Wavy Chaos

Whenever the disciples get into a boat, I am immediately drawn in to the story. The youth group and their parents can testify to my fear of waves: The teens might be bouncing across Lake Barkley, pulled by a speedboat, smiling from ear to ear. But you will find me clinging white-knuckled to the side of the anchored pontoon boat. My face goes pale every time a wave from a passing jet ski rocks us back and forth. “Oh, here comes another one,” I drone like Eeyore to the patient chaperones. I can’t wrap my mind around the perilous uncertainty involved in floating. I need firm footing. I need solid ground, not insubstantial billows of shifting water. I fear the chaos that looms just underneath the surface of things.

Chaos is all around us these days, isn’t it? Those memes about 2020 on social media hit much too close to home: You know the ones. They list Covid-19, fires, hurricanes, “murder hornets” “unidentified Chinese seeds,”  and ask, “What next? Anybody for attack squirrels?” The Pandemic itself is a storm of pure chaos, and our collective inability to deal with it threatens to overwhelm us all. Private storms also rip at us from within, as our routines at work, at church, and at home shift and shatter. One news site posted a storm image just last month: “2020 hit us like a hurricane (plus there was an actual hurricane) and we’re all in the same boat – a boat that has now crashed and washed up on shore.”[1]

The metaphor of the stormy seas is biblical. In the Hebrew Bible, churning water represents the primeval chaos itself. It is the dark void of Genesis 1, the tohu wavohu, full of all of the forces that threaten God’s creation. Ancient Canaanites called these forces Leviathan, the monster of the deep whom God has battled and destroyed. Today, it can indeed seem as if these powers and principalities of the deep are undoing creation, while we voyage alone in a very small boat on a very large sea. Of course we are afraid.

Our Gospel comes to us with good news. Jesus’ appearance on the turbulent waters is more than just a miraculous magic show. Jesus calls out, “Take heart, I AM here; do not be afraid.” These words from Jesus aren’t just personal words of comfort for his friends. They are words of divine disclosure. “I AM” is the name of God, revealed to Moses at the Burning Bush. Jesus says to the disciples in Greek, “Take heart, I AM.” I am the Lord God, master of these waves.

The God of the Psalms, the God of Jonah and of Job, the God of Jesus and the disciples, our God--is a mighty God. God makes the powers of the deep submit and bow before him. Listen carefully to the voice of the psalmist: “God of Hosts … you rule the raging of the sea, when its waves rise, you still them.”(Ps.98) “The waters saw you, God; the waters saw you and writhed.”(Ps. 77) Jesus comes to the disciples as God, as the God who saves us. He comes as the God who created the universe and is still upholding it against all the chaotic powers that would tear it to shreds. Psalm 107 must have influenced Matthew’s telling of our Gospel story. It describes our salvation from the waters of chaos:

Some went down to the sea in ships… they saw the deeds of the Lord, his wondrous works in the deep. For he commanded and raised the stormy wind, which lifted up the waves of the sea … [The sailors’] courage melted away in their calamity; they reeled and staggered like drunkards, and were at their wits’ end. Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he brought them out from their distress; he made the storm be still, and the waves of the sea were hushed. Then they were glad because they had quiet, and he brought them to their desired haven. Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love … Let them extol him in the congregation of the people.

 

As a water weakling, though, here’s my question for this scenario: how are we supposed to keep calm? With the boat rocking, my faith is likely to evaporate into pure fear. What if we see Jesus and are still scared?

          Matthew answers this question by adding Peter to the mix: Peter, that bold disciple, that Rock of the Church … Well, that very human disciple like you and me, the one who denies Jesus three times to save his own skin. Preachers often use Peter as an example of insufficient faith in this story. "Aha," some interpreters say, "Peter doesn’t trust Jesus enough. If Peter had enough faith, if he believed the miracle, then he wouldn’t have faltered in the water. He would have walked safely to Jesus. He would have shown the others what true, spectacular faith looks like.”

Actually, if we look closely at the text, we can see that such a reading is a misinterpretation. The word used by Jesus in v. 31, when he asks Peter why he doubts, is a word used only one other time in the whole New Testament. It isn’t the usual word for the wary skepticism that we often call doubt. It is a word meaning “vacillation.” In wanting everything pinned down, Peter begins wavering before he ever gets out of the boat. “If it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Peter negotiates. We’ve all heard bargaining like this before. We hear it from the Evil One himself: “If you are the Son of God,” says Satan to Jesus, “command these stones to turn into bread.”  We also hear it coming from our own mouths: “If you are real, God, save me from this virus, and then I'll be the best Christian ever.” “If you are real, God, get me out of this mess.” Goodness, I start my silent bargaining with God as soon as I get in a boat!

Peter thinks that the way to escape the terrors of chaos is to walk to Jesus with celestial trumpet fanfare, with the banners of certainty waving behind him. But in reality, Peter only escapes the chaos of the deep when Jesus pulls him spluttering and dripping from the depths.

No matter how we shore up the sides of our ship, we are disciples who sail on seas of chaos and uncertainty in this world. Across the high waves, we Christians can feel God’s miraculous and powerful presence. We can see Jesus as Lord of the Turbulent Waters, but it is not the kind of knowledge that we can put under a microscope or use as a bargaining chip with God.

When it comes down to it, I think that a lot of our fear of chaos, like my fear of waves, comes not from a rational dread of the chaos itself. It comes from the irrational fear that, deep down, I am not worth saving, should I start to go under. Our story shows us that such a fear is unfounded. We, like Peter, are saved from the depths, not by any fantastic feats of faith, but by the grace of God’s hand.

 In a way, whether I’m in a real boat or sailing on Pandemic chaos, I am right not to put my trust the strength of the boat or the intent of those waves. Our salvation lies in our willingness to follow the voice of our Savior across the waves. Jesus is calling to us. He wants us to come to him, to take refuge from the evil powers that threaten us in these chaotic times. The only certainty he offers—the only certainty we need—is to know that he is always there with us. When the waves submerge us, Jesus, the Lord of Creation, will take us by the hand. The God of all that is, seen and unseen, will pull us out of the chaos, worthy or not.

---

[1]Found at https://filmdaily.co/news/crazy-2020-memes/

Where Would Jesus Dine?

A few days ago, I heard about two very different feasts in the oil-town of Odessa, Texas. One was a political fund-raiser. As a born and bred Texan, I can tell you right now that there was some oil money flowing in that room.  Powerful, rich men, the movers and shakers of the mighty oil and gas industry, lined up to honor the candidate. They paid $2800 apiece to get on the guestlist.[1]

On that same day, also in Odessa, a local church hosted a luncheon. A free luncheon. For seventy destitute children. The workers in those Texas oil fields have faced spiking unemployment, and the number of unhoused families has risen dramatically in the past year.[2] With the rapidly spreading Coronavirus, the danger on the streets is real. The food at the church feast was simple, but it was offered in love and solidarity. Had Jesus of the Gospels wandered into Odessa this week, it’s not hard to guess where he would have pulled up a chair.

In Matthew’s Gospel, the ruler Herod Antipas is hosting a feast. Herod’s birthday party, described at the beginning of Matthew 14, must have been planned for months, a celebration truly “fit for a king.” Antipas is the puppet ruler of Galilee, placed on the regional Jewish throne by the conquering Roman Empire. [3] He is a Jew, but he was raised in Rome, works for Rome, and enjoys the power of the Empire. His palace is in a town that he calls “Autokratoris,” the “autocrat city,” the “Imperial City.” The name is apt. His world is one of Roman baths, triumphal statues, circuses, art, war, and conquest.[4] Herod’s party, attended by the wealthy elites, is bankrolled by the heavy taxes and tributes levied upon the Galilean peasants.[5] Thanks to their money and privilege, guests recline on couches, while slaves bring out platters of rich foods. They are entertained by dancing girls and live music. As Antipas lusts after the charms of Herodias and promises her the head of John the Baptist on a platter, his guests laugh uneasily and shrug. “O, that Antipas, what will he do next?” they whisper. But they might not want to give up their place at the party. Would we?

Jesus hosts a feast, too. Jesus’ feast isn’t planned, though—not at all. It is the last thing that he wants. He’s trying to get out of town. Perhaps Jesus feels the need to flee for his own safety after John’s death? But I imagine that he needs to grieve his cousin, to get away from the pressing crowds, to sit with God and breathe some fresh air. He needs a break from bearing the suffering that closes in on all sides. Perhaps, like us, he needs a little pause from the stream of bad news inundating his people. Today, I imagine that there are quite a few first responders and ER personnel who understand how depleted Jesus might be feeling. But like those on the front lines of this Pandemic, Jesus doesn’t get a break.[6] The crowds, carrying their sickness and their desperation, follow him. Thousands and thousands of men, women, and children.

Jesus’ feast is prompted by compassion. His guests have no resources. They don’t even have food to eat. The Galilean peasants who surround Jesus are suffering from extreme poverty and food insecurity. Rome robs them of a fair portion of the fruits of their labor in the fields. Some survive at home by eating roots and grass.[7] Many of the sicknesses that bring the crowds to Jesus are the result of this hunger and malnutrition.[8] Even Jesus’ disciples are overwhelmed by the need that they are witnessing. Their meager supplies--five loaves and two fish—aren’t enough to turn this desperate gathering into a feast. The bread and fish might make a fine dinner for the twelve—if they don’t have to share it, that is. Food, personal protective equipment, PPP loans, endowments, even Clorox and toilet paper … we need to make sure we have enough first, right?

Jesus doesn’t let anyone’s fear or lack of imagination stop his feast, however.  He feels each individual ache, each plea for mercy, each pang of hunger—and he reaches out to heal, to make whole again. In the absence of golden couches, his guests simply sit on the ground. In the absence of resources, blessing is offered, and all are filled. In the absence of enough, they end up with a surplus. Into the despair, suffering, and inequity the world of Herod Antipas—into our world—Jesus brings the amazing fullness of God, a fullness with no end.

 In the Hebrew Bible, God’s kingdom on earth is often portrayed as an abundant feast for all people. Ezekiel promises that God will provide enough vegetation so that no one will be “consumed with hunger in the land.”[9] We just heard the prophet Isaiah call out, “everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy, and eat!”[10] Isaiah earlier describes God’s banquet as “a feast of rich food … [and] well-aged wines.”[11] God “satisfies the thirsty and the hungry [God] fills with good things,” sings the Psalmist.[12] Food is health. It is power. It is life. Food for all is each human being sitting under her own fig tree, where no one can make her afraid.[13]

When I read today’s Gospel lesson, I wasn’t thinking of any of this at first. Instead, a wave of longing washed over me. When I have preached this text in the past, I have always tied it to the Eucharist. In feeding the crowd, Jesus takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it and gives it to the people, just as I long to do. I want to gather with you all at the altar, to feed and be fed. How wonderful it would be to hold out my hands again and have the bread of life laid upon my own open palm. I am hungry. Hungry for communion that isn’t merely “spiritual.” For years we have followed Jesus, listening to his teaching. Now we have followed him to this barren place, to a landscape filled with sickness and want. After five months of “safety at home,” most of us are through listening to words. We want dinner. We want God to fill the hollow gnawing of our souls and to pour out some comfort into our empty cups. Isn’t church the one place where we can count on being fed by God? How dare anyone or anything take that away from us?

When we come to this text, we come looking for one kind of food—comfort food, “church food,” the food that we know. What if God is offering us another dish today? What if our Eucharistic fast can stir another kind of hunger in our bellies—a hunger for justice, a gnawing desire for righteousness?[14] What if God is through listening to words. What if God wants all of God’s beloved children finally to get dinner? What if God is telling us, “You—You feed them.” Feed them food; feed them justice and love and honor and freedom. Feed them with all that you have been given.

The next time that we are invited to a feast, I suggest we call to mind those rubber bracelets that were so popular in the ‘90’s. Let’s ask ourselves: WWJD. Where would Jesus dine?

---

[1]Patrick Svitek and Mitchell Ferman, “Trump rallies oil and gas workers in the Permian Basin against Democrats ahead of the November election,” Texas Tribune, July 29, 2020, https://www.texastribune.org/2020/07/29/president-trump-texas-visit-oil-and-gas-permian-basin/.

[2] Courtney Borchert, “Housing Crisis Pulls Families into Homelessness,” OA Online, March 8, 2019, https://www.oaoa.com/news/local/housing-crisis-pulls-families-into-homelessness/article_982b4520-41f5-11e9-8a96-eb893c66540e.html. In nearby Midland, Covid-19 has dramatically increased the isolation of the unhoused. See Caitlin Randle, “Midland’s Homeless ‘More Isolated than Ever,’” MRT, April 11, 2020, https://www.mrt.com/news/article/Midland-s-homeless-more-isolated-than-ever-15194773.php.

[3] Herod the Great’s kingdom was divided among his three sons. The “tetrarch” Herod Antipas ruled Galilee and Perea from 4 BCE to 39 CE.

[4]Richard A. Horsley, “Archaeology of Galilee and the Historical Context of Jesus,” Neotestamentica 29, no. 2 (1995): 219-220, www.jstor.org/stable/43048222.

[5]Roman society was aristocratic, agrarian, and hierarchical. A small group of the elite ruled over the majority and monopolized social privileges. They “aggrandized their wealth without any moral hesitation or public interest.” Dong Sung Kim, “Feeding the Poor and Disrupting the Empire: An Imperial-Critical Reading of Feeding Narratives (Matthew 14:13-21; 15:32-30), 한국기독교신학논총, 103 2017: 400, http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=sso&db=lsdar&AN=ATLAiG0V170320000076&site=ehost-live

[6] Many scholars believe that Jesus was perhaps fleeing Antipas, who saw him as a threat and continuation of John’s work. See Joseph B. Tyson, “Jesus and Herod Antipas,” Journal of Biblical Literature, vol. 79, no. 3 (1960): 239–246, www.jstor.org/stable/3263929. For the purposes of this sermon, however, I find that a grieving, worn out Jesus speaks so clearly to our time that it is worth offering that explanation here.

[7] Kim, 402.

[8] Ibid.

[9] Ezekiel 34:29

[10] Isaiah 55:1

[11] Isaiah 25:6

[12] Psalm 107:9. Other references to God’s desire to feed God’s people can be found in 2 Kings 42-44 (Elisha feeding 100 men from 20 loaves of barley and fresh ears of grain, also producing left-overs) and of course Exodus 16 (the Israelites fed with manna in the desert.)

[13] Paraphrase of Micah 4:4.

[14]Warren Carter clearly makes the point that God’s feeding action is in contrast with the hunger produced by the unjust rule of the imperial powers. Warren Carter, “Commentary on Matthew 14:13-21,” Working Preacher, August 3, 2014, http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2075.