkness. But the redeemed heart knows better. We have seen what waits beneath the surface. We have felt the pull of death disguised as peace. We will not go back.
Instead, we walk where the Spirit leads—through meadows of mercy, under skies of grace. The air is different here. It smells like freedom. It sounds like worship. It feels like home.
The world may still mock, calling us outsiders. But Jesus, our Advocate, has called us beloved. He has made us children of light. The trial is over, and the swamp has lost its claim.
Lord Jesus, You found me lost in the swamp of sin, where every step drew me deeper into despair. You did not stand at a distance and call out instructions—you came to me. You took hold of me when I was sinking and set me on the Rock of Your righteousness. Keep me from wandering back into the fog. Let my heart never mistake the swamp for a sanctuary. Teach me to breathe freely in the air of Your salvation, to walk humbly in Your light, and to remember that I stand free only because of You. Amen.
Bryan Dewayne Dunaway
