The calm at the center
Commentary
Object:
One Chinese word-symbol for "doubt" is a caricature of a person with each foot in a different canoe. If the waters are calm and the canoes are tied securely, it is possible for the person to stand like that indefinitely. But if those canoes are adrift on the swelling tides of the sea or scrambling down the whitewaters of a raging torrent, someone positioned so precariously would topple quickly.
Cecil Beaton pictures it well in his short story "The Settee." Violet and Dorothy prowl an antique shop and find a marvelous old French style long wooden bench called a settee. Dorothy thinks it is "Louise-Seize," and therefore extremely valuable. When she finds that she can get it for a very inexpensive price, she convinces Violet to allow her to buy it as a gift for Violet.
Of course, the value of the piece weighs heavily in Dorothy's mind, and soon she begins to dream of ways to get it back for herself. After all, she was the one who found it in the first place. Sharing her obsession with family friend Colonel Coddington, they scheme together to trick Violet into surrendering custody of the piece by declaring it a worthless imitation.
The tables are turned, however, when Colonel Coddington inspects the supposed antique and declares that it is, in fact, only a cheap copy of the famous Louis-Sieze style, and certainly not valuable at all. Dorothy's greed and obsession deflate rapidly.
The next day she laughingly relates the whole tale to George. Then the roller coaster ride begins all over again as George informs Dorothy that the Colonel's ability to appraise anything is sheer quackery, and he wouldn't know art from imitation. George, who has seen the settee, knows that it is indeed a rare and valuable piece. After all, he himself owns an antique shop where a bench twin to Violet's sits in the window with a huge price tag. Dorothy's obsessive greed is fired anew, and passionate covetousness surges through her veins.
There Beaton ends the story, allowing Dorothy's mood-swings to rip apart her heart.
The seas always roll, in life's journey, and the pounding waves beg their share of the soul's cargo. Those of us who have experienced significant doubts in the uncharted waters of our voyage find today's lectionary passages echoing themes we have rehearsed too well.
Certainly it is true that many Christians are single-minded and clearly aware of the brilliant sunshine of God's love, rarely deviating from paths of focused faith and purposeful existence. Yet while some folks have a "summery" sort of spirituality, according to Martin Marty in his devotional reflections on the Psalms, many of us know only or often A Cry of Absence (Harper & Row, 1983). For those who wrestle often the blasts of chilling doubt and wrestle for direction under gray and forbidding skies, the absence of God seems more apparent than his presence.
When the absence of God shouts louder than his presence, few who feel faith can escape the winds of doubt. Fortunately these verses are not all that James has to say on the subject. There will come moments of brilliance and insight further along in his letter of encouragement. Perhaps, even, the harshness of his judgment here will challenge those of us with wintry spirits to take a second look at our perennial insecurities of faith.
Without the larger context of grace binding the fraying edges of our souls, more ships of self would visit Davey Jones' locker than would reach the haven of rest. Fortunately the one who stilled the storms on the Sea of Galilee is able yet to tame the troubling tides for those who cry out in winter's night. This is the message of Joseph's tumultuous life mapped out by strange dreams. This is the promise of Paul in the middle of his most difficult exploration at the heart of Romans. And this is certainly the meaning of Matthew's reminder of what happened the night he and the other disciples were terrified on the high seas of Galilee. Jesus alone remains the calm at the center of every storm.
Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28
Although Abraham hears a disembodied voice and Jacob has a vision of heaven one night at Bethel, it is Joseph whose Genesis record is entirely shaped by dreams. He enters the narrative as a self-absorbed, privileged son, who foolishly antagonizes his family by reporting nighttime revelations that he is the most important among them, destined to become their lord and master (Genesis 37:2-11). His arrogance precipitates a plot among his siblings to get rid of him (Genesis 37:12-35), and this brings him to Egypt as a slave (Genesis 37:36; 38:1-6). Now the dreaming takes center stage again as Joseph is unjustly thrown in prison (Genesis 39:7-23) where he meets two men from the pharaoh's court who are awaiting adjudication on treason charges (Genesis 40:1-4). They each have dreams (Genesis 40:5-8) which Joseph is able to interpret (Genesis 40:9-19) in a way entirely consistent with the events that follow (Genesis 40:20-22).
Joseph's unique skills come to the attention of the pharaoh two years later, when the ruler's nighttime reveries plague him like a nightmare, and Joseph is brought in to make sense of it all (Genesis 40:23--41:36). This earns Joseph a spot as co-regent of Egypt (Genesis 41:37-57), and it is from this position that he becomes savior of his family during the ensuing famine (Genesis 42-46). Joseph's tale ends with his sons Manasseh and Ephraim gaining equal status with Jacob's other sons in the inheritance distributions (Genesis 48-49), and Joseph burying his father with honors in Canaan (Genesis 50:1-14) while keeping alive the dream of having the whole family return there one day when the current crisis had passed (Genesis 50:15-26).
In its focus on dreams, the Joseph story cycle that concludes Genesis deals with two issues. First, it answers the question of how this nation of Israel, springing from such illustrious stock, becomes an enslaved people in land not their own. Second, it creates a vision for the way in which the future is brighter than the past: along with their forebear Joseph, they need only take hold of the dream of God for them.
Romans 10:5-15
Romans 9-11 forms a kind of interlude in the progressive movement of Paul's otherwise arrow-straight discourse. The powerful "righteousness of God" (1:17) has recently been revealed in this world through the coming of Jesus. This righteousness is God's working out of a plan to recover and restore a universe that has been warped and twisted by evil (1:18--3:20). God's righteousness expresses itself through an ages-long redemptive history (3:21--8:39) that was first made manifest through Abraham (v. 4) and then powerfully consummated in Jesus (v. 5). Although the application of this righteousness has not connected easily with us as individual humans (vv. 6-7), the outcomes of God's plan are assured through the Trinitarian initiatives (v. 8). "We are more than conquerors through him who loved us!" "...nothing shall separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord!"
This powerful testimony now seems to cause Paul to reflect ruefully, however, on a truly knotty theological problem. If Paul can be so certain about God's strident grace toward us in this new age of the messiah, why did God's declarations of favor toward Israel in the previous age of revelation seem to fail? Why did Israel lose its privileged place in the divine plan, while the spreading church of Jesus Christ is suddenly God's favored child?
These questions become the research matters for Paul's internal intellectual debating team in Romans 9-11. First up, comes the standard reflection that God is sovereign. This means, for Paul, that God's special relationship with Israel was God's choice to make and is not undone now that God wishes also to use a new tactic in the divine attempt at recovering the whole of humanity back into a meaningful relationship with God.
Nevertheless, according to Paul, there has been something amiss about Israel's side of this relationship with God. Rather than understanding its favored position as enlisting it into the divine global mission, the nation tended to become myopic and self-centered. Instead of believing that she too needed to repent and find God's care through grace, Israel supposed that she had an inherent right to divine favor.
It is in this dynamic interaction, first between Israel and God, and more recently between the Gentiles of the early Christian church and God, that today's lectionary passage speaks. God is sovereign, yet Israel and we choose. God speaks, and Israel and we are called to respond. God remains in control, yet Israel and we exercise a freedom of choice.
The logic of it is impossible to nail down, any more than is the logic of selfless love or commitments of grace in the face of no reciprocation. Yet divine initiative and human volition are somehow inseparably connected in the drama of redemption.
In the end, Paul believes that partly through Israel's false presumptions, and partly because of God's temporary change of strategies in order to better fulfill the original divine redemptive mission, Gentiles have come to the center of God's attention, while Israel, though not forgotten, is partially sidelined for a time. But even this alteration in the temperature of God's relationship with Israel is a lover's game: Israel needs to feel the good jealousy for a partner that she has too long taken for granted, so that she will recover her passions of great love. In the meantime, however, all win. God wins in the divine missional enterprise. The Gentiles win because they have a renewed opportunity to get to know God. And Israel wins because she is never forgotten and is coming round to a renewed love affair with her beau. No wonder Paul ends these reflections with a passionate doxology culled from Isaiah 40:13 and Job 41:11 -- "Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out! Who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been his counselor? Who has ever given to God, that God should repay him? For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him the glory forever! Amen."
Matthew 14:22-33
The storm that rose was a double whammy for Jesus' disciples, desperately traumatized on the Sea of Galilee. Only hours before they had been front and center in another of Jesus' amazing magical acts. The crowds had followed this young rabbi out into the wild places where he was wandering just to listen and look for miracles.
He certainly gave them a good one -- it had been well past mealtime, with no fast-food restaurants in sight when Jesus took the lunch a mother packed for her young son and turned it into a feast that everyone could share. That's when they, Jesus' special deputies, were put in charge of the distribution. No one among the milling men could fail to notice that these fellows were important. They were hand-picked agents of this great man and got to spend all day every day with him. Envy skittered around them as they moved with humble pride to serve these poor folks.
But then Jesus had left them. He had just walked away and gone off into the hills by himself, as if he didn't want to be around them. As if they didn't really matter that much to him. So they retaliated and ran from him in the other direction, shoving off across the lake in a boat. Conversation among them over the waters must have skittered between rehearsals of their afternoon greatness and pouty uncertainties about Jesus.
They were fisherman, though, and this rowing across Galilee was good therapy. They knew these waters well. Some, like James and John, could probably see the lights in the windows of their parents' home over in Capernaum. Fickle fortunes may challenge them, but they could always come back to the sea. It was their home. They were masters of these acres.
That's when the second wallop hit them. Their friend Galilee rebelled. It caught them by surprise. The winds changed. The horizon melted and sky merged with sea in a toxic soup. They thought they could play this lake like a dance partner, but she kicked them in the shins and was coming back with a kidney punch. They turned the boat into the wind and rowed with passion. They were more than a little scared, even if they wouldn't admit it.
Then suddenly their fear turned up the volume. Like the bow of a ghost ship emerging from a fog bank, something was aiming for them out of the storm. Was it a phantom? Was it another boat about to be thrown at them by the wicked winds? Was it the premonition of death? They were terrified.
They were amazed as well, for there was an eerie calmness surrounding this apparition. No waves bounced it, no breezes billowed whatever rags it might own. Swirling about it were the claws of death, but they could neither claim nor impede this water walker.
Certainly it seemed to be striding across the surface, for there was no question now that it was headed toward them. Between gasps of futile rowing and spits to get rid of the spray, they began to make out the form of a man. "It's Jesus!" cried one, and the breathing of their oarsmanship hiccupped. Peter yelled out, "Is it you, my Lord?"
A familiar voice cut through the tempest, as if it were on a different frequency altogether. "It is I! Don't be afraid!"
Things like this don't happen every day, even for disciples of Jesus who are getting used to a winning string of miracles. Surprised by his own giddiness, Peter called out, "Is it really you, my Lord?"
Then, to confirm his passionate boldness, he begged for a chance to find the footing Jesus knew atop the waves. "Come!" commanded Jesus, and Peter stepped gingerly out of the boat.
It was amazing and intriguing to feel the cold softness against his bare feet form in place like a shoe's gel insert. He suddenly had an unusual place to stand!
He tested his left foot against the flood and found he could walk! Gingerly he shuffled toward Jesus wondering when he would come to the edge of the wet precipice. But the terra aqua held firm.
The storm still had not abated. In fact, it seemed almost as if the wind packed a new punch in its insistence that these strange events not take place. Peter was pummeled by gales that sneaked in from every direction without pattern. He bobbled and turned to beat back his enemy. It was then that his feet slid. The water became slippery, with pockets and holes that no longer supported his footfalls. He felt himself tipping and twisting and groped the air for non-existent supports. The deep knew his name and was laying claim to his body heel upward.
"Lord, save me!" he cried in panic. And Jesus took his hand. Jesus took his hand and the footing was firm. Jesus took his hand and the waves were tamed. Jesus took his hand and the winds calmed.
They chatted together as if it were a walk in the woods, nothing unusual. Jesus chided his friend for losing focus so quickly, and the two of them stepped into the boat together. Around them the others gaped wordlessly. What do you say when nothing makes sense and yet everything is okay?
More quickly than it had blown in the storm whimpered away. Suddenly the skies were clear, the stars bright, the air fresh and the sea shimmering as it reflected sentinel fires on the shore.
What were the disciples to make of this? Nothing, really. You just get on with your life and tell the tale over drinks every chance you get, for a while at least. But then you begin to hold it and review it and wonder at it. Not so much the freak storm or even the strange thing Peter did, although, looking back, you wonder how it ever happened. Who, in his right mind, would get out of a boat on a stormy sea and think he could walk on water?
But the recounting of the story would begin to feel weird, as if you were violating some sacred trust, because you told the story at first out of sheer exhilaration at the experience, and then later because it was such a good story and it made you kind of proud to have been there. But now you know that the story can't be about you. It was always about Jesus. The storm came because Jesus was not there. The winds blew in because the disciples were becoming overconfident in their Superman status. The seas rebelled because, for a moment, everyone and everything had lost focus when Jesus stepped up into the hills by himself. Without Jesus at the center everything becomes dark and brooding and chaotic.
This then is why Matthew made sure to tell the story as he did. Not with great embellishments of flair or excitement, but in straightforward simplicity. For the meaning is not to be found in the extraordinary things that took occurred, but in the place Jesus must have at the center of every picture.
Application
Artists were once encouraged to submit their most descriptive canvases portraying "peace" to a painting contest. The offerings were as varied as the colors of the spectrum. One bright scene showed a pastoral countryside. Another found peace on the wide expanse of sea coast, drummed by the steadying rhythm of the waves. A third found its glow in the setting sun at day's end.
The winning painting, though, portrayed a chaotic and troubled scene. Torrents of water cascaded over jagged rocks. Black storm clouds reached down to earth with destructive claws of lightning. Fierce winds tore at the leafy clothing of trees. Hailstones mixed with rain punished the world with a sound beating.
But these were not the things that grabbed the viewer's attention. There, just to the right of center, in a nest supported by a gnarled old tree limb and sheltered by overhanging rocks, was a small bird. Singing. Peaceful.
This is the calm of God at the center of human storms. This is the peace of Christ.
Alternative Application
Matthew 14:22-33. Madeleine L'Engle's short story Dance in the Desert begins with a caravan of people traveling in hurried fear through a trackless wilderness. They seem to be running from something and turn furtively to check the movement of shadows at the edge of their peripheral vision. Particularly noticeable among them is a young family, a husband and wife along with their tiny boy.
Night falls and the travelers establish a camp. All gather around the huge bonfire that is lit as a repellent to the darkness and whatever beasts and demons it might hold. From huddled security near the flames, the community shivers at growls and hisses that emanate from the unseen world beyond the licking of the fire. Now and again the piercing reflection of strange eyes looks at them out of the black void and they quickly turn back to comforting small talk, which helps them pretend at safety.
But they will not be left alone. The shrieks and warning snarls edge closer. Then a paw appears or a sniffing nose only to be withdrawn before spears can poke or arrows be aimed. More faggots are thrown on the fire.
Yet the beasties and wild things will not be stopped. Growing more daring, a bear steps into their circle and a bold viper slithers in from the other direction. There is panic in the camp as all scatter and leap and search for weapons. In the commotion the young husband and his younger wife are separated, each believing the other has grabbed their little boy to safety.
But the child was left behind. He faces the wolf and the lion and the bear and the snake and the other wilderness creatures alone. Only there is no distress in his voice, no panic in his cry. Instead, he coos and clucks with delight at these mighty furry and scaly toys that have come to play. He claps his hands and bounces his feet and giggles with animation.
As the caravansary is suddenly pulled from its panicked zigzagging by the tinkle of the child's good humor, all the adults stop and turn, expecting the wild things to tear limb from limb and demolish this human plaything they have abandoned. But it is not so. Instead, the child has brought some kind of intelligent direction to its strange play. His chubby arms are actually orchestrating a symphony of animal cries, and his hands are directing the choreography of a marvelous beastly dance. The bear is on its hind legs, not to swipe and strike but to gyrate with the tempo of the child's clapping. The snakes slither in pairs forming artistic designs in the desert sands. Above, the vultures and hawks swoop and turn and bank and dive in aviary formation. The lions and tigers nod their heads as if in rhythm to celestial instrumentation.
Slowly, and with mesmerizing fascination, the adults creep back to their places by the bonfire. They become the audience in the greatest show on earth. The child whoops and tips and giggles and sways and claps his hands in time with the music of heaven, and the animals of earth dance around him with delight. Even the big people begin to hear transcendent melodies, and the night has become as friendly as dawn or daylight.
Eventually the child tires, as all children do, and the cooing stops, the clapping ceases, and the animals slink away. But they are no longer predators and the fear of both man and beast has vanished. All that is left is the child, and those who linger in awe know that there is a new center of gravity in the universe.
I cannot reflect back to all of you today what storms and beasts and dark places you fear. You know them all too well. They have become, for some of you, a house of horrors from which you would move if you could but you can't. You step out into the weather of each morning wearing a façade of faith and trust, believing you are able again to walk on water. Yet too often, before the day is half finished, and often in full sight of your friends and coworkers traveling with you, you slip and slide and sink.
I do not have any quick-fix solutions for you, no faith waders, no emergency life rafts, or instant pontoons. All I can say is what Matthew, in recounting this story for us, wished to affirm. You've got to keep your attention focused on Jesus. Not as an iconic talisman, but as the center of meaning around which everything else begins to revolve and resonate.
Cecil Beaton pictures it well in his short story "The Settee." Violet and Dorothy prowl an antique shop and find a marvelous old French style long wooden bench called a settee. Dorothy thinks it is "Louise-Seize," and therefore extremely valuable. When she finds that she can get it for a very inexpensive price, she convinces Violet to allow her to buy it as a gift for Violet.
Of course, the value of the piece weighs heavily in Dorothy's mind, and soon she begins to dream of ways to get it back for herself. After all, she was the one who found it in the first place. Sharing her obsession with family friend Colonel Coddington, they scheme together to trick Violet into surrendering custody of the piece by declaring it a worthless imitation.
The tables are turned, however, when Colonel Coddington inspects the supposed antique and declares that it is, in fact, only a cheap copy of the famous Louis-Sieze style, and certainly not valuable at all. Dorothy's greed and obsession deflate rapidly.
The next day she laughingly relates the whole tale to George. Then the roller coaster ride begins all over again as George informs Dorothy that the Colonel's ability to appraise anything is sheer quackery, and he wouldn't know art from imitation. George, who has seen the settee, knows that it is indeed a rare and valuable piece. After all, he himself owns an antique shop where a bench twin to Violet's sits in the window with a huge price tag. Dorothy's obsessive greed is fired anew, and passionate covetousness surges through her veins.
There Beaton ends the story, allowing Dorothy's mood-swings to rip apart her heart.
The seas always roll, in life's journey, and the pounding waves beg their share of the soul's cargo. Those of us who have experienced significant doubts in the uncharted waters of our voyage find today's lectionary passages echoing themes we have rehearsed too well.
Certainly it is true that many Christians are single-minded and clearly aware of the brilliant sunshine of God's love, rarely deviating from paths of focused faith and purposeful existence. Yet while some folks have a "summery" sort of spirituality, according to Martin Marty in his devotional reflections on the Psalms, many of us know only or often A Cry of Absence (Harper & Row, 1983). For those who wrestle often the blasts of chilling doubt and wrestle for direction under gray and forbidding skies, the absence of God seems more apparent than his presence.
When the absence of God shouts louder than his presence, few who feel faith can escape the winds of doubt. Fortunately these verses are not all that James has to say on the subject. There will come moments of brilliance and insight further along in his letter of encouragement. Perhaps, even, the harshness of his judgment here will challenge those of us with wintry spirits to take a second look at our perennial insecurities of faith.
Without the larger context of grace binding the fraying edges of our souls, more ships of self would visit Davey Jones' locker than would reach the haven of rest. Fortunately the one who stilled the storms on the Sea of Galilee is able yet to tame the troubling tides for those who cry out in winter's night. This is the message of Joseph's tumultuous life mapped out by strange dreams. This is the promise of Paul in the middle of his most difficult exploration at the heart of Romans. And this is certainly the meaning of Matthew's reminder of what happened the night he and the other disciples were terrified on the high seas of Galilee. Jesus alone remains the calm at the center of every storm.
Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28
Although Abraham hears a disembodied voice and Jacob has a vision of heaven one night at Bethel, it is Joseph whose Genesis record is entirely shaped by dreams. He enters the narrative as a self-absorbed, privileged son, who foolishly antagonizes his family by reporting nighttime revelations that he is the most important among them, destined to become their lord and master (Genesis 37:2-11). His arrogance precipitates a plot among his siblings to get rid of him (Genesis 37:12-35), and this brings him to Egypt as a slave (Genesis 37:36; 38:1-6). Now the dreaming takes center stage again as Joseph is unjustly thrown in prison (Genesis 39:7-23) where he meets two men from the pharaoh's court who are awaiting adjudication on treason charges (Genesis 40:1-4). They each have dreams (Genesis 40:5-8) which Joseph is able to interpret (Genesis 40:9-19) in a way entirely consistent with the events that follow (Genesis 40:20-22).
Joseph's unique skills come to the attention of the pharaoh two years later, when the ruler's nighttime reveries plague him like a nightmare, and Joseph is brought in to make sense of it all (Genesis 40:23--41:36). This earns Joseph a spot as co-regent of Egypt (Genesis 41:37-57), and it is from this position that he becomes savior of his family during the ensuing famine (Genesis 42-46). Joseph's tale ends with his sons Manasseh and Ephraim gaining equal status with Jacob's other sons in the inheritance distributions (Genesis 48-49), and Joseph burying his father with honors in Canaan (Genesis 50:1-14) while keeping alive the dream of having the whole family return there one day when the current crisis had passed (Genesis 50:15-26).
In its focus on dreams, the Joseph story cycle that concludes Genesis deals with two issues. First, it answers the question of how this nation of Israel, springing from such illustrious stock, becomes an enslaved people in land not their own. Second, it creates a vision for the way in which the future is brighter than the past: along with their forebear Joseph, they need only take hold of the dream of God for them.
Romans 10:5-15
Romans 9-11 forms a kind of interlude in the progressive movement of Paul's otherwise arrow-straight discourse. The powerful "righteousness of God" (1:17) has recently been revealed in this world through the coming of Jesus. This righteousness is God's working out of a plan to recover and restore a universe that has been warped and twisted by evil (1:18--3:20). God's righteousness expresses itself through an ages-long redemptive history (3:21--8:39) that was first made manifest through Abraham (v. 4) and then powerfully consummated in Jesus (v. 5). Although the application of this righteousness has not connected easily with us as individual humans (vv. 6-7), the outcomes of God's plan are assured through the Trinitarian initiatives (v. 8). "We are more than conquerors through him who loved us!" "...nothing shall separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord!"
This powerful testimony now seems to cause Paul to reflect ruefully, however, on a truly knotty theological problem. If Paul can be so certain about God's strident grace toward us in this new age of the messiah, why did God's declarations of favor toward Israel in the previous age of revelation seem to fail? Why did Israel lose its privileged place in the divine plan, while the spreading church of Jesus Christ is suddenly God's favored child?
These questions become the research matters for Paul's internal intellectual debating team in Romans 9-11. First up, comes the standard reflection that God is sovereign. This means, for Paul, that God's special relationship with Israel was God's choice to make and is not undone now that God wishes also to use a new tactic in the divine attempt at recovering the whole of humanity back into a meaningful relationship with God.
Nevertheless, according to Paul, there has been something amiss about Israel's side of this relationship with God. Rather than understanding its favored position as enlisting it into the divine global mission, the nation tended to become myopic and self-centered. Instead of believing that she too needed to repent and find God's care through grace, Israel supposed that she had an inherent right to divine favor.
It is in this dynamic interaction, first between Israel and God, and more recently between the Gentiles of the early Christian church and God, that today's lectionary passage speaks. God is sovereign, yet Israel and we choose. God speaks, and Israel and we are called to respond. God remains in control, yet Israel and we exercise a freedom of choice.
The logic of it is impossible to nail down, any more than is the logic of selfless love or commitments of grace in the face of no reciprocation. Yet divine initiative and human volition are somehow inseparably connected in the drama of redemption.
In the end, Paul believes that partly through Israel's false presumptions, and partly because of God's temporary change of strategies in order to better fulfill the original divine redemptive mission, Gentiles have come to the center of God's attention, while Israel, though not forgotten, is partially sidelined for a time. But even this alteration in the temperature of God's relationship with Israel is a lover's game: Israel needs to feel the good jealousy for a partner that she has too long taken for granted, so that she will recover her passions of great love. In the meantime, however, all win. God wins in the divine missional enterprise. The Gentiles win because they have a renewed opportunity to get to know God. And Israel wins because she is never forgotten and is coming round to a renewed love affair with her beau. No wonder Paul ends these reflections with a passionate doxology culled from Isaiah 40:13 and Job 41:11 -- "Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out! Who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been his counselor? Who has ever given to God, that God should repay him? For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him the glory forever! Amen."
Matthew 14:22-33
The storm that rose was a double whammy for Jesus' disciples, desperately traumatized on the Sea of Galilee. Only hours before they had been front and center in another of Jesus' amazing magical acts. The crowds had followed this young rabbi out into the wild places where he was wandering just to listen and look for miracles.
He certainly gave them a good one -- it had been well past mealtime, with no fast-food restaurants in sight when Jesus took the lunch a mother packed for her young son and turned it into a feast that everyone could share. That's when they, Jesus' special deputies, were put in charge of the distribution. No one among the milling men could fail to notice that these fellows were important. They were hand-picked agents of this great man and got to spend all day every day with him. Envy skittered around them as they moved with humble pride to serve these poor folks.
But then Jesus had left them. He had just walked away and gone off into the hills by himself, as if he didn't want to be around them. As if they didn't really matter that much to him. So they retaliated and ran from him in the other direction, shoving off across the lake in a boat. Conversation among them over the waters must have skittered between rehearsals of their afternoon greatness and pouty uncertainties about Jesus.
They were fisherman, though, and this rowing across Galilee was good therapy. They knew these waters well. Some, like James and John, could probably see the lights in the windows of their parents' home over in Capernaum. Fickle fortunes may challenge them, but they could always come back to the sea. It was their home. They were masters of these acres.
That's when the second wallop hit them. Their friend Galilee rebelled. It caught them by surprise. The winds changed. The horizon melted and sky merged with sea in a toxic soup. They thought they could play this lake like a dance partner, but she kicked them in the shins and was coming back with a kidney punch. They turned the boat into the wind and rowed with passion. They were more than a little scared, even if they wouldn't admit it.
Then suddenly their fear turned up the volume. Like the bow of a ghost ship emerging from a fog bank, something was aiming for them out of the storm. Was it a phantom? Was it another boat about to be thrown at them by the wicked winds? Was it the premonition of death? They were terrified.
They were amazed as well, for there was an eerie calmness surrounding this apparition. No waves bounced it, no breezes billowed whatever rags it might own. Swirling about it were the claws of death, but they could neither claim nor impede this water walker.
Certainly it seemed to be striding across the surface, for there was no question now that it was headed toward them. Between gasps of futile rowing and spits to get rid of the spray, they began to make out the form of a man. "It's Jesus!" cried one, and the breathing of their oarsmanship hiccupped. Peter yelled out, "Is it you, my Lord?"
A familiar voice cut through the tempest, as if it were on a different frequency altogether. "It is I! Don't be afraid!"
Things like this don't happen every day, even for disciples of Jesus who are getting used to a winning string of miracles. Surprised by his own giddiness, Peter called out, "Is it really you, my Lord?"
Then, to confirm his passionate boldness, he begged for a chance to find the footing Jesus knew atop the waves. "Come!" commanded Jesus, and Peter stepped gingerly out of the boat.
It was amazing and intriguing to feel the cold softness against his bare feet form in place like a shoe's gel insert. He suddenly had an unusual place to stand!
He tested his left foot against the flood and found he could walk! Gingerly he shuffled toward Jesus wondering when he would come to the edge of the wet precipice. But the terra aqua held firm.
The storm still had not abated. In fact, it seemed almost as if the wind packed a new punch in its insistence that these strange events not take place. Peter was pummeled by gales that sneaked in from every direction without pattern. He bobbled and turned to beat back his enemy. It was then that his feet slid. The water became slippery, with pockets and holes that no longer supported his footfalls. He felt himself tipping and twisting and groped the air for non-existent supports. The deep knew his name and was laying claim to his body heel upward.
"Lord, save me!" he cried in panic. And Jesus took his hand. Jesus took his hand and the footing was firm. Jesus took his hand and the waves were tamed. Jesus took his hand and the winds calmed.
They chatted together as if it were a walk in the woods, nothing unusual. Jesus chided his friend for losing focus so quickly, and the two of them stepped into the boat together. Around them the others gaped wordlessly. What do you say when nothing makes sense and yet everything is okay?
More quickly than it had blown in the storm whimpered away. Suddenly the skies were clear, the stars bright, the air fresh and the sea shimmering as it reflected sentinel fires on the shore.
What were the disciples to make of this? Nothing, really. You just get on with your life and tell the tale over drinks every chance you get, for a while at least. But then you begin to hold it and review it and wonder at it. Not so much the freak storm or even the strange thing Peter did, although, looking back, you wonder how it ever happened. Who, in his right mind, would get out of a boat on a stormy sea and think he could walk on water?
But the recounting of the story would begin to feel weird, as if you were violating some sacred trust, because you told the story at first out of sheer exhilaration at the experience, and then later because it was such a good story and it made you kind of proud to have been there. But now you know that the story can't be about you. It was always about Jesus. The storm came because Jesus was not there. The winds blew in because the disciples were becoming overconfident in their Superman status. The seas rebelled because, for a moment, everyone and everything had lost focus when Jesus stepped up into the hills by himself. Without Jesus at the center everything becomes dark and brooding and chaotic.
This then is why Matthew made sure to tell the story as he did. Not with great embellishments of flair or excitement, but in straightforward simplicity. For the meaning is not to be found in the extraordinary things that took occurred, but in the place Jesus must have at the center of every picture.
Application
Artists were once encouraged to submit their most descriptive canvases portraying "peace" to a painting contest. The offerings were as varied as the colors of the spectrum. One bright scene showed a pastoral countryside. Another found peace on the wide expanse of sea coast, drummed by the steadying rhythm of the waves. A third found its glow in the setting sun at day's end.
The winning painting, though, portrayed a chaotic and troubled scene. Torrents of water cascaded over jagged rocks. Black storm clouds reached down to earth with destructive claws of lightning. Fierce winds tore at the leafy clothing of trees. Hailstones mixed with rain punished the world with a sound beating.
But these were not the things that grabbed the viewer's attention. There, just to the right of center, in a nest supported by a gnarled old tree limb and sheltered by overhanging rocks, was a small bird. Singing. Peaceful.
This is the calm of God at the center of human storms. This is the peace of Christ.
Alternative Application
Matthew 14:22-33. Madeleine L'Engle's short story Dance in the Desert begins with a caravan of people traveling in hurried fear through a trackless wilderness. They seem to be running from something and turn furtively to check the movement of shadows at the edge of their peripheral vision. Particularly noticeable among them is a young family, a husband and wife along with their tiny boy.
Night falls and the travelers establish a camp. All gather around the huge bonfire that is lit as a repellent to the darkness and whatever beasts and demons it might hold. From huddled security near the flames, the community shivers at growls and hisses that emanate from the unseen world beyond the licking of the fire. Now and again the piercing reflection of strange eyes looks at them out of the black void and they quickly turn back to comforting small talk, which helps them pretend at safety.
But they will not be left alone. The shrieks and warning snarls edge closer. Then a paw appears or a sniffing nose only to be withdrawn before spears can poke or arrows be aimed. More faggots are thrown on the fire.
Yet the beasties and wild things will not be stopped. Growing more daring, a bear steps into their circle and a bold viper slithers in from the other direction. There is panic in the camp as all scatter and leap and search for weapons. In the commotion the young husband and his younger wife are separated, each believing the other has grabbed their little boy to safety.
But the child was left behind. He faces the wolf and the lion and the bear and the snake and the other wilderness creatures alone. Only there is no distress in his voice, no panic in his cry. Instead, he coos and clucks with delight at these mighty furry and scaly toys that have come to play. He claps his hands and bounces his feet and giggles with animation.
As the caravansary is suddenly pulled from its panicked zigzagging by the tinkle of the child's good humor, all the adults stop and turn, expecting the wild things to tear limb from limb and demolish this human plaything they have abandoned. But it is not so. Instead, the child has brought some kind of intelligent direction to its strange play. His chubby arms are actually orchestrating a symphony of animal cries, and his hands are directing the choreography of a marvelous beastly dance. The bear is on its hind legs, not to swipe and strike but to gyrate with the tempo of the child's clapping. The snakes slither in pairs forming artistic designs in the desert sands. Above, the vultures and hawks swoop and turn and bank and dive in aviary formation. The lions and tigers nod their heads as if in rhythm to celestial instrumentation.
Slowly, and with mesmerizing fascination, the adults creep back to their places by the bonfire. They become the audience in the greatest show on earth. The child whoops and tips and giggles and sways and claps his hands in time with the music of heaven, and the animals of earth dance around him with delight. Even the big people begin to hear transcendent melodies, and the night has become as friendly as dawn or daylight.
Eventually the child tires, as all children do, and the cooing stops, the clapping ceases, and the animals slink away. But they are no longer predators and the fear of both man and beast has vanished. All that is left is the child, and those who linger in awe know that there is a new center of gravity in the universe.
I cannot reflect back to all of you today what storms and beasts and dark places you fear. You know them all too well. They have become, for some of you, a house of horrors from which you would move if you could but you can't. You step out into the weather of each morning wearing a façade of faith and trust, believing you are able again to walk on water. Yet too often, before the day is half finished, and often in full sight of your friends and coworkers traveling with you, you slip and slide and sink.
I do not have any quick-fix solutions for you, no faith waders, no emergency life rafts, or instant pontoons. All I can say is what Matthew, in recounting this story for us, wished to affirm. You've got to keep your attention focused on Jesus. Not as an iconic talisman, but as the center of meaning around which everything else begins to revolve and resonate.
