In her book Walking on Water, the late author Madeleine L’Engle tells a story of an English friend whose husband was an officer in the Royal Air Force during the Second World War. Every day that her husband was away in service of his country was one of constant anxiety over his safety.
And then, one day, her husband was granted an unexpected visit home. With great joy, the woman left her husband and three small children in the house to go shopping for a celebratory dinner. But while she was away, her home was hit by a bomb in a surprise air raid, and her husband and three children perished.
For the remaining years of the war, the woman bravely persevered, quietly grieving, but she got on with her life. Her tragedy didn’t prevent her from being a productive member of society. She eventually met a man, and they fell in love. And when the man proposed marriage to her, the woman had to make what she deemed the most difficult decision of her life. She could play it safe by never marrying again and avoid the risk of being hurt again by investing in love. Or she could choose love, courageously remarry, have more children, and open herself to the possibility of suffering loss once again. As Madeleine L’Engle wisely puts it, “[i]t is easier to be safe than to be vulnerable. But she made the dangerous decision. She dared to love again.”
L’Engle later retold her friend’s story at a college that she was visiting. Afterwards, she was approached by a young philosophy professor who shared that her husband had died, but she would not do what L’Engle’s friend had done. She, in turn, would play it safe; she would refuse to be vulnerable, to use L’Engle’s words. Madeleine L’Engle noted that she didn’t think she would want to be a student in that professor’s philosophy classes.[1]
I tend to agree with L’Engle here. And yet I know that to love involves enormous risk. To bare one’s heart and soul to another takes profound courage. To cultivate relationships and to invest in lives beyond your own is a dangerous enterprise. It could lead to joy. But it also might expose you to profound suffering. It’s much easier to opt for safety.
Could this be the unstated reason why some people shy away from following Jesus? Is it that safety is more comfortable than vulnerability? Is the risk of relationship with God less desirable than the security of a life without God?
Peter’s rebuke of Jesus shows his reluctance to embrace the fullness of discipleship. Peter has already demonstrated his fear when trying to walk on water. Peter has already shown that he is risk averse. And yet, Peter has also chosen to drop everything of his past career and follow Jesus. Peter is now in conflict.
And the rubber hits the road shortly after Peter confesses that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God. It’s only then that Peter really begins to understand that following Jesus is more than mere lip service. It’s going to require sacrifice. It’s going to require loss. It’s going to require giving up control. And above all, it’s going to require getting behind Jesus, not trying to lead him where he wants to go, and not even trying to walk beside Jesus. To follow Jesus, you must be behind him. You must be all-in. No half measures will do.
No wonder this frightens Peter so much. No wonder his immediate instinct is to try to shield Jesus from future harm. But I also suspect that below the veneer of altruism, Peter isn’t merely trying to protect Jesus. He’s also trying to protect himself. Peters stands at a crossroads, just like Madeleine L’Engle’s friend. Do I take the path of love and go with the risk? Or do I play it safe and seal myself off from love? Am I all-in with Jesus, or am I simply giving lip service to discipleship without corresponding action?
It’s not surprising that Jesus calls Peter Satan, for Satan is lurking behind this encounter between Peter and Jesus. Satan is the one Scripture also calls the Accuser. The Accuser is the one who tempts Jesus in the wilderness, trying to lure him into doing the wrong thing for the right reason. And Satan does the same to us, just as he did to Peter. In the heat of discernment, when it’s most difficult for us to heed the voice of light rather than the voice of darkness, the voice of darkness masquerades as an angel of light.
Haven’t you heard the voice before? Don’t let your child grow up, because it’s better to smother him with safety than to accept the risk of letting him be free. Don’t date another person after your nasty breakup because your heart might get broken again; play it safe and don’t take a chance on love. Don’t dip your toe too much into the water of church life, or else you will be asked to share your gifts or your money. Don’t adopt the elderly dog who needs a home because she will soon die, and investing too much of your emotions in this pet will eventually lead to sorrow. Don’t risk your financial security by leaving a soul-killing job to do what you’ve always wanted to do. It’s better to play it safe. The voices never stop, do they?
So, I keep wondering whether the perceived contemporary malaise within Christianity isn’t so much about unbelief but rather about an unwillingness to accept the risk of relationship and to pay the price of being in love with God. Are we willing to put all of ourselves into a way of life that demands so much from us? Are we prepared for the risk involved? Can we own the fact that being a Christian is more than saying we are disciples of Christ because it involves living as if we are disciples? Are we prepared to invest in love?
And maybe this explains why church is so often an afterthought. Isn’t it easier and less risky for people to give their lives to sports, dance practice, clubs, and the academic arena than it is for people to give themselves to God? When we give ourselves fully to those other things, we have some tangible sense of what we will get in return. Rarely would we need to sacrifice our life for any of those things, and rarely would devotion to those things require us to part with what is most dear to us. Above all, if our investment in everything other than God works out as we hope, we gain something: a promotion, entrance into an esteemed school, even money.
But when we give ourselves to Christ, when we invest in his way of living, there’s a profound risk, and that frightens us. There’s the risk that our heart will be broken. There’s the risk that when we encounter suffering or death, we will be tempted not to believe in God. There’s the risk that when we give our hearts to relationships in the extended family of Christ, we will be responsible for the well-being of more people than we can handle.
At the end of the day, this risk doesn’t seem worth it, for there’s a lack of tangible evidence of what we shall gain in exchange for what we invest. If we can’t see God and if we can’t prove that God exists, aren’t we then just wasting our time on God? Aren’t we wasting our hard-earned money on God? Aren’t we throwing away our future to commit ourselves to something we don’t understand? And are we willing to hand everything over to God and trust that God knows what’s best for us, even if it makes no sense to us, even if we are disappointed, even if finding our life means losing what we most deeply treasure?
This, ultimately, is Peter’s dilemma. And it’s your dilemma and my dilemma as followers of Christ. We’re constantly at a fork in the road, and we can make one of two decisions. We can reorient our entire lives around God, the Gospel, and the Church, and we can accept the risk involved. Or we can play it safe and choose an easier, less committed path.
The problem is that this choice is too often made to be a choice for God and against the world, when really what we’re being asked to do is to choose life, not death. When we choose God, we also choose the world, because we commit ourselves to a way that desires nothing less than the full flourishing of all people.
If Christianity is honest and true, it won’t make easy promises. It won’t promise a life of worldly success or wealth. It won’t promise that you won’t be burned by the Church or be hurt at some point. It won’t promise not to ask you to share your talents and your money for God’s sake. And it certainly won’t promise to save your life.
But in accepting the risk, we choose love, and living out of love is the only way a Christian can live. To follow Christ, the cost is steep, but with God’s grace, the stumbling blocks of our lives can become launch pads into human flourishing. And the voice of light can hold more sway than the voice of darkness. For we live in the kingdom of Christ, and in that kingdom, the Accuser’s voice has no power. The only thing that has power is love, the voice of God, which invites us to forsake ourselves and get behind Christ. And when we do so, and no matter what we might lose, we will find the only life that is worth living.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost
September 3, 2023
[1] Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (New York: Bantam, 1980), 192-193.