August 10, 2008
(Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost; Proper 14)
Water of Life and Death
by The Rev. Canon Susan Sommer
Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28 • Psalm
105, 1-6, 16-22, 45b • Romans
10:5-15 • Matthew 14:22-33
(From
The Lectionary Page)
It had been nearly twenty years since Rick and I had been on Lake Superior’s rugged shoreline, or walked its beaches strewn with ancient volcanic rocks worn smooth by millennia of crashing waves. It was a quiet week, meteorologically speaking, that we spent in Minnesota, just north of Duluth. No violent thunderstorms riled the icy waters of that giant freshwater lake. We saw one- to three-foot waves at most. But we weren’t fooled. We lived near its shores on the Michigan side for six years when we were first married and saw many, many times what kind of waves a real storm can create. Great Lakes sailors – commercial or amateur – will tell you that hypothermia is the greatest danger in Lake Superior, where the water temperature seldom exceeds 40 degrees and where life preservers are primarily useful for identifying bodies that otherwise would sink into its dark depths for all eternity. If you want to sail on that lake, you’d better respect its capacity to kill you. It can be magnificent and it can be malevolent.
We see that same ambivalence in Scripture with respect to large bodies of water. On one hand, a sea – especially a fresh water lake like the Sea of Galilee – represented life, sustenance, in that semi-arid land. On the other hand, water was also seen as synonymous with danger, chaos, even death itself. Whenever we encounter an image of raging, unruly water in the scriptures, we are to understand that image as symbolizing the forces of darkness, the cosmic powers which oppose God’s sovereignty, which threaten to return the world to its pre-creation chaos.
In today’s gospel passage, Jesus sends the disciples by boat to the Gentile side of the Sea of Galilee, immediately following the miraculous feeding of the 5,000 we heard about last Sunday. The disciples – many of whom are fishermen and thus no strangers to open water – are slogging through heavy seas toward alien land. And what happens? Jesus comes to them, walking across the water. And the disciples – apparently complete amnesiacs with respect to the miracle performed only hours before – don’t recognize him, and are, in fact, terrified by his appearance.
Generations of readers of Matthew’s gospel have related to the disciples’ confusion and terror. Human beings, after all, are not generally buoyant enough to walk on water. A certain amount of freaking out in a situation like this could reasonably be expected. But there’s more going on here. When Matthew wrote his gospel, the church -- his community -- was immersed in danger. Jerusalem and the temple had been destroyed yet again, this time by the Roman army. Persecution of those who followed Christ was commonplace. Their very survival as a community was far from certain. The story of the disciples being sent on ahead without Jesus physically in their midst, and finding themselves making no headway in a chaotic, dangerous world would have resonated with Matthew’s original audience.
And perhaps it resonates with us as well. Our own world is no less chaotic, no less dangerous than that of the first century Roman Empire, though certainly the specifics are different. Our troubled waters more typically focus on economic uncertainty or political volatility at the national and international levels. Closer to home, we find ourselves facing family problems, financial difficulties, catastrophic illness, untimely deaths of loved ones. Each of us in our own way knows what it is to be in the midst of chaos, to be seemingly far from a safe harbor when turbulent waters threaten to drown us.
Of the four gospels, only Matthew and Mark tell of Jesus walking on the water, and only Matthew relates the account of Peter’s impetuous request to meet Jesus where Jesus is, walking on the water. This is consistent with Matthew. After all, barely two chapters later, Jesus will tell Peter that he is the rock upon which the Church will be built – words of Jesus that also are found only in Matthew. So what we seem to have here is Peter, who represents leadership for Matthew’s audience, being sent on ahead. His apostolic witness – his being sent forth with the other disciples -- has just been nourished by the miracle of abundance where the 5,000 had just been fed by five loaves and two fish. But the going is tough and he is understandably fearful. In perceiving the presence of Christ, he seeks to come into Christ’s presence, acting on the little faith that he has. Fear overtakes him when he begins to sink, but Christ is mightier than the chaos. Jesus reaches out a hand and catches Peter and holds him fast.
As he does us, day in and day out.
See, our own lives as Christians also follow this Matthean pattern. Each Sunday, we also take part in a miracle of abundance. Each Sunday, we present the offerings of our life and labor to the Lord. And each week, following the example of Jesus, we take and bless, break and give. And all who come to the Lord’s Table are fed with the abundance of his grace. And then we are sent forth, nourished by that grace, to minister in the world outside of our comfort zones. And we, too, get sidetracked by fear, feeling sometimes as though we’re sailing against the wind in heavy seas because we, too, are every bit as human as the disciples. And what do we have with which to face the chaos we encounter? We have a boat, we have oars and a sail, and working together we have the strength and the wherewithal to weather the storms. And we have something more. We have Jesus Christ who comes to us, mightier than anything that the forces of chaos can dish out, though we, too, often fail to recognize him.
We have an advantage the disciples did not. Our faith -- little as it is at times -- reveals a miracle of abundance every time we celebrate Holy Eucharist. Each week we who are occasionally, like Peter, focus- and faith-impaired, follow our Lord’s bidding to come and meet him. Each week, we reach forth our hands at the Eucharist to grasp hold of the body of our Lord.
And that is when our faith reveals the second miracle -- which is simply this: It is not we who grasp him. It is he who grasps us. And holds us fast.
