Aug 13 | “Get on board,” (Sermon, August 13th 2017)

“Immediately Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. ²³And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, ²⁴but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. ²⁵And early in the morning he came walking towards them on the lake. ²⁶But when the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified, saying, ‘It is a ghost!’ And they cried out in fear. ²⁷But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.’

28 Peter answered him, ‘Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.’ ²⁹He said, ‘Come.’ So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came towards Jesus. ³⁰But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, ‘Lord, save me!’ ³¹Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, ‘You of little faith, why did you doubt?’ ³²When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. ³³And those in the boat worshipped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God.’

Matthew 14: 22-33

 

Good morning, St. Martin’s. I’m so glad to be with you today.

In January I travelled to the Holy Land for a course at St. George’s Anglican College. We travelled to many different parts of the region and it was life-changing, as you can imagine.

About three days before we left, we drove to several lakeside holy sites, including Capernaum, where Jesus lived for a time with Peter and his family. Capernaum is right on the shores of Kinneret, or the Sea of Galilee, and we were there on a late January morning that felt like an early June morning. We were given the chance to find a place to sit and simply drink in the beauty of the place, and so we fanned out to find spots to sit on the very rocky and rather treacherous shore.

It’s a beautiful place – definitely a holy place.

I remember that I could feel the first threads of the terrible cold I brought home with me in the back of my throat, and tried to ignore it to really appreciate the quiet and the view. I thought maybe I should try to write a hymn on the shore, and, since I had no paper, turned on the video function on my phone, pointed the viewer at the lake, and started humming, trying to capture the peace of the scene before me.

Not two or three minutes into it, a speedboat went by, kicking up an impressive wake, which started coming toward me. It was broken well before I could be drenched, but it was a close call. The video is a source of joy to me now, because as I sat, trying to convey peace, my humming dissolved into giggles as I watched the laughing lake, wondering if I was going to have soggy socks for the rest of the day.

I thought as I giggled, “I wanted peace, but God didn’t feel like it. God cannot be controlled.” And my placid, somewhat banal tune changed rhythm and tempo, reflecting the playfulness of the waves.

God cannot be controlled. God is in control.

We can say this easily when we are together here in church…but it can be so hard to fully understand.

Our world places a premium on independence, individualism, and self-actualization. It prioritizes agency and action, and venerates power and certainty. Even folks who assign a personality or agency to the “Universe” (always capital U, right – the Universe) will regularly speak in terms of receiving what they are owed, or what they, personally, individually, need to know. “The Universe brought me this job.” “The Universe is trying to tell me something.” The language always suggests a certain degree of superiority, even when it’s cloaked in pseudo-humility. The Universe is in control…but it will always let me know its plans and thoughts.

Well what if that’s not the case?

What if the force that powers life and love, not creation itself but the thing that infuses and yet exists outside creation, does have a plan, but offers only one option: Get on board, or get left out?

Getting left out might sound like hell or condemnation, but it could just mean mourning while everyone around you is singing, cursing the mud instead of blessing the stars.

Getting on board, then, means accepting that God’s plan is unfolding even if it’s hard to see; rejoicing in the beauty of the world rather than succumbing to the rhetoric of fear.

It’s expecting miracles.

The chapter from which we draw today’s reading begins with the death of John the Baptist, an execution by the state, and such a foolish one. One poorly timed remark by an impetuous king results in the gruesome death of an innocent man whose only crime was trying to get people on board with God’s plan.

After this terrible injustice, Jesus withdraws in a boat to a deserted place by himself, but of course he can never be alone for long. Crowds follow him, and when he comes back to shore he has compassion for them and heals their sick.

And after that is the story of the feeding of the 5,000. That is the passage immediately preceding this one.

What a beautiful juxtaposition. It is the same in each of the three Gospels that feature this story. The Holy One who knows our flesh mourns the injustice…and then gets right back on board. Healing, food, walking on water.

Perhaps we are meant to interpret walking on water Eucharistically.

What could that mean?

It is helpful to know in the ancient Near Eastern mind that large bodies of water were a primordial symbol, an analogue for pre-creation chaos, what in Hebrew is called, perhaps onomatopoeically, “tohu wabohu.” Jesus walks toward the disciples on top of chaos, so in control that he no longer needs to rebuke the waves to be still.

Caught up in chaos, they are only afraid when they see him, because as scary as chaos is, it’s at least familiar, isn’t it? We are familiar with being buffeted, with being tossed to and fro, tohu wabohu, but voluntarily surrendering control is something even more frightful.

What we need is trust in that control.

Peter thinks he’s got it, impetuous Peter, and for a while, he does. His faith seems both large and delicate, like a big balloon. But perhaps we understand that too. How many of us have discovered that, after a wholehearted dive into a new situation, suddenly find that, like the psalmist, “the waters have come up to our neck.” At least like Peter we usually have the sense to cry, “Lord, save me!” But so often our need must be proven to us before we reach out.

That, I think, is one of the reasons that we come to church.

We come together to admit to God that, like Peter, we need to be commanded to come.

The most beautiful thing is that our service itself contains that precious truth that before we are commanded to come and follow the risen Christ onto the waves, we are fed.

We are called out of chaos and uncertainty into this house to be fed, and then we are told to expect miracles, to expect walking on water.

St. Martin’s, your people have been called from many places to this place, a place where Christ’s abundance is made manifest in your love and our work. Your people are telling the story of God’s plan for this little corner of North Vancouver, BC in 2017. Your people are getting on board, and as long as you proclaim and enact the good news of healing, salvation, liberation, redemption, and God’s favour for all creatures, you will never be left out.

We are called from chaotic lives into a place of peace to be fed.

So expect miracles. Expect to walk on water.

I happened to come across an exquisite sermon on this passage by the fourth century preacher St. John Chrysostom. When I work with children and youth, I often refer to saints as big brothers and sisters in Christ. Let’s allay any uncertainty in the power of what we do here by closing with these words from our big brother John.

“[I]ndeed Christ’s body is set before us now, not His garment only, but even His body; not for us to touch it only, but also to eat, and be filled. Let us now then draw near with faith, every one that hath an infirmity. For if they that touched the hem of His garment drew from Him so much virtue, how much more they that possess Him entire? Now to draw near with faith is not only to receive the offering, but also with a pure heart to touch it.

Believe, therefore, that even now it is that supper, at which He Himself sat down. For this is in no respect different from that. For neither doth humanity make this and Himself the other; but both this and that is His own work.

“Yea, for this mystery is a mystery of peace.”

“These are our venerable things, these our mysteries; with this gift do we adorn ourselves, with this we are beautified.”