Every year
during the first weeks of summer in my teens, our swim coach would take the team to Greer’s Ferry Lake for off-season
intensive training. We would replace our normal routine of lap after lap in the swimming pool with the murky waters of an
Arkansas lake. Twice each day, we would plunge into the open, cold waters to swim behind the coach, who led the way in his
small boat with outboard motor. This usually entailed swimming from the mainland out to a small island about a mile offshore,
swimming around the island, and then returning home.
It would take about an hour and a
half, and then we would do it again in the afternoon. Those who lagged behind risked being picked up by the coach, and re-deposited
back in the school of swimmers, but only after some terse words of encouragement—the kind that coaches seem born to
deliver.
One day, I remember making the turn at the island, ready to head
for home, when a strong wind arose from the north, lapping waves with whitecaps upon our heads. We were staying in a cabin
on the north shore of the lake, so to get home, we had to swim with a headwind. I thought lakes were supposed to be still
bodies of water. Well, I can attest that a strong wind creates a current, and it is very difficult trying to swim against
it.
Add to that the great storm cloud that darkened the sky overhead, and we were all bobbing
our heads up, trying to look for lightning—the only sure way we could convince the coach to rescue us in his boat. Distant
rumbles were not sufficient in those days to quit practice; the coach had to see a flash.
It
was the longest mile I think I have ever swum in my life—both in the time it took to swim it, and in the actual distance,
since for every stroke in the direction of home, the wind had a tether on us, pulling backwards away from home. It was exhausting
and unnerving, to say the least. But we pressed on, and I am happy to say that all made it safely to shore. That afternoon,
the same thunderstorm kept us out of the water, so we ran the hills of north central Arkansas instead.
I
have a hunch that something of that sense of exhausting work and fear was experienced by the disciples as they vigorously
rowed their boat, trying to cross the Sea of Galilee while straining against the wind and waves. Remember that most of these
men were fishermen, having spent their lives on this body of water. Storms were not uncommon, so surely they had been in storms
rough water before. But this storm, we are told, is a “great storm”—literally, a mega-storm (from the
Greek word megas, translated “great”). It must have been huge, overwhelming, life-threatening, because here
these men, experienced as they were, thought they were going to die.
But
then, notice what happens. Jesus (who apparently is a very deep sleeper) is awakened and dispatches the threat with a command—and
a “great” calm covers the waters—translated for us as a dead calm, but it is the same word (megaj megas) in
the Greek text—a great calm. No gradual resolution, but a sudden turn to stillness. And then, those with Jesus
were filled with “great” awe—the same word used now a third time. Who is this man that the wind
and the sea obey him? Who is this that can do what only God can do?
Much has been made about how the Church is like the boat here in this passage, full of disciples striving to
make our way, and it is being tossed to and fro in the world—battered by one controversy after another—sometimes
the threat comes from the world out there, but how often is internal strife the source of affliction.
And
it is only when we acknowledge that our boat is dependent on Christ's presence and Christ-like virtues for its stability on
this unpredictable sea of life that we can begin to make sense of our situation and how to respond to it.
The truth is the Church has been struggling since the very beginning. Read the Book of Acts sometime in one sitting,
and I bet you will marvel at how the tensions there resonate in our own time. The critical pivot in the book comes when the
First Council of the Church met in Jerusalem to decide who would be welcome in the Church, and who would not.
We trust that the Holy Spirit managed to save the day as the Church took shape, but not before men wrestled with
one another to promulgate their position.
Fast forward then nearly three hundred
years, and what is the church doing? Well, it’s bickering again, about important matters—this time about whether
Jesus Christ is the Son of God or is simply a creature of God, like you and me. Pretty weighty matters, I guess. So what does
the church do—it calls a council together. The Council of Nicea in 325—a collection of motley men (the women weren’t
allowed to attend back in those days), and by all accounts they were ready to duke it out, and do whatever it took for their
position to prevail. It was not a pretty sight.
But in the end, when we who are gathered
here stand in a few moments to profess our faith using the words of the Nicene Creed, we will take our place in the long line
of people who trust that the Holy Spirit was involved in the decision to conclude that Jesus Christ really is the Son of God--a
mystery, to be sure, but a very hopeful one that offers presence in the midst of the storm.
I
could go on—the Council of Constantinople in 381, the Councils of Ephesus and Chalcedon and Rome, and so on—each
dealing with some pressing theological issue or matter of mission of the church. But suffice it to say that the church has
managed to be in the midst of some controversial argument or another every step along the way.
And
our time is no different: it is in that line of councils that the Episcopal Church meets in General Convention every third
year—now thankfully as men and women, lay persons, bishops, priests and deacons. And your vestry here at St. Paul’s
takes it place in that lineage, too. As the Church, at all levels, we meet, we talk, we often disagree, and then we figure
out a way to be the Body of Christ. By God’s grace and the inspiration of that same Holy Spirit, we find a way to get
in the boat…together.
Ultimately, it has appeared at any given point
in its history that the Church might just capsize, collapse on itself, and yet it hasn’t. And I have to trust that it
hasn’t—not because of what we have done or failed to do, but because Christ’s presence has inspired us to
trust that being in the boat is the only way we can make it to the other side.
“When
evening had come, Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Let us go across to the other side.’” Their destination
was over there. It was dark, so they could not see the other side—but they were to row in that direction.
In fact, I’d say this gospel
story of wind and waters and a boatful of disciples is really about the journey. Fear is natural enough along the way—fear
of the unknown, fear of change, fear of the other—but if fear immobilizes us, or diverts us from our real mission, then
it is as if we are tethered to the waves of controversy, and if we stop rowing, stop focusing on the other side, and we turn
our attention to the waves of controversy rather than rowing through them together. Nothing good comes from that!
My friends, I stand here today, as one in your midst, who is immensely hopeful for the future, not because I know
what “the other side” looks like, nor because I think it will all be smooth sailing, but because we as the Church
have been asked by Christ to get in the boat and row…to tend to one another along the way…to struggle together
toward our destination, and to trust that Christ is with us. That is the Church’s work. 1
My sense it that we are doing that with some measure of grace—grace that is a gift from God. It is with that
gift of grace that we will make our way together, as a community of St. Paul’s, as the Episcopal Church, and indeed
as the one holy catholic and apostolic church of God--in all its expressions the world over.
So,
the invitation stands: Jesus says to his disciples, ‘Let us go across to the other side.’” Will we take
him with us in the boat?
Glory to God whose power, working in us, can do infinitely
more than we can ask or imagine: Glory to God from generation to generation in the Church, and in Christ Jesus for ever and
ever. Amen. (Ephesians 3:20-21).
