What advice would you have given the disciples caught in that storm Matthew tells us about today? He paints a very bleak and desperate picture of their situation: the waves and the strong head winds are ripping at the boat and it is the darkest part of the night. They’re not going anywhere against those winds and waves. If you could, would you have given them some encouraging words? “It’s always darkest before the dawn.” “You can do it–don’t give up!” “Row harder!”
These were salty fisherman. Who knows what those frightened and preoccupied men would have shouted back in response to our “good advice?” Put your hands over your children’s ears–the words wouldn’t be fit for polite company. Maybe, if we were there with them, they would have thrown us overboard, shouting after us, “So much for your advice landlubber!” Good advice might help people who can do something for themselves. But this is a storm at sea! About good advice?–as we would say in Brooklyn, “Forget about it!”
While we all appreciate encouraging words and some wisdom from concerned people, if the storms we face are really bad, their well-intentioned words are just not enough. We might give an appreciative, “Thank you,” and then turn and face the “strong head winds,” — on our own. We do face storms and strong head winds, don’t we? For example, the church is often depicted in paintings as a boat on stormy seas. There have always been troubles for the church–storms at sea. But who among us ever thought we would have to face the scandals we have these past 10-15 years!
There are other, more personal, storms we face, our own or those of people we love: a married friend with a growing tumor now undergoing experimental chemo; watching a son or daughter make a foolish mistake and then their having to pay the consequences; a marriage, sinking after 20 years, affecting children, family and their friends, who feel a bit insecure saying, “If that could happen to their marriage, what about ours?”
Matthew tells us that the storm happens at about three in the morning. Have you ever been awake at that hour and felt a presence in the room, a spirit of foreboding? Noticing the storms of others, we ask ourselves in the dark and loneliness, “What if…?” There are storms we fear we may have to face because we’ve witnessed others, whose strength we have always admired, get tossed around by them. What is there to protect us from the same kind of struggle? How would we handle the same kinds of catastrophes?
These fears in the night surface, for example, when we hear that a friend our age has had a crippling stroke while jogging; or, we read the obituary page and notice pictures of people our age who have died, “after a long illness.”
What advice would you give a person going through a dark storm? Have you ever tried? Felt tongue tied? Or, just felt the inadequacy of words? In my early years, right after ordination, when the church was going through all the changes brought about by Vatican II I, along with others my age, was feeling confusion in ministry and in my personal life. I had a senior priest friend, who had admitted me into the Order years earlier, give me this advise. “Keep your eyes fixed on Jesus, Jude.” It could sound like a platitude, except I knew he went through his own storm of serious depression for years. He had been hospitalized at least twice and, even after he was released, the doctors struggled to get his medications balanced. The storm and the darkness lasted a long time for him. Still, he was faithful to his vocation and an exemplar to us younger friars.
What my friend was saying, from his stormy experience, is that we’re not alone in the boat; on the stormy seas, here in church or around the dinner table. A group of friends recently gathered together for a reunion and dinner. The food was terrific and several brought their favorite wines. In the midst of our catching-up and storytelling one of my friends told us that his son, a father of two, was seriously ill with cancer. The mood shifted immediately and someone suggested we join hands and say a prayer for our friend’s son. There we were, in the boat, on very stormy seas, keeping “our eyes fixed on Jesus.”
We weren’t alone, for in the prayer we were reminded that Jesus was there too, not watching us from some distant shoreline, but right there in the boat on the stormy seas with us. As we were praying you could feel a kind of calm come over the table and my friend whose son was so desperately ill, with tears in his eyes said a simple, “Thank you.”
It’s what we do for one another, isn’t it. By our presence with someone in crisis we remind them that they are not alone in the boat, we are with them. Our presence, we hope, is also a reminder that Jesus is there too. If we want to take a chance, as Peter did when he left the boat to step out onto risky waters, we might do what some of us did around that table that night, say a prayer with the one who is struggling. Doing that is a reminder that Someone else is in the boat with us, the one whose voice and silent presence can bring calm and give us courage as we try to walk through the tumultuous crisis raging against us and threatening our faith.
It’s not just about illness or crisis. In many ways being a Christian is a very risky business.
Doing what Christians are supposed to do might mean facing various kinds of upsetting situations–stormy seas. For example: calling someone we’ve been alienated from; standing up for someone suffering ridicule or prejudice; being honest in a job where other workers take shortcuts; not following the pack at school when we know their actions or attitudes are wrong; or, just saying a gracious word to a cranky person.
Storms can be stirred up by our living the way we should, as disciples of Christ.
Being a Christian isn’t a warm fuzzy, it means taking a chance with Jesus. When Peter put himself in a vulnerable position he learned again about his own weakness, but he also experienced the power of the Almighty. If he hadn’t taken the risk, he wouldn’t have known the power of God and
Jesus’ presence with him in the midst of the storm.