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As Laura Simms
tells it, there is a Norwegian fairy tale which features a
hero at an intersection looking at three signs. The first
reads: "He who travels down this road will return
unharmed." The second: "He who travels down this
road may or may not return." The third: "He who
travels down this road will never return." As the fairy
tale tells it, the hero chooses the third.
Most of us wouldn’t,
of course. At least, not knowingly. For even though Thomas
Wolfe won all kinds of kudos for his novel, You Can’t Go
Home Again, it’s comforting to think he could be wrong.
Now my
grandmother, she knew whereof Wolfe spoke. As the youngest
child of a brick maker in northern Yugoslavia, she knew, once
her mother died, that home held nothing for her. So at age 13
she went to a neighboring town to cook, clean and take care of
kids for a family who gave her room and board. Then, four
years later (at age 17), she answered a blind offer to sail to
New York to keep house for a Jewish jeweler and his wife who
lived in an apartment on Central Park. I once asked her if she
knew, at the time of her departure, that she would never
return. To which she said: "Yes." For, in truth, she
never did.
By contrast, her
grandson….her only grandson….at whom you are looking….and
to whom you are listening….has spent 37 years of ministry
within an 18-mile radius of his boyhood home (a distance Jim
Rillema could run in slightly over two hours). But even I made
a handful of decisions early on….the first one when I was
about 13….that set me on a course that took me as far away
from my point of origin as that ocean-crossing boat took my
grandmother from hers.
When last I
occupied this pulpit, I told you that Lent is something of a
road show. Jesus is breaking camp….moving out….moving on….moving
down (as in south). Who’s gonna go? Who’s gonna stay? You
gonna go? You gonna stay? Those who went never came back. Not
because they lost their lives….although some did. Not
because they lost their map….for, in truth, they never had
one. But because they found something worth dying for….something
worth living for….something worth giving their lives to that
made all the difference, don’t you see. A world of
difference, don’t you see. So the decision to go from a
place they once were was really a decision to go from a life
they once knew.
I don’t suppose
the mode of travel is important. Although I had a friend….in
seminary….in the sixties….who (with almost no thought
whatsoever, and scarcely time to throw some socks in a sack)
boarded a bus going to Birmingham…..the other Birmingham….the
Alabama Birmingham….the at-that-time racially-segregated
Birmingham. And when he got out of jail and returned to New
Haven a few days later, he said: "I’ll never be the
same again." And he wasn’t. He simply wasn’t.
As I recall, the
disciples boarded no bus. But they did board a boat. Because
Jesus told them to. Rather strongly, as I read it. The text
reads: "He made them go." Either because he’d had
enough of life. Or enough of them. I mean, everybody gets that
way sometimes. So he told them (hopefully in a nice way) to
get out of his face, he had to go pray. Which they did. By
boat. At night. Right into a storm. Which wasn’t very nice
of Jesus to send his little 12-member church out into a storm.
Except he still does. Send churches into storms, I mean.
And they were
every bit as weary as Jesus. So much so, that it showed. They
weren’t cutting it. And the wind was cutting them. We’re
not talking gentle breeze here. We’re talking killer breeze
here. I ask you: "Has anybody here ever felt that you
were going to die in a boat?" See me later. I want to
hear your story.
By now, some of
you are saying: "Bill, didn’t you preach this story
before….like right after you came here?" Sure did….three
weeks running. Great sermons. Really great sermons. Except
that I know something now I didn’t know then. That happens,
you know. If you keep your head open, stuff just kind of
wedges itself in.
Actually Carl
Price preached this text within the last several months. Most
perceptively, Carl made a big deal about the fact that the
storm was at its worst during the "fourth watch of the
night"….meaning three o’clock in the morning. Carl
then said something to the effect that "three o’clock
in the morning faith" is always the hardest faith to come
by. Which one fellow thought was the greatest idea since
sliced bread. And which led me to wonder how he missed it when
I said it in 1993. Had he been off that day? Or had I been off
that day? Which is when it came to me. That fellow had yet to
experience "three o’clock in the morning" in 1993.
But I know him well enough to know he is experiencing it now.
But a lot of you
know what it’s like at that hour. It’s been dark for a
long time. And it’s going to be dark for a long time.
Everyone else is dead to the world. But you feel like you’re
dead in the world. Life is blanketing you. Worries are
blanketing you. Things that, at three o’clock in the
morning, you can’t do anything about, you can’t stop
thinking about.
When I am
overstressed, I have trouble sleeping. And a funny thing
consistently happens. No matter what time I go to bed, I wake
up at three o’clock. Not two o’clock. Not four o’clock.
But three o’clock. Oh, it might be five minutes after three.
Or five minutes till three. But not much more by way of
variance. I don’t know what gets into me. But, given the
number of years I’ve been preaching this text, I think it’s
the Bible that gets into me. My body has bought this text, to
the degree that I can faith it or fake it till three, but then
my body clock tells me: "Ritter, wake up. This is more
than you can handle."
Sixty-one years
into history….37 years into ministry….nine years into you….it
still swamps me sometimes. But I never seem to figure out that
it is swamping me until my body figures it out for me….at
(you guessed it) three o’clock in the morning.
Well, you know how
the story goes. Jesus comes walking. Right on top of the
water. I talked to a man the other night. He goes to a
different church….one of those churches where (by his claim)
they are a whole lot more effusive about loving Jesus than the
rest of us are. Except that, for the last several years, he
hasn’t much cottoned to his preacher. So he simmered and
stewed. And finally enough other people felt the same way, so
the church got rid of him. Their preacher, I mean. And they
went out and found themselves a new one. One who walks on
water. How do I know that? Because that’s what this fellow
said. "Our new minister walks on water." In response
to which I said nothing. Why poke anticipatory holes in a
self-bursting bubble?
But Jesus is
walking on the water. Jesus is scaring everybody half to
death. Especially Peter ("It’s a ghost"), who
doesn’t believe what he is seeing. And, when Jesus finally
speaks, Peter doesn’t believe what he is hearing. I mean,
how could this be happening? Water skis? Float boots?
Intuitive knowledge of where the rocks are?
Darned if I know.
Darned if you do, either. But I’ll tell you what I do know….and
what I want you to know….is that "how" is not the
appropriate question here. "Why" is the appropriate
question here. To which Fred Craddock supplies an answer:
The point is
this. Only God can walk on the waves. That’s what the
Bible says. In Job. In Isaiah. In Habakkuk. In the Psalms.
In Bible-speak, it is God who walks the sea….calms the sea….tames
the sea….parts the sea. Why? To show a miracle? To say:
"Hey, lookie here, I’m walking on water"?
Don’t be
shallow. In ancient times, the sea was the place of evil.
The evil monster was there. The Leviathan (Job 41) was
there. The enemy of everything right and good was there in
the water. In the Bible, the water is the dwelling place of
all the forces that are against us. And here (in this
story), God, in the person of Jesus Christ, walks on the sea….walks
over the sea….strides through….steps on…. making his
way across the sea….putting everything that is
oppositional to God and oppositional to us literally under
his feet.
In other words,
there is no power….no storm….no wind….no force in the
world that God cannot conquer. And there is no evil over which
God is not, at the end of the night, superior. Which makes
this something of an announcement story about who is in
charge, and whether the one in charge has any power. To which
the answer is: "God is….and God does."
We don’t….the
story also says. Have similar power, I mean. Peter jumps
overboard and starts walking, only to wind up sinking. Which
is what happens to me every time I water ski. Not right away.
I can get up. I can get going. I can even keep going. Until I
start thinking. Which is when I start sinking. But I am in
good company. If Peter can’t make it….and if Peter is the
prototype (as in "poster child") for all who would
faithfully follow Jesus….what makes me think that I won’t
sink (or stew, or sweat, or succumb, or crash, or burn,
whatever)?
We’re all out
there in our little boats trying to make it alone. And we can’t
make it alone. Oh, we can do some amazing things….have done
some amazing things….will yet do some amazing things. But
not consistently. And not without help. People in little boats
know that. People in big boats tend to forget that. Just like
people in 12-member churches know that. While people in
3,000-member churches tend to forget that.
One of the things
I used to enjoy but, for some reason, got away from, was stone
skipping. If you get just the right rock (thin, smooth, with a
flat edge)….and give it just the right spin (with a quick,
hard flick of the wrist)….so that it hits the water at just
the right spot (not into the face of the ripple, but on the
near-back-edge of the crest of the ripple)….you can keep the
thing afloat for eight, ten, maybe even twelve skips. Skill
and dexterity count for a lot. But when the rock slows down….well,
you know what happens when the rock slows down. Rocks that
slow down, go down.
So what do I do at
three o’clock in the morning when I’m awake and you’re
sleeping like a baby? Well, I toss and I turn. I factor and I
figure. I look at it this way, that way, every which way.
Sometimes I get up and get myself a glass of chocolate milk….or
go to my chair and read something….or go to my desk and
write something.
Do I pray? Sure, I
pray. Does it work? Sometimes. Is the solution instantaneous?
Erroneous. Sometimes I just say to God: "Take it off my
plate for a while and let me rest" (figuring that if God
"slumbers not nor sleeps," there’s no use in both
of us being awake).
I am mildly
embarrassed to admit that when I first encountered the
antiphonal response that a lot of folks are using in worship,
Leader: God is
good
People: All the time.
Leader: All the
time
People: God is good.
it left me cold.
It sounded too simple….too peppy….too happy. Until I
realized we weren’t saying: "Life is good….all the
time." Because it isn’t. Good. All the time. But there
is a goodness to God….a consistent goodness to God….that
transcends the bobbings and weavings of life.
And then there’s
this (right out of the text). God’s a grabber, don’t you
know. That’s right, a grabber. I believe in a grabbing,
clutching God. Who power lifts.
Did I say any of
this in 1993? No, not in so many words. And after Friday’s
front page, I am not even going to rip off my own words.
Except for these….which I stole from an old hymn (picking it
up halfway through).
Still the master
of my fate
heard my despairing cry.
From the waters lifted me,
now safe am I.
Love lifted me.
Love lifted me.
When nothing else would help,
love lifted me.
Love lifted me.
Love lifted me.
When nothing else would help,
love lifted me.
Note: I have been
preaching this text for a number of years. My first attempt
was entitled "Savior By Storm Light" and significant
portions of that sermon were reproduced (with permission) by
Maxie Dunnam in a book entitled That’s What The Man Said.
In 1993, I revisited this text for a trio of sermons that
keynoted a stewardship emphasis known as Water Walkers. The
"new idea" that led me to preach it again was my
discovery of "the sea" and the demonic powers
contained therein. This was first pointed out to me by Will
Willimon and subsequently enhanced by Fred Craddock. The
Craddock quote obviously embellishes his position. It was also
his suggestion that led me to reconsider the youthful practice
of stone-skipping, although I took the illustration in a
somewhat different direction.
Ironically, I
heard several "boat stories" after preaching this
sermon. I was surprised by how many of my parishioners
"almost died in a boat." Finally, the oblique
reference to Friday’s newspaper near the end of the sermon
concerns a well-known and esteemed colleague who has been
suspended by his denomination for the sin of plagiarism.
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