I want to tell you about a little church. This little church was once not so little. On Sunday mornings, the pews were often full. During church school, there weren’t just one or two classrooms filled with children but many. Multiple priests said the numerous weekday Masses. Parish fellowship events were boisterous affairs. It was a happy place, and although like any parish, the boat was occasionally rocked by low-level drama, in general, this parish sailed easily on untroubled waters.
But at some point, the waters on which the boat of this church was sailing became more troubled than quiet. Some in the boat said that it was the wind. The winds of change in the wider Church were against this little boat of a church. The stable grounding of calm waters seemed a thing of the past, and navigating the increasingly troubled waters wasn’t for the faint of heart. Indeed, it often appeared as if there was no navigation chart for these new waters, and that was scary to many in the boat.
After some years, the boat was so rocked by the chaos of the deep, that it looked as if it would split apart into pieces. Some doubted whether this boat would be able to continue sailing on the waters. Others were convinced that there was only one proper course to save the boat from the threats around it. But at some point, it became clear that the instability of the waters was a major threat to this sea vessel.
The people in the boat were of two minds. A minority believed that staying in the boat was the best course of action. The troubled waters were simply part of the reality of sailing on the seas. But a majority could only see the winds against them. The roiling of the seas was interpreted as a visible sign that forces were against them. There was only one choice for this latter group: abandon the boat and flee to safer waters.
But interestingly, the boat was never lost at sea, although it came perilously close on multiple occasions. The boat was never torn apart by the winds. A small handful of brave souls stayed on that boat for the years to come. While the sea had calmed down considerably, there were still moments of nautical drama. Some on the ship eventually left, but there was always a small core hanging onto the rudder who were determined to pilot this boat into an uncertain future.
That, it seems, was the answer. Embracing the uncertain future was indeed the only way to pilot the ship. Under the right conditions, strong headwinds could become graceful tailwinds. The remnant in the boat began to include a growing number of new persons who had decided to join the boat after its most threatening episodes on the sea. But even more importantly, at some point, those who were now in the boat realized that even on the tumultuous and threatening seas they could find their Lord walking toward them. And something else strange happened. When they stepped out onto the troubled waters in faith, if they paid too much attention to the strong winds, they would sink. The winds were always there. The waves were always there. But when they kept their minds and hearts on Jesus, they could walk on water.
Soon, a new mindset came over the place. Those things that the world would label as threatening or anxiety-provoking were simply part and parcel of navigating the waters. Financial challenges and building problems became reasons, not deterrents, to step out onto the water and fix their eyes on Jesus. The people in this boat had come to know that true faith was not certainty about the future or knowing all the answers about God. True faith was knowing that Jesus was always to be found in the troubled waters.
Now, I dare say that this is a countercultural viewpoint. We tend to refute those who claim not to believe in God with beautifully crafted logistical proofs of God’s existence. Offering some kind of certainty is the answer. And for those who claim to be believers in God, concrete, tangible evidence of the miraculous is like heavenly manna. It’s not enough to trust that Jesus works miracles; we must see them. It’s not enough to believe that God heals; we must idolize those who can perform visible works of healing. It’s not enough to believe in miracles; we must have firsthand witness of how the laws of nature are superseded. These are all the footnotes of our thesis that God is real and powerful.
And while the miracle stories of the Gospels on the one hand offer us some footnotes for this thesis, they also present some of the most difficult interpretive quandaries. If we take them at face value, Jesus defies nature in a way that we can’t explain. I, for one, do believe in these miracles. I have no reason to think that any of the Gospel evangelists needed to make these stories up. But I also believe that there is a deeper level to these miracle stories that lies below the visible manifestations of God’s power in them, and it’s on this deeper level that the miracles have the most to teach us.
The miracles are a bit like sacraments. We see something that points to a richer, invisible reality. But in the common interpretation of miracles, everything is reversed. The defiance of nature is the fireworks show that can buttress our weak faith. And yet, I’m guessing that the point of the miracles is the opposite. When Jesus walks on water, he clearly defies the ordinary laws of nature, but something else is going on. Jesus isn’t walking on untroubled waters; he’s walking on water that could easily capsize a boat. The true miracle here, emblemized in the physical defiance of the laws of nature, is that the Son of God is found not only in the calm waters but in the most dangerous places on the seas.
And this is why Jesus’ presence on the waters is miraculous. The disciples in the boat can’t comprehend that anyone could be walking on water in a storm. They’re looking for certainty of knowledge about their Lord. I suspect they’re looking for calm waters, but it’s in the eye of the stormy chaos that they find their Savior.
It’s only when Peter notices the winds against him that he sinks. And when he begins to sink, he cries out for Jesus to save him, which is how we so often treat our relationship with Christ. We only venture out onto the troubled waters when we’re certain that he will be there, ready to call us towards him and then take our hand if we fall like a toddler learning how to walk. When we sail into a gale, we cry out to be rescued. And when we’re rescued, we worship Jesus.
But the miracle of Jesus’s walking on the water is calling us to something riskier. This riskiness is venturing out into an uncertain future, especially when the odds seem against us. When the entire culture around us seems like an opposing wind, we’re called not to fight it or flee from it but to sail into it, trusting that God will teach us something in the experience. When we’re tempted to play it safe, God invites us into the stormy waters to witness to the Gospel boldly, even recklessly. It’s in the chaotic waters that we find God’s most creative potential.
Right now, hordes of people are fleeing the changing headwinds in certain sectors of the Church. They’re fleeing to churches that will ensure them that they can cruise through peaceful seas if they call on Jesus to rescue them. Religious promises of certitude are more appealing than a path of silent humility. Obsessions with all things supernatural are comfort food for those who are starved for visible proof of God’s power.
But the truth is that we live in the moment of that Gospel story when Jesus says to the disciples, “Take heart; it is I. Have no fear.” Like Peter, we will sink if we lose heart. We will sink not so much when we doubt but when we assume that the stormy winds against us are signs that we’re not doing something right or are heading in the wrong direction. And we will definitely sink if the certainty of safety is more important to us than the risk of being bold and adventurous on the rocky seas.
Remember that little church that I told you about, the one that bravely sailed into winds that threatened to bring it down? Well, it’s you. You and I are the church in that boat, sailing out into waters with no real navigation map but with a lot of hope and faith. I can’t and won’t promise you that there will never be a storm. I can’t promise you visible miracles, but I can promise you that the God in whom we trust does work miracles. They’re all around us, although we usually don’t see them in the storm. But it’s in the storm that Jesus asks us to step out of the boat and to walk towards him. He’s not merely someone to rescue us; he’s someone to save us and make us whole. He’s someone who’s always with us, especially in the stormy waters. So, pay no attention to the winds against you. Keep your eyes on Jesus, take a step out of the boat, and walk on water.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost
August 13, 2023