How often have you had to continue to do your job, even when you have just found out something tragic or troubling? Jesus is in the same situation here in the 14th chapter of Matthew. Jesus needs to be alone in prayer. Chapter 14 opened with the news that John the Baptist had been executed by Herod, and yet there were sick people to cure and hungry multitudes to feed and disciples to simultaneously admonish and encourage. So Jesus had tucked away his grief for later, when he would have time to process it. Jesus hasn’t had time to be alone with this troubling news. Finally, now, at the end of a long and difficult day, Jesus sends away the crowds with their bellies full. He needs the disciples to go, too-- notice that the text says that Jesus forces or compels the disciples to get in the boat and go on ahead without him.
I love the honesty of that first sentence of our gospel reading today—all Jesus wants is some peace and solitude, so he MAKES the disciples get in the boat probably just when they want to ask him a million questions about what just happened with those five loaves and two fish. Jesus models good ministerial boundaries by finally giving himself some time to mourn the loss of his cousin, the man who had baptized him. Only after he has had some time for prayer and reflection does he head across the water to join the disciples. If you've ever been the parent of a toddler, you probably can imagine the relief he felt as that boat pulled away.
Jesus is depicted several times in scripture going away by himself and praying, or taking just a few friends with him to pray, especially in times of crisis. Both of these are good reminders for us of the importance of a rich prayer life, and of the benefits of knowing that others are praying with and for us. And for every time that Jesus is portrayed going off by himself for prayer and solitude, there were probably dozens of other occasions that get omitted, because it doesn’t always make a good story line if your main character is exiting offstage all the time, leaving the comedic relief running things-- because look what happens.
Now for the second time in the gospel of Matthew – the first time was in chapter 8—Jesus’s disciples are in a boat at night in a storm, but this time Jesus is not with them. However, as strong as the storm blows, our reading also doesn’t say the disciples are afraid until they see Jesus walking across the water toward them. Storms, after all, are not uncommon on the Sea of Galilee, and many of Jesus’s disciples had been fishermen there on that body of water.
This time, the disciples aren’t depicted as being afraid of the storm. They become afraid when they see Jesus walking toward them across the waves. They are only afraid when Jesus shows up doing something completely unexpected—and they assume he is a ghost. If I saw Jesus walking across the water to me, I might be more inclined to wonder if I were about to become a ghost, but their response also works, and it scares the daylights out of them.
It was only a few days ago that I read about someone who actually hated this story growing up. This person wrote that this was one of the stories in her childhood that was used to convince her that fear was actually sinful. Disciples, she was told, are those who respond with pure undiluted faith when crises arise. Furthermore, she was told that fear is the opposite of faith (1).
I had a hard time understanding this mindset she described, so as a 21st century person, I did a google search on the words “Faith and fear.” Sure enough—the first two pages of results claim to reiterate the incompatibility of faith and fear, and there’s a definite tinge of accusation directed in many of those I read. “Faith and fear cannot co-exist,” one proclaimed. The purpose is to make fear something shameful, sinful—one alleged minister even called fear a betrayal of God.
Even worse, in another conversation I found, a person actually urged people not to wear masks during this pandemic with the advice: “Faith over fear! God will protect you!” Absolutely God WILL protect us—by giving us the good sense to listen to medical professionals and dwell on our own experiences with surgeons and nurses to realize that wearing a mask to stop contagion is hardly a new thing. Wearing a mask doesn’t show fear or a lack of faith. Wearing a mask demonstrates compassion, bravery, faithfulness to the core values of the gospel, and especially wisdom.
I personally never encountered those who used the repeated exhortation not to fear to then make people feel like being afraid is a sin, but I can see how that could happen. But it’s a misapplication of scripture. Rather, as we have noted repeatedly, I think that there are, as they say, about 365 versions of an exhortation not to fear in scripture so that we could have one for every day of the year. I have never taken that exhortation not to fear to conversely imply that feeling afraid is a sin, or even evidence of a lack of faith. Rather, I’ve always thought that those repeated exhortations were there to acknowledge how very human and natural it is to be afraid. So normal that we need a repeated reminder that God is with us—which is what “don’t be afraid” points toward. Those words are meant to comfort, not accuse.
It is never wrong or sinful to be feel fear. It’s what we do with that fear that matters.
Naturally-occurring fear is hardwired into us as an instinct to teach us to avoid things which are dangerous, like copperheads and poison ivy and driving too fast on cold wet roads. Fear can make us cautious and respectful of our own limitations. That’s why it’s what we DO with fear that is important. I thought about that a lot as I listened to the funeral service for Congressman John Lewis last week. He certainly did not live a life free from fear. But even in the midst of the struggles in which he engaged, he used his fear to deepen his faith in God and his faith in the ability of this country to change for the better.
When our fear leads us NOT to do something fool-hardy and dangerous, such as touching a hot stove or trying to take a selfie with a black bear cub in the woods, or ignoring recommendations to socially distance, to wear a mask, or to wash our hands, that is allowing fear, or worse, false bravery based in willful ignorance, to take the place of wisdom. That’s throwing the gift of reason that God endowed us with back in God’s face.
When our fear leads us to be aggressive, angry, violent, or hateful toward others, especially those different from us, that’s allowing fear to become our god. It’s idolatry of the self—and a renunciation of faith and the call to love one another that is at the heart of faithful living. Jesus doesn’t want mindless followers who feel they constantly have to prove themselves faithful by doing dangerous things as a sort of parlor trick. Jesus doesn’t call us to be disciples so that we can commit acts of aggression against our fellow human beings or our planet in a way that confuses belligerence with bravery, either.
But when our fear leads us into prayer, even if it’s the “Help me!” prayer, it opens up a door to deepen our relationship with God.
When our fear leads us to remember God’s abiding presence with us, even in the midst of the storms of life, that’s life-giving. When our fear leads us to want to protect and stand in solidarity with those around us, that is a proclamation of the power of the gospel in our lives.
When I was a small kid, the only books I had were ones my mother got second-hand, or that were given to me as gifts. This resulted in a strange amalgamation of literature in my imagination: a battered Grimm's Fairy Tales, and not the Disney-fied version, either. A book of Norse myths. A story about how an ancient Greek boy was saved from drowning by a dolphin. A copy of the Hemingway tale The Old Man and the Sea and Steinbeck's The Pearl, and a Book of Prayers.
In many of these stories, the sea figured prominently. Living in land-locked Oklahoma, I nonetheless longed for the sea, and every time we went to visit our relatives in California, we kids all demanded that Mom take us straight from LAX to the closest shore. It was usually El Segundo, which to most Californians wasn't that nice, but to us, no matter how cold it was, getting to pick up shells, peer into tide pools, and wade in the surf was magic.
"Dear God,
be good to me;
the sea is so wide,
and my boat is so small."
No doubt many of us have been feeling overwhelmed. There’s some change and plenty of uncertainty every time we turn around, as we are confronted with something so big and powerful as a pandemic. And so, for months now, I have been praying that prayer again. I am comforted by the fact that the Bible is full of stories about being in a boat, and yet even when storms are encountered, those who are trying to be faithful always have the presence of God revealed to them.
These last many months—and I know it feels like years, but it’s been months, I promise-- have been a sea change for all of us, as the entire globe has been confronted with the spread of COVID-19. Here in the US, as of last week, 160,000 people have died, and 5 million people thus far have been diagnosed. That’s five million families whose lives will never be the same. And now school is reopening. The fear, anxiety, and uncertainty is natural and normal.
But the fact is that we are not adrift in this time of change. We still have each other-- and we have the faithful presence of God alongside us as we navigate the shoals and the storms as well as the during the days of fair weather and clear sailing. This is the mystery that our time of uncertainty and fear can reveal to us—that even as things seem dark, the light of Christ as a sign of God’s active presence in our lives can truly shine. That uncertainty and fear can also lead us to step outside of ourselves, to help others and do good in response to the overly abundant negativity that already is rising up to our necks.
Our journey through this Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty has been unusual, to say the least, and we do not know where or when it will end. But we know our boats aren't out there on the sea alone. Our long journey in this Coronatide reminds us even more of the solidarity of our God in times of suffering and hardship as well as the sure and certain promise of resurrection that awaits us. Like Peter, we may feel that we are sinking beneath the waves. But that’s when Jesus grabs us by the scruff of our necks and hauls us back into the boat. And thanks be to God for that.
Amen.
Preached at the 10:30 online service at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO, on August 9, 2020.
Readings:
1) See Debie Thomas, "Out on the Water," August 2, 2020, at Journey With Jesus.
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