I love looking at the Greek in these texts that are so familiar. It slows me down when I read through them, and makes me look at the words more closely. The Bible wasn’t always written down. It was told, like campfire stories, over and over again, and everybody had their favorites. Not only their favorite stories, but their favorite images, favorite words, favorite characters.
So when I slowed down through this story, I found, all tumbled together, so much richness I hardly knew where to start. There’s Jesus, up on the mountain apart, just as it is for the prophet Elijah in the First Testament story, but Jesus is also up on that mountain as it begins to become dark, as the Greek might indicate that early twilight time, maybe even that time known by the early storytellers as the time of day when Jesus died up on a mountain apart. Somewhere between 3 and 6 pm, before full dark but still time to let go of the day and let God be God while we go and sleep in safety.
Then there’s the image of the boat, buffeted by the wind and the waves. There I found this gem, where the word can also be translated as ‘tormented.’ The disciples all together at the end of the world, tormented by the storm in the darkness. That’s the choppy water, the end of the world image. In John’s Revelation, that last letter in Scripture, way overpacked with symbolism and imagery, the peaceful end of the world, the way it is known that the Kingdom of God has come in all its fullness, is that the sea is no more. That great wide expanse of depth and wildness, which was the only thing present with God in the beginning where the creation was called forth out of chaos, that sea, in the end, will be no more. So to have the disciples, between Genesis and Revelation, tormented by this storm while they are at sea and Jesus is up on a hill apart, it is an image that sings of Good Friday.
Because what else happens? In our creeds we confess that Jesus descended into hell. And early Christian art shows an image of Christ in that place of torment, coming to all those held captive there, grabbing them by the hands and carrying them up with him into his resurrection. This is the imagery we used around those ancient campfires, and this is the image we are given when Peter begins to drown and Jesus stretches out his hand to save him.
Now, what are we to do today with these images? With these words and this language and all of the ancient faith which has carried us to where we are today?
First, it might be good to name where we are today as we see it in non-religious stories we tell. Two in particular have jumped out at me. The first, which may be surprising, is Disney’s movie “Frozen.” Because our stories tend so often to leave our faith in ancient times, or to relegate salvation to this future reality that doesn’t connect today, it is vital to name the ways we have known resurrection in our own lives. To name the storms we experience, where Jesus walks with us and carries us to save us. So the language of storms connected with me at the point of that latest animated musical, an adapted telling of the tale of the snow queen. Elsa has been brought up her whole life afraid of hurting her sister, afraid of her own gifts getting out of her control, afraid of being close to anyone. When she finally runs away to protect them all, her fear is calmed for awhile even as she is freed to “let the storm rage on.” And that storm within her is her fear. Her life of being told to hide who she is. Her constant worry that she will do something so wrong. What freedom she finds when she is alone and able to look at her power as a gift. Then she has to face the consequences of her running away, and learn how to live in community again, living by love instead of fear. But I don’t think that language of storms inside us is so far off from our own lived experience. Whether the storm is worry or anxiety or depression or insecurity or anger, we have known storms.
This past week there was a brilliant thunderstorm in the area that hit Albany much harder than it hit me in Old Chatham. Tree branches down, streets flooded. It was a mess. I was more worried for the dogs I’m watching, that they would bark themselves sick out of fear. Probably they just hid under a table. It’s a good idea to hold onto something solid when the winds blow like that.
What’s the solid thing you hold on to in a storm? I’m reminded of an old Calvin and Hobbes series, when the family is robbed and the parents are worried but Calvin thinks it’s the coolest thing. There is a series of panels where Calvin’s mom and dad are up late in bed talking about how scary it is their own home, their own place of sanctuary, has been violated. Nobody said being a grown-up would be easy, but they hadn’t counted on it being this frightening. With that said, Calvin’s mom holds tight to Calvin’s dad as her rock. And Calvin’s dad responds very honestly: “who am I supposed to hold on to? Why do I have to be the grown-up?”
I think Peter was trying too hard to be the grown-up. Trying so hard to be brave, to have the most impressive faith, to prove himself even as he was testing Jesus. But the storm was too much for him. He began to drown. He was very literally in over his head.
In today’s Gospel reading we have an image of a God who walks among us, who alone has the power to create new life out of chaos, to be the one who is steady in the storm, to defeat the powers of fear and death, to bring about salvation for all who call on him. In today’s Gospel story we have generations of campfires surrounded by people who have known storms and experienced salvation, who have called out to a storyteller, “let’s hear that one again!” because they have known it to be true. Who have added their voices to the telling because they have lived it. How have you known Jesus with you in the midst of your storms? Because, known or not, he has been there, is there, and will be there until the sea, and the storms, are no more.
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