19th sunday in ordinary time

scott anderson

 Sunday's Readings: 1 Kings 19:9-18 | Romans 10:5-15 | Matthew 14:22-33

Ok. This should be a pretty easy one, shouldn’t it? I love these summer readings that let us sit back and drink in a little bit of straightforward encouragement so we can get on our way to enjoy the sun. Smooth sailing as it were. Calm winds, easy living! So let’s get it knocked out.

Where should we start? Let’s start with Peter and the disciples in the boat in Matthew. This is an easy one. The disciples have just taken part in a miraculous feeding of five thousand in the wilderness. Jesus has sent them on their way and stayed behind to pray. They now find themselves crossing through the sea. You can almost hear the echo of the Israelites coming out of Egypt and their salvation through the waters and their wilderness wanderings.

But things start to get rough. Not really a surprise, after all. I suspect that even those of us who are inclined to play it safe learn pretty quickly that life is not always easy. Stuff happens. People get hurt, no matter how hard you try to prevent it. We get hurt, even when we do everything we can to protect ourselves. Apparently even churches get broken into. Who knew?

You may remember me telling you before that a boat is often understood as a metaphor for the church. So you have those great naval terms like the nave of the church which is where we sit—in the boat taking shelter from the storm that rages outside … and sometimes inside too.

So the disciples are in the boat, and the waves are huge. The boat is getting battered—literally tortured. The early church knew something of this too, it turns out—torture, crucifixions, persecutions. Perhaps we can imagine the layers of meaning this story might have taken on for them, huddled in the nave of their house churches, wondering how in the world they were going to brave out the storm until next Sunday. And Jesus comes walking across the water toward them.

And out goes Peter out to meet him: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Now, first of all, you’ve got to admit that’s pretty strange. If I have this right, Peter is commanding Jesus to command him to come out to him on the water, without any skis, without any floaties. But that’s Peter for you, right? A fisherman. A leader, a man of faith, a risk taker. No doubts. No hesitation.

Ernest Campbell, the pastor of Riverside Church in New York, once told a group of pastors that “the reason we seem to lack faith in our time is that we are not doing anything that requires it.”[i] You can’t really make that argument about Peter, can you? He steps out in faith. He throws himself into the storm like he’s  crowdsurfing at a concert.

So Peter shows us an example of faith—a willingness to put our life on the line for this faith of ours. That’s the takeaway on this summer day that is calling to us. I mean, what is faith, if it isn’t this? What is faith, if it doesn’t call us to risk, even to lose our lives in obedience? Do we really imagine things will change if we’re taking it easy, protecting ourselves, pushing the other guy out of the boat rather than going ourselves? Would the tide of opinion and commitment have changed if blacks and whites, old and young hadn’t put their bodies in front of Bull Connor’s water cannons? Would anything ever change if a small group of committed people didn’t give themselves to it? I suspect not.

Oh shoot. But I forgot about the boat and the other disciples. What’s Peter doing out on his own anyway, as if faith is something that doesn’t have a context, a community, a life that is always bigger than any one of us. Sure the courage of one can inspire the many. But Peter’s working pretty hard to shape the situation to his own bidding. Maybe his courage is foolishness. Maybe his act of faith is actually an act of narcissism. I mean its not like he’s actually serving anyone as he sinks into the water like so much dead weight. He just as well could be showing off.

I watched a whole bunch of people come together over the last few weeks and quietly work to make our recent break-in almost invisible for the ways we quickly took control, fixed what needed to be fixed, called who needed to be called, and all while showing compassion and understanding for others—even for those who did this thing. There’s something to be said for needing one another, for being in this thing together.

It seems that Elijah could use a reminder about that too. Elijah has just defended God before a bunch of prophets of Baal. You may remember the story where they have a little competition—complete with altars and sacrifices and a whole bunch of water—to see which of their gods is the more powerful. And Elijah wins hands-down, and all the prophets of Baal are consumed in the fire that comes down from heaven.

Probably not a good story for starting an inter-faith dialogue.

And after this remarkable show of faith and strength, Elijah heads for the hills to pray and to get his bearings. He’s sure, it seems, that he’s the last one who is faithful, that God’s project depends on him. You kind of wonder if Peter thought the same.

And then you have this beautiful story about the largeness of God, about mystery, about this creation that doesn’t even notice us, that couldn’t care less about us. That’s one of the things you discover when you go into the wilderness or look up at the stars. We are pretty insignificant. You climb Everest or even Rainier and you learn pretty quickly that the weather patterns do not tend to conform to your particular needs. Storms don’t usually go quiet with a word.

Sheldon Lane in his book The Solace of Fierce Landscapes says it is this indifference that ultimately saves us.

And yet, we have the psalmist and that stunning imagery:

11      Faithfulness will spring up from the ground,

        and righteousness will look down from the sky.

Creation does not conform to our needs, as much as we try to make it so, but it does proclaim a larger truth, a beauty and justice and hope that is there for the taking. A still small voice, a silence, a stillness that reminds us of what we may have forgotten. These past two weeks I’ve been reminded of this again as I’ve taken in the beauty of Mt. Rainier, as I’ve watched the stars come out and wondered who we are among them.

And maybe that’s where Elijah ultimately ends up too as he peaks his head out of the cave in the sheer silence and feels the voice of God.

But here’s the thing about that. Nothing seems to have changed. His complaint is still the same. Is there faith here or isn’t there? Does he give us some sense of hope?

I suppose you could read this both ways too. The voice of God gives him quite a to-do list, after all.

“Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus; when you arrive, you shall anoint Hazael as king over Aram. 16 Also you shall anoint Jehu son of Nimshi as king over Israel; and you shall anoint Elisha … as prophet in your place.

So God is still on the move. There is work to be done. Or is this a story of a man of faith who has reached his limits? I mean, consider the tasks he’s given. Aren’t they essentially tasks to find replacements for Elijah and the work he’s been doing. Crowning Hazael and Jehu, anointing Elisha as prophet. Wasn’t that Elijah’s job? To Elijah’s complaints, God seems to be saying, “Don’t worry Elijah I’ve got this. You sit the next one out.” The story goes onto explain how they will take care of business—the business that Elijah had been about. Oh, and, by the way, there are still about seven thousand others who remain faithful.

So this easy summer day with its gentle assurances has become just a little more ambiguous. It seems that our heroes Elijah and Peter may or may not be so heroic. It’s really not that clear. And, I suspect, that corresponds a little more closely with our own lives as well. As much as we prefer to be the heroes of our own stories, it doesn’t seem to always be the case, and more importantly, it doesn’t seem to matter.

The force of these stories seem to emanate not from heroes of faith, but from a God whose purposes will prevail. To the question of are you a hero or a villain, are you good or bad, are you right or wrong, the stories seem to say, “who cares?” It’s not about you! You are not the story, you are a part of it. You are not the object, but a subject in God’s work of salvation.

And this indifference, dear friends, is good news. Because…

10      Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet;

        righteousness and peace will kiss each other.

11      Faithfulness will spring up from the ground,

        and righteousness will look down from the sky.

12      The Lord will give what is good,

        and our land will yield its increase.

13      Righteousness will go before him,

        and will make a path for his steps.

Amen.


[i] Clifton Kirkpatrick’s commentary (“Pastoral Perspective”) in Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol 3 (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 2011), 334.