Here's today's homily. The readings are Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28 and Matthew 14:22-33.
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I hate suspense stories, because I don't like being scared. Bad luck for me, then, that today's readings are suspense stories. Joseph's been sold into slavery by his own brothers. The disciples are in a small boat in a bad storm. These stories aren’t suspenseful for us; we know they have happy endings. The people inside them, though, can't know that everything will be all right.
We aren’t told anything about Joseph's emotional state, but his circumstances are horrible. His own kin have conspired against him; they decided not to murder him only because they raelized they could make money by selling him. He has no way of knowing that wonderful things will come of these hideous events. He has to feel betrayed, abandoned, and terrified for his life.
In the Gospel story, meanwhile, we're told outright, several times, that the disciples are terrified. For one thing, Jesus sent them away. He "made" them get into the boat so he could be alone to pray, and then the weather got bad. If you've ever been in a small boat in a storm, you know how dangerous it is. People die in storms like this, which may be why the disciples, seeing a figure strolling towards them over the water, assume that it's a ghost. What else could it be, out here? They're probably about to become ghosts, too.
Then the ghost speaks. "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid."
"Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water." Peter’s doing that thing we're always told not to do, testing God. I imagine him thinking, "Don't be afraid? The waves are much higher than the boat, and I have no idea how we're going to survive them, and a ghost is walking on top of them saying it's Jesus -- which is impossible, because Jesus has a body and bodies can't walk on water -- and I probably imagined Jesus saying ‘do not be afraid’ because I’m so scared and the wind’s howling. It had to be wishful thinking. I need proof."
That’s how Peter finds himself doing that impossible thing, walking on water. He's actually managing it -- placing his feet very carefully, no doubt wobbling a little, or a lot, riding the waves like surfboards -- until he realizes that the storm isn't lettting up. The wind's as strong as ever. That's when his fear takes over again, because no one can do the impossible forever. He starts to sink. He cries out for help.
Luckily, it really is Jesus. He reaches out and catches Peter, giving us our happy ending. But he also scolds Peter. "You of little faith, why did you doubt?"
I can think of many possible answers "Why did I doubt, Lord? I doubted because we're in a storm in a small boat, and fishermen die in storms. I doubted because people can't walk on water. If we could walk on water, we wouldn't need boats. I doubted because when I felt the wind, I was afraid all over again. Maybe I'd already died in the storm. Maybe I was a ghost, too. Maybe that's why I could walk on water. I doubted because you’d sent me away, and I felt abandoned. I doubted because I could see you when I was on top of a wave, but when I sank into the trough of the wave, all I could see was water. If you were me, you’d have been scared, too."
This story, like Joseph's, has a happy ending, and it gets there more quickly than Joseph's did. Jesus brings Peter back into the boat. The wind stops. Everyone in the boat is appropriately reverent. But every time I hear this story, it bothers me.
I'm about to admit something scandalous: there are a few moments in the Gospels when I don't actually like Jesus very much. One is when he curses the fig tree for the crime of being on the wrong growing schedule. One is when he denies healing to the Canaanite woman, telling her, "It is not right to take the children's food and give it to the dogs," although he changes his mind and does the right thing when she stands up to him. And one is when he asks Peter -- who’s terrified, probably seasick, and performing a physically impossible task to the best of his ability -- "You of little faith, why did you doubt?"
We doubt because we're human. We doubt because, living inside our own stories, we have no way to know how they will end. We doubt because no one can do the impossible forever. We doubt because no matter how much faith we have in God, the ways other people use their free will can be terrifying and dangerous. Doubting doesn't mean that we lack faith; it means that we can't immediately see how our faith can get us out of the storm or out of the pit. And even when we trust that rescue will eventually arrive, waiting for it can be very scary.
I'm a worrier, which is one reason I don't like suspense stories. I find plenty of things to fret about, both in my own life and in the news; I don't need my entertainment to give me more. Frankly, I tend to suspect that people who aren’t worried aren’t paying attention. But when I'm stewing about something, my friends -- usually those outside the church -- sometimes say heartily, "Now, Susan, where's your faith?"
Thank you. That makes me feel so much better. Because now, in addition to my original worry, I feel judged for being spiritually deficient. I'm always tempted to paraphrase C.S. Lewis: "If you think I worry too much as a Christian, you should see how much more I'd worry if I weren't one."
In therapy circles, phrases like "don't worry" are called invalidation. Although often well-intended, they're a subtle form of emotional abuse. The message they send is, "Your feelings aren't real or important, so stop bothering us with them." Such messages also don't work. No one in the history of the world has ever worried less after being told, "Don't worry."
I hope that when Jesus said, "You of little faith," he was teasing Peter instead of scolding him. I hope his voice was gentle, comforting, affectionate. I take heart from the fact that he says the words after he's rescued Peter, instead of when Peter's still sinking into the water. Even so, the admonition still sounds too much like, "What's wrong with you? Can't you see the future, like the rest of us? How could you not have known that everything would be all right?"
When we're in trouble, faith is necessary, but not sufficient. Jesus reached out and rescued Peter. Joseph’s brothers lifted him out of the pit, although not out of kindness. People in trouble don't need to be scolded for their fear or doubt. They need help.
Our faith calls us to be Christ’s hands in the world. And yet a recent news story, which some of you may have seen, reported that Christians are twice as likely as nonbelievers to think that poverty is a result of individual failings. If you're poor, it must be your own fault. You didn't try hard enough. You made bad choices. You didn't have enough faith.
Joseph winds up in a very bad way through no fault of his own, except maybe the failing of being his father's favorite. It’s easier to blame Peter; he did, after all, challenge Jesus. Jesus saves him anyway. Jesus doesn't say, "You're the one who wanted to walk on water, buddy, so tough luck." Jesus doesn't say, “You made bad choices.” He doesn’t say, "If you had more faith, you wouldn't be drowning." Jesus reaches out to help his friend, just as we're called to help ours.
It's not always easy to know how to do that. I suspect onlookers fall back on the "where's your faith?" line when they don’t know what else to do, when there’s no obvious assistance to render. But when we can’t see a way out either, we need to listen. We need to let people who are frightened know that they've been heard. Instead of dismissing their fears, we need to assure them that -- like God himself, like Jesus who said, "I am with you until the end of the age" -- we’ll walk with them. We’ll stay with them through whatever comes, and search unceasingly for rescue, and rejoice with them when, at last -- just as we’ve reached our limit, just when we can no longer do the impossible -- it arrives.
Amen.
