Rev. Eugene N. Nelson, Jr.
The Community Church of Sebastopol
August 7, 2005
Matthew 14: 22-33
In the first of the Lord of the Rings film, Frodo, carrying the Ring of Power to the Land of Mordor where it will be destroyed, has decided that he must go on alone. The Ring is too much of a threat to the Fellowship – in fact, the Fellowship is breaking up. Frodo stands on the edge of the river deciding that from now on, this is a journey he must undertake himself. But Sam, his faithful companion, has a different opinion and decides that he also must go. (We see a film clip from The Lord of the Rings Trilogy showing Frodo pulling Sam out of the water.)
When I see that film clip I am reminded of our text and Jesus reaching out to Peter. I also remember a song recorded by the group Ocean. No one remembers Ocean, but a lot of us remember the song:
Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the water,
Put your hand in the hand of the man who calmed the sea,
Take a look at yourself and you can look at others differently,
By putting your hand in the hand of the man from Galilee.
There is so much in today’s text. It’s hard to know where to begin: the storm, the battered boat and the frightened disciples, Jesus walking on water and telling them not to be afraid, Peter wanting to join Jesus on the water and attempting to do so, Peter then sinking in fear, and the hand reaching down to save him. Then the calming of the storm. There is month’s worth of preaching in this text. What are the most powerful images? What are the images that just jump out? Obviously the image that jumped out at me is that of the hand reaching out through the storm to save Peter. That powerful image tells me that finally, this is not a text about Peter and his decision to take a stroll on the sea. It is not a text about the church adrift in a stormy sea of consumerism, secularism and apathy. First and foremost, this is a text about Jesus – about who he is and what he does.
First a word about storms and water: As you know, I spent the second week of July on Washington Island, Door County Wisconsin, attending a seminar led by Eugene Peterson. To get to Washington Island, which sits where Green Bay meets Lake Michigan – yes, Green Bay – you have to take a 40 minute ferry ride. This area is also known as Death’s Door because of the fierce winter storms that develop there, storms which over the years have claimed a number of ships. But in the summer it is generally very calm, as it was – thankfully – this year. My father is from Door County. He knows the area and its reputation. He was in Wisconsin visiting his brother the same week I was on Washington Island. I suggested that they drive up, catch the ferry and join me on the island. I had not even finished my sentence, I hadn’t even finished my invitation when my dad was saying, “Oh no, I couldn’t do that.” My father has always been afraid of big water. The thought of taking that ferry to Washington Island, even on a calm day, was just more than he could handle. He didn’t even like the idea of me taking that ferry.
My father would have been a good Israelite. These were not sea-faring people. For Israel the water was a thing to be dreaded – a place of bubbling chaos and fear, even death. Note that in Genesis, God’s first act of creation is the taming of the waters – God bringing order, imposing God’s will, on chaos. And this is the water that appears in this morning’s text. The disciples are threatened, and then Peter is threatened, by chaotic, out of control, death-dealing water. And it is right here, in the midst of the chaos and terror, that they meet Jesus. This would be a powerful image for those who first heard this story. Jesus as the one who calms the waters of chaos and fear, who can even rescue us from those waters. Put your hand in the hand.
Washington Island is a great place. There isn’t much to do there. It is a great place to study, plan sermons, think, reflect. You might think that if you are going to meet Christ anywhere, if you are going to have a spiritual experience, it is going to be in a quiet and reflective place like Washington Island.
And yet, our text powerfully suggests that sometimes, it is not in calm serenity, but rather in the midst of chaotic turmoil, clamor, fear and confusion, that we meet Christ, or better yet, where Christ meets us. Just when we despair about our ability to ever reach out to him, even to find him, he reaches out to us – he finds us. Jesus wades right into the storm, saving Peter and the other disciples, reassuring them, and calming the troubled waters. That’s who he is and that’s what he does. Do you suppose he can do the same for us?
Many years ago, Sharon Elder in our church, shared with me a portion of a book written by Catherine Maurice. The book, Let Me Hear Your Voice, tells the story of her daughter, Anne-Marie, and her struggle, indeed the entire family’s struggle, with Anne-Marie’s autism. Maurice tells of one particularly long and ultimately significant night. “The evening of the day I visited Dr. Doubrovsky, I had had enough. I dreaded the next morning. I could find no solace anywhere, no reason to keep on going. Of course I knew I would go on; there was no choice really. But I didn’t want to. Life seemed too painful, all joy drained out of it, all hope fading away. I couldn’t resign myself to losing Anne-Marie, and yet all indications were that I would indeed lose her.
“It was around one o’clock in the morning. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t cry. I had no tears left. I was spent, exhausted, but still wound to the breaking point with fear. There was a candle and an icon on my dresser. I lit the candle and gazed into its warm soft glow. I sat in that small circle of light and tried to feel the presence of God. ‘Lord I need your help, so badly…’ All along I had been asking for reality to be changed: ‘Please make the diagnosis be wrong, please make her not to be autistic…’ This night was different. I had to ask for something else. ‘Lord send me…fill me with…your strength…your peace…and I will be able to go on.’
“But there was one more thing I needed to say, one hard and terrible thing. Gazing into the light, I raised my clasped hands and bowed my head, willing myself to trust God’s love. Then I whispered the words I had avoided: ‘Thy will be done,’ and was flooded, instantly, impossibly, with comfort. I was rocked with love, soothed by peace. Through all the fibers of my being coursed a new strength, borne on the wings of this nocturnal prayer. I blew out the candle, went to bed, and slept deeply for the first time in weeks. I had reached out in the black cavern, stumbling and weeping with fear, and had felt my hand grasped by nothing less than the hand of God.
She concludes, “‘Thy will be done’ did not mean to me that God wanted Anne-Marie and us to suffer. It was a way of affirming that if we trusted enough in God’s goodness and love for us, we would not be swallowed up by this evil…He would give us the strength and the courage to deal with it and to grow through it. Whether that meant that we would find the courage to bear her condition or, instead, that we would miraculously recover her, I didn’t yet know. But at heart, I felt more peaceful. My hand was in the hand of God, and God would lead me and my family through this fiery land.”
“But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, ‘Lord, save me!’ Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him. When they got into the boat, the wind ceased.” I suppose the question is, in our lives, who has the power? To whom do we give the power? Chaos or Christ? Where do we put our trust? What or who defines us?
I wish I could stand here today and promise you a life free from suffering and pain, grief and loss. I wish I could stand here and say, “Just believe in Jesus and all will be well!” But as one who stood by and watched his own mother shattered and eventually destroyed by grief, I cannot say that…I cannot promise that. But I can say this…something I keep telling myself, something I believe with every fiber of my being: no matter what has happened before in our lives, and no matter what may be going on right now, none of that defines who we are. Ultimately we are defined by the strong presence, the abiding of love, of God in Christ – a love that suffers with us, that hurts when we hurt, that is involved, not distant, and that never, never leaves us - a love that opens us to the future, frees us from bondage to all that has gone before, and promises to be unfailingly present with us in whatever happens next.
A pastor went to visit one of his church members in the hospital. She was quite elderly now and had been a faithful Christian and church member for more decades than he had been alive. She asked for a prayer for healing. He responded, “Sister, I’m not going to ask God to move a mountain. I’ll just pray that God gives you strength to climb it.”
“Now hold on, preacher,” she responded. “Don’t you go trying to tie God’s hands. If God wants to move a mountain, then let him move it!”
Put your hand in the hand of the one who calmed the sea. When we do that, especially when we do that together in community, who knows what mountains might start to move?