WHERE THE WAVES ARE
Genesis 37.1-4, 12-28 Psalm 105.1-6, 16-22, 45b Romans 10.5-15 Matthew 14.22-33
Seeing is not always believing, especially when you look out into the teeth of a storm. Seeing is not always believing, especially when our heart is full of bitterness, anger, rage, and that sinking feeling of absolute helplessness. The disciples of Jesus had been with him many months, perhaps a couple of years, and they had witnessed his mighty power many, many times. They knew his face like the back of their hands, and yet when they saw him coming to them over the boiling waves, their last ounce of courage evaporated in the face of the storm. The whole boatload of them convulsed into the despair of overwhelming horror. They thought he was a ghost, the grim reaper, come to take them to their watery graves.
Seeing is not always believing, especially when you do not have it inside the frame of your mind to expect to see what is coming at you. In their little boat out on the great, big lake putting up a losing battle against the sudden squall, the disciples of Jesus did not expect to see him coming toward them. They thought he was safe and sound, praying on the hillside, absent, far-away, unknowing of their plight, or if knowing it, far away on the shore, not able to do anything about it. No one that matters cares about whether we live or die in this lurching boat, soaked to the skin, or if he cares, he can’t do anything about it. We are stuck, we are damned, we will die, and we will vanish without a trace being left. Because the disciples didn’t expect anyone to care for them, they could not greet Jesus’ coming to them with anything but horror.
Get this one thing out of this sermon while your minds are still fresh, beloved. Jesus is our Lord and Savior because he chooses to walk in the midst of the turbulence of our lives. Put it in the frame of your minds to expect him. He chooses to walk there. If your picture of Jesus is as someone who remains far removed from terror that stalks you by night, then you are cheating yourself. If you do not expect the power of Jesus to be present in the storms, then when your terrified eye does alight on him, his presence will do nothing except make the unsettling feelings you are having even worse. Because you do not expect him, all offers of help will be threats to you. All lights that shine into your darkness will only blind you.
Our depth of faith can go much deeper than that, beloved. We can be far more open and expectant that we are usually. Expect that Jesus will give me strength to ride out the waves and not sink. Expect that Jesus will pull me up again should I begin to sink.
Jesus helps us become much more open to his presence. He helps us by letting us hear a word from him. “It is I. Do not be afraid. Take heart.” And quickly then, following, his word of comfort, we hear his command ringing out over the shriek of the wind and the crash of the waves. It is a command that electrifies and solidifies our tortured hearts, “Come to me and walk with me here.” Dare we try it? Dare we leave what little safety there is in that lurching, plunging boat, the boat that’s about to sink, and step out onto the chaos itself? “Come,” Jesus says. “Look at me; only look at me, and you can do it.” I care for you. I care for your future. I care for the future of all who depend on you.
Again, Jesus makes us realize that he is right in the midst of our despair. He speaks two words: First, his word of good cheer and, second, his command for us to confront the power of destruction more boldly than ever we have before through intensely concentrating on his power. Come walk the waves with me here. Come to my side and experience an uplifting solidity right in the midst of everything going to pieces.
The church is a place where Jesus wants these words to be spoken because people come here with their lives going to pieces all around them. You are forgiven, accepted, welcomed, given another chance. You are needed. You have a chance to grow. You can find solid ground.
“I dare you,” says Jesus. Peter took up the dare, and he did walk on the waves. But he broke his concentration, he began to fear the wind and waves, and he began to sink.
Think about what happens when our power of concentration falls off? What happens when we cannot push back any longer to the corners of our eyes the storm’s physical effects? What happens when our ears pick up the howling wind and the roar of the sea more than sound of the words of Jesus? Our concentration of Jesus begins to flutter. Our eyes see more and more of the terror and threat. Our ears hear more and more of the sucking sounds of death. And we begin to sink. Go down like a rock.
Let us be candid with ourselves. We can surround ourselves with lots of pictures of Jesus the slogans of encouragement. We can listen all day to religious songs. But a mental vision cannot be held forever and ever. A cheerful, commanding word repeated over and over again can become an empty sound. In a previous church I served a young woman was fighting a drug addiction. She was fighting it by the ear and the eye. She had lots of slogans stuck up on her mirror and her refrigerator door. She played lots of religious music. She listened to tapes. It was not working.
What did work was a support group. What did work was a group where she could not pretend or deceive. What did work was a group of tough-love friends who forced her to be honest with herself and with them. They forced her to get a grip on herself by hearing her confession and then gripping her in their arms.
So it was with Jesus and Peter. It was not enough for Jesus to call to Peter and for Peter to concentrate on Jesus. That was not sufficient for Peter to stay on the waves. Finally Jesus has to do one more act to enclose us within enough of his power in order for us to stay on top of the waves. It takes a strong hand-clasp. It takes his grip.
Seeing is not believing, necessarily. Hearing is not believing, always. But the combination of seeing the mercy of God coming toward us, hearing the words of comfort and empowerment directed to us, and feeling yourself grabbed hold of and buoyed up in a physical way, that’s a winning combination! I have heard you by the hearing of the ear. I have seen you by the seeing of the eye. And now I have been enclosed by your power in a physical way. Truly you are the Son of God, not safely on the mountain top, but right here in my ocean of chaos.
Jesus is our Lord and Savior because he rides the waves with us. In fact, Jesus is where the waves are. The power of Jesus fills a church where that church dares to launch out into the face of the storm. If in fact Jesus is where the waves are, but we want to be in still water, we can pretty well expect Jesus to be calling us into the places of risk, confrontation and growth.
Some of you may be new to St. Stephen or just visiting for the first time. Others of you have been here much longer than I have. Yet, we might look back on this history of this church and see where the waves have been and still are. St. Stephen was one of the first churches to be grasped by the tragedy of persons dying with AIDS who had no place to go, evicted by family, partner, and destitute. We helped in the creation of Samaritan House. Our elders approved this unanimously, but it made waves in the l980s. St. Stephen was one of the three founding churches for the Presbyterian Night Shelter in the early 80s. It was approved unanimously by the churches, but it was extremely controversial with the public. No one wanted it in their backyard. It made waves. St. Stephen is one of a handful of churches that practices Room in the Inn as an overnight shelter in our building for homeless persons during the hottest and coldest months of the year. The hospitality we extend to strangers and shiftless people continues to challenge our deepest principles.
Jesus is not in the still water. He is out where the waves are. He gives us his promise, “If you will concentrate with your eyes and your ears and if you will let somebody hug you, I will help you. I want you to expect me to walk the waves with you from one side of your storm to the other and not get sucked under.”
Walking the waves is an awesome experience. Let’s share some common examples: People flush out a turbulence of negative feelings of anger, helplessness, bewilderment over their impending death and then replace those negative feelings with deeper hope and peace. People flush out a turbulence of negative feelings about the church, about their move, about their school, about their marriage, about their company, about their government, about their illness, about their parents, and then go on to replace those feelings with renewed commitment, renewed taking charge, renewed efforts at making friends. Men and women are freed up to talk about the different ways they need to feel self-worth and to ask that each make a sacrifice for the other to help them feel good. People can begin to understand that the needs of the church as a body will never get attended to if all we do is try to cater to the satisfaction of everyone here. Parents can become skilled at working firmly and compassionately with the strong-willed child. Patience, good humor, and long-suffering become powers to use as people work at keeping intact communication from opposing viewpoints. Drug addictions can be successfully broken. Divorces can be compassionately consummated. Marriages can be wisely postponed until the right time.
Some day the wind and the waves will be no more. Yet even now we know glimpses of that wonderful stillness. A quiet moment with our child in our arms. Pillow talk after moments of intimacy with our mate. A congregation with a sense of settled purpose, gathered around the common table. Finally a friend with whom our soul resonates. A partial easing of tension between countries, labor and management, and other warring social elements. The return of someone to church after we had spent long stretches of the night in prayer. A sack of groceries. A drug prescription filled. A group of compassionate friends.
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation or distress or persecution or famine, or nakedness or peril or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loves us. For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.