I want to take a look at our first reading today, because I think Elijah is having a very significant moment. Elijah is a man who has given his whole self for God. He has preached in the name of God, he has confronted the powerful, he has stood his ground against political leaders when standing his ground was genuinely dangerous. And now he is hiding in a cave on a mountain, exhausted and afraid, waiting for God to show up and make it clear as to what God wants him to do next. And God does show up, but not in any of the ways Elijah expects. First comes a wind so fierce it splits mountains and shatters rocks. God was not in the wind. Then there was an earthquake. God was not in the earthquake. Then fire…God was not in the fire. And then, after all of that, a tiny whispering sound. A still, small voice. And that is where Elijah finds God.
I think many of us feel as though we are in that cave right now.
We are living through a moment in this country that feels like sustained wind, earthquake, and fire all at once. The political noise is deafening, the chaos is destabilizing. The divisions are deep and painful. There are policies being pursued right now that are causing real harm to real people: to families living in poverty who cannot stretch a paycheck to cover rent and groceries both, to people of color who continue to carry the weight of systems that were never designed to see them fully, to women whose dignity and autonomy are still subject to political negotiation, to immigrants and refugees who came here seeking safety and found fear and discrimination instead. These are not abstractions. These are the people God has placed in our path. Many of them are in this church. And in the middle of all that noise, God says: I am not in the earthquake. I am not in the fire. Listen for the whisper.
That is not a call to retreat from the hard work of justice. It is a call to make sure we are rooted in something that the storm cannot blow away, because the storm is real and it is not going away anytime soon, and if all we have is outrage, eventually the outrage runs out. But if we are rooted in the God who speaks in the still small voice, we have something that does not run out.
Which brings us to Peter...soaking wet and embarrassed, getting back into the boat. I love this story, and I love Peter, because Peter is us. The disciples are out on the water in the middle of the night, the wind is against them, and they are terrified. And then Jesus comes walking toward them on the water and they think he is a ghost, which honestly I think is a reasonable response given the circumstances. And Jesus says to them, take courage, it is I, do not be afraid. And Peter, in his desire to please Jesus, says: Lord, if it is really you, tell me to come to you on the water. Now think about that for a second. The other disciples are gripping the sides of the boat. Peter is the one who says, Lord, call me out onto the water. There is something genuinely beautiful about the real faith displayed in that impulse. He wants to go where Jesus is, even if where Jesus is happens to be the middle of a stormy sea in the dark.
And Jesus says, come. And Peter gets out of the boat. And he actually walks on the water. For a moment, Peter is doing something that defies every reasonable expectation. Because his eyes are on Jesus. Then he notices the wind. He looks away. And he sinks. Jesus reaches out immediately and catches him, and says, O you of little faith, why did you doubt? And I want to be careful here because I think this line is sometimes preached in a way that makes Peter feel small and makes us feel guilty every time we struggle. That is not what I hear in it. What I hear is something closer to tenderness. Why did you doubt? Not as accusation. As an honest question. You were doing it, Peter. You were walking on the water…then what happened? Because here is the truth: Peter didn’t sink because he lacked faith entirely. He sank because he shifted his gaze from Jesus to the storm. He sank because the wind was real and loud and frightening, and for a moment it was bigger in his eyes than the One who had called him out onto the water. I think that is the spiritual challenge of this particular moment in our national life. The wind is howling. The waves are real and crashing on our shores. The suffering of those pushed to the margins of our society is real, and it should grieve us, and it does grieve us. Paul in the second reading describes a grief that is almost unbearable, a sorrow and constant anguish of heart for people he loves who are struggling. Paul knows what it is to be broken open by the suffering of others. And he does not dismiss that grief. He carries it. But he carries it in Christ.
So the question I hear the Gospel putting to us today is…where are our eyes focused?
Because if our eyes are fixed on the storm alone, we will despair. The problems are too large, the forces arrayed against the poor and the marginalized are too powerful, the political dysfunction is too entrenched, and despair starts to feel like the only honest response. But despair is not what Jesus calls us to. Not because the suffering is not real, but because the storm does not have the last word. We are not a people of despair, we are a people of hope!
Jesus has the last word. And Jesus says come.
Come out onto the water. Come toward me. Come into the places where the comfortable will not go, to where the powerful have turned their backs to, where women and people of color and immigrants and the poor are told their lives matter less. Come there. I will be there. Keep your eyes on me.
And when we sink, and there will be moments when we sink, Jesus will do the same thing he did for Peter. Immediately, he stretched out his hand and caught him. There is no hesitation in God's mercy. There is no delay while Jesus decides whether or not Peter deserves to be rescued. He just catches him. Jesus will catch us.
The psalm today gives us language for what we are asking God to do. "Lord, let us see your kindness, and grant us your salvation. And justice and peace shall kiss." That is a beautiful image. Not justice in place of peace, not peace as a cover for injustice, but justice and peace together, inseparable, embracing one another. That is the world God is building, God’s Reign. That is the world we are called to work toward, even on the days when the wind is howling.
So this week, when the noise gets loud, find the whisper. When the waves rise, fix your eyes on Jesus. And when someone around you is sinking, be the first one who reaches out a hand. Because that is exactly what Jesus would do.
And remember Jesus’ words…“Take courage. It is I. Do not be afraid.”
Blessings,
Fr Tim
I think many of us feel as though we are in that cave right now.
We are living through a moment in this country that feels like sustained wind, earthquake, and fire all at once. The political noise is deafening, the chaos is destabilizing. The divisions are deep and painful. There are policies being pursued right now that are causing real harm to real people: to families living in poverty who cannot stretch a paycheck to cover rent and groceries both, to people of color who continue to carry the weight of systems that were never designed to see them fully, to women whose dignity and autonomy are still subject to political negotiation, to immigrants and refugees who came here seeking safety and found fear and discrimination instead. These are not abstractions. These are the people God has placed in our path. Many of them are in this church. And in the middle of all that noise, God says: I am not in the earthquake. I am not in the fire. Listen for the whisper.
That is not a call to retreat from the hard work of justice. It is a call to make sure we are rooted in something that the storm cannot blow away, because the storm is real and it is not going away anytime soon, and if all we have is outrage, eventually the outrage runs out. But if we are rooted in the God who speaks in the still small voice, we have something that does not run out.
Which brings us to Peter...soaking wet and embarrassed, getting back into the boat. I love this story, and I love Peter, because Peter is us. The disciples are out on the water in the middle of the night, the wind is against them, and they are terrified. And then Jesus comes walking toward them on the water and they think he is a ghost, which honestly I think is a reasonable response given the circumstances. And Jesus says to them, take courage, it is I, do not be afraid. And Peter, in his desire to please Jesus, says: Lord, if it is really you, tell me to come to you on the water. Now think about that for a second. The other disciples are gripping the sides of the boat. Peter is the one who says, Lord, call me out onto the water. There is something genuinely beautiful about the real faith displayed in that impulse. He wants to go where Jesus is, even if where Jesus is happens to be the middle of a stormy sea in the dark.
And Jesus says, come. And Peter gets out of the boat. And he actually walks on the water. For a moment, Peter is doing something that defies every reasonable expectation. Because his eyes are on Jesus. Then he notices the wind. He looks away. And he sinks. Jesus reaches out immediately and catches him, and says, O you of little faith, why did you doubt? And I want to be careful here because I think this line is sometimes preached in a way that makes Peter feel small and makes us feel guilty every time we struggle. That is not what I hear in it. What I hear is something closer to tenderness. Why did you doubt? Not as accusation. As an honest question. You were doing it, Peter. You were walking on the water…then what happened? Because here is the truth: Peter didn’t sink because he lacked faith entirely. He sank because he shifted his gaze from Jesus to the storm. He sank because the wind was real and loud and frightening, and for a moment it was bigger in his eyes than the One who had called him out onto the water. I think that is the spiritual challenge of this particular moment in our national life. The wind is howling. The waves are real and crashing on our shores. The suffering of those pushed to the margins of our society is real, and it should grieve us, and it does grieve us. Paul in the second reading describes a grief that is almost unbearable, a sorrow and constant anguish of heart for people he loves who are struggling. Paul knows what it is to be broken open by the suffering of others. And he does not dismiss that grief. He carries it. But he carries it in Christ.
So the question I hear the Gospel putting to us today is…where are our eyes focused?
Because if our eyes are fixed on the storm alone, we will despair. The problems are too large, the forces arrayed against the poor and the marginalized are too powerful, the political dysfunction is too entrenched, and despair starts to feel like the only honest response. But despair is not what Jesus calls us to. Not because the suffering is not real, but because the storm does not have the last word. We are not a people of despair, we are a people of hope!
Jesus has the last word. And Jesus says come.
Come out onto the water. Come toward me. Come into the places where the comfortable will not go, to where the powerful have turned their backs to, where women and people of color and immigrants and the poor are told their lives matter less. Come there. I will be there. Keep your eyes on me.
And when we sink, and there will be moments when we sink, Jesus will do the same thing he did for Peter. Immediately, he stretched out his hand and caught him. There is no hesitation in God's mercy. There is no delay while Jesus decides whether or not Peter deserves to be rescued. He just catches him. Jesus will catch us.
The psalm today gives us language for what we are asking God to do. "Lord, let us see your kindness, and grant us your salvation. And justice and peace shall kiss." That is a beautiful image. Not justice in place of peace, not peace as a cover for injustice, but justice and peace together, inseparable, embracing one another. That is the world God is building, God’s Reign. That is the world we are called to work toward, even on the days when the wind is howling.
So this week, when the noise gets loud, find the whisper. When the waves rise, fix your eyes on Jesus. And when someone around you is sinking, be the first one who reaches out a hand. Because that is exactly what Jesus would do.
And remember Jesus’ words…“Take courage. It is I. Do not be afraid.”
Blessings,
Fr Tim
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