Ever on Holy Ground

Exodus 3:1-15

If there is one thing that Jerry Seinfeld and I have in common – apart from our tendency to hang out with some pretty eccentric people (and you know who you are) – it's our rather childish fascination with Superman. Some of my earliest memories involve my preoccupation with such incredible notions as a flesh-and-blood human being flying through the air with little more than a cape to keep him aloft. I marveled at how a mild-mannered newspaper reporter could, in the blink of an eye, be transformed into a super-human crime stopper. Bullets just bounced off the guy's chest, for crying out loud! My faith in the man was so great, in fact, that once, when my younger sister got stuck up in an apple tree in our back yard, I started yelling at the top of my six-year-old lungs for Superman to come and resolve the situation, certain beyond a doubt that in no time I'd see him coursing through the clouds beneath his fluttering red cape, hastening to our rescue. But it was not to be. We waited, and waited, and waited some more, until finally my mother had to step in to save the day.

It probably comes as no surprise, then, that when my thoughts eventually turned to matters theological – when I was about eight or nine, I'd say – the only model I had to draw on was that of the wonder-being in blue tights leaping tall buildings in a single bound. Again, it was the miraculous that captured my imagination, the chance that somehow the numinous might break into my world like a super-action hero and turn it upside down, for the better of course. After all, this is what the media – such as it was in the late sixties – spoon-fed me every Easter season. I learned through watching The Ten Commandments what to expect from God's mighty presence in the world. To this day I cannot think of Moses without seeing Charlton Heston's face, first young and chiseled, and then aged by his extraordinary encounter with the divine. And to this day, try as I may, I cannot shake the mistaken conception that God makes Godself known to ordinary human creatures like myself only in proportions worthy of Cecil B. DeMille – with the parting of vast seas, or through dreadful plagues, or by speaking from burning bushes.

Apart from the distracting incendiary imagery, there is much about our First Testament lectionary text for this week that speaks to the human condition and the yearning on the part of every individual to attain some clear sense of vocation. It's an especially rich passage to reflect on with college students because their station in life is not so far removed from that of Moses. Here is a man who has fled the comfort and security of his home in Egypt to take up residence in the wilderness with a Midianite clan. He has been given a modicum of responsibility – tending the flock of his father-in-law, Jethro – but his vocation still remains nascent in his chosen occupation. His future remains obscure at best, but his role as shepherd nevertheless provides the framework within which he will soon be charged with a new leadership position.

When Moses encounters the burning bush, his emotions – both fear and wonder – are exactly what we would expect from someone venturing forward into a new understanding of both himself and his place in the world. Yet his call does not take place in a vacuum. On the contrary, Moses is first affirmed as a participant in an epic and ancient narrative: "I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob" (Ex. 3:6). In more common parlance, the text might read: "Moses, lest you think this call is about you and you alone, let me remind you right from the start that you are merely a participant, though a vitally important one, in a story that is much bigger than you can imagine." How big becomes immediately evident: God tells his newly chosen shepherd that God has heard the cry of the people of Israel and needs someone to lead them out of their distress. As God led Abraham out of the land of Ur of the Chaldeans, so must Moses draw his people out of their plight in Egypt.

At this point in the text we are allowed an insight into Moses' character that can in some ways be seen as a development on previous theophanies, for as Jacob strained his bodily muscles and broke his bones wrestling with the angel of the Lord, now this chosen one of God must grapple psychologically, but no less strenuously, with the profundity of his unlikely call. The first question he asks is symbolic of the struggles that so many have endured throughout Christian history when faced with a momentous choice and a new direction. "Who am I?" Yet Moses, whose identity has been called so overwhelmingly into question, is answered by the one whose name is at once certain and ineffable: "I am who I am."

And thus we have one of the great spiritual and psychological truths of our tradition and, I would also argue, of our modern age. As John Calvin knew so well – so much so that he introduced his great work, the Institutes of the Christian Religion, with the insight – "without knowledge of self there is no knowledge of God," and conversely, "without knowledge of God there is no knowledge of self" (I.i.1-2). Calvin, of course, recognized the chicken-and-egg character of this important tenet:

Nearly all the wisdom we possess, that is to say, true and sound wisdom, consists of two parts: the knowledge of God and ourselves. But, while joined by many bonds, which one precedes and brings forth the other is not easy to discern. In the first place, no one can look upon himself without immediately turning his thoughts to the contemplation of God, in whom he "lives and moves" [Acts 17:28] (Institutes I.i.1).

Still, I can't get past the spectacle of it all – the burning bush, that is. I can handle the psychological turmoil that Moses experiences, and even the realization that God has, miraculously, revealed God's holy name to him. But a burning bush that's never consumed by flame? It's just not a part of my daily experience. There are, however, two aspects of this narrative that give me pause for reflection, and thus offer some direction for my own life where both flora and fauna are capable of revealing their peculiar insights into the divine, though by less numinous means.

First, I have always taken great comfort in Martin Buber's translation of God's holy name in this passage. The traditional rendering – "I am that I am" – is, again, pretty nebulous to me. But Buber argues that a more appropriate translation here is, "I will be whatever I will be." In other words, God will reveal Godself to Israel in whatever form God so desires. In this case, the manifestation will involve the much-needed liberation of a people oppressed, but the name should not be limited to this act alone. In essence, God is the breath who enlivens all of creation, who enables all things to live and move and have their being. Indeed, God is the personal breath who at once calls Moses and enables the dumbfounded shepherd to turn his thoughts to his own vocation. This life principle is even implied in the susurrant name that even to this day cannot be uttered among observant Jews: YHWH.

Second, If we are professing here a God who will be whatever God will be, and this in response to particular circumstances in time and space, then this seems to provide a little more breathing room for those of us who cannot imagine that we will ever encounter a miracle of nature like a burning bush. The fact that Moses approached the spectacle with bare feet is a great comfort to me as well because it suggests – to my way of thinking, at least – that while this theophany surely issues from heaven, its holiness can be found only on the lowly ground where it becomes known, in the dust beneath our feet, the very stuff from which our most ancient ancestors were fashioned.

And this is where I have resolved to look for the holy in my life. While I do not want to discount the possibility of stupendous events breaking into mundane history, I would like to keep my hope and enthusiasm for such possibilities at bay, because in the end these only serve as disappointing distractions. Yes, God can make Godself known through the miracle of a burning bush, but more times than not the holy lies latent in the ordinary affairs of our day-to-day lives. The divine presence can be found in all things, if only we have eyes to see and ears to hear. In her book, No Moment Too Small, Norvene Vest extols the value of Benedictine spirituality in helping her to engender such a perspective on the world:

Benedict perceives God as present immediately and actively within the ordinary materials and interactions of each day. Every encounter, every incident during the day is grist for the mill of the ongoing God-human communication. No activity is too small or too unimportant to mediate the holy. Living one's faith in this way results in a much deepened attentiveness to each moment, for we learn that the specific ordinariness of a thing or a person also reveals a more "dense" reality, that is, its glory. Benedict's Rule always celebrates the simple daily actions of one person with another, and of human hand with pot and pan, all as potentially carrying a wonderful message (p. 19)

I returned to Hastings College on Monday to find that one of my best students – in preparation for a study of Irish pilgrimages – has taken to wandering the campus in his bare feet. I guess that's the danger of being a religion major – you never know what crazy saint is going to inspire you. But after reflecting on Joel's newfound passion for his spiritual journey I came to the conclusion that he's probably on the right track. Because as Benedict knew so well – no less than Brother Lawrence, and so many others throughout Christian history – we are ever on holy ground. We do a great disservice to both our personal faith and our tradition if we forget this simple truth. But we do forget, and we will continue to do so I'm sure. For too often in our insistence on seeking out the spectacle of some otherworldly burning bush we lose contact with the common miracle of the cool earth beneath our feet. Too often in our enthusiasm for waiting on the likes of Superman we overlook the fact that Clark Kent is standing right before us, in the flesh.

Art and Images

1. Marc Chagall, "Moses and the Burning Bush," lithograph for The Story of Exodus (1966), M447.

2. Antiphonary, (c. 1250), Germany.

3. St. Benedict, from a mural by Fra Angelico (c. 1440).

Compassion over Law

Exodus 1:8-2:10

Matthew 16:13-20

It's a week before classes begin at Hastings College, so I have taken this final opportunity to get out of town for a few days and visit one of my favorite parts of the country, southwestern Colorado. Unfortunately, though, I am without the comfort of a book-lined office and an extended period of time at my desk to write my customary reflection. But I have been able to slip into this nice little bakery, Baked in Telluride, to put a few thoughts on paper. I did not want to pass up this chance because the passages this week are so central to my understanding of the Judeo-Christian tradition, and because they are perhaps more relevant now in U.S. history than they have ever been. From my perspective, Pharaoh's daughter is one of the unsung heroes of our faith, not only because she was able to save a savior – to draw out of water the one who would later lead the Hebrew people through the tumult of the Red Sea – but because she embodies a fundamental tenet of both the Hebrew and Christian traditions, that one should love justice and show mercy (Micah 6:8), and prefer compassion to the cold logic of the law.

As I look around here in Telluride, I am fascinated by the wealth of diversity (not to mention the obscene economic wealth): bikers and hikers, investment bankers and ski bums, college students and furloughed professors like me. But if there is any constant in the shops and restaurants I have ventured into these last few days, it is the skin color of the people who take my money, clean my rooms, or pick up my trash. "Mexicans! They're going to take us over if we're not careful!" The retort is as common here in the mountains as it is among the cowboys and farmers back home in Nebraska. "Something has to be done," they say, "we can’t just sit by and watch these illegals make a mockery of our immigrations laws!" Still, we have no problem when it comes to enjoying the menial services that these people provide, especially when it involves fashioning from bovine blood and guts the carnal building blocks of our American diet.

I can imagine that this attitude is not too far removed from that of Pharoah and his willing minions as they looked out across the land of Goshen and beheld with fear a rising tide of outsiders whose numbers could easily overwhelm them if they were not careful. So they put their finest intellects to work to come up with a plan. It was a cost-benefit analysis, really, with all the numbers in place and every equation balanced. What they found was that efficiency of brick production would not be considerably hampered by an equally proficient extermination of male Hebrew children, especially if this could be carried out by those presumably unconnected with the powers-that-be. "We need bricks," they were heard to say, "but too many of these dusty little brick-makers will surely be bad for business." So the conspiracy went into action. And it might have worked had it not been for the one wild card that seems always to foil so many best-laid plans: compassion.

I have often wondered what was going through the mind of Pharoah's daughter as she ventured down to the river to bathe. Was it just another day in the life of one of Egypt's rich and powerful, a morning dip in the Nile to refresh the body and the senses, or was there perhaps something more symbolic going on? Certainly this woman knew of her father's policies, and probably had more than just an inkling of the suffering it was causing among people whose most basic needs in life were little different than her own. It is not difficult to imagine that this woman's need for water over her flesh on this morning exceeded the daily ritual of cleansing and ventured also into the realm of spiritual renewal, of sanctification, of seeking some kind of symbolic atonement for the suffering that her father's inhumane laws were producing. So when a Hebrew child was found among the reeds floating precariously in his little make-shift craft, the compassion that had long been growing inside her was able to manifest itself in constructive action.

And so Pharoah's daughter becomes, in effect, an adopted child of the covenant. She embodies, as well as ensures, one of the basic principles of God's chosen people – that while the nations may trust in their horses and chariots, and in their laws that maintain the efficiency of production, the Hebrew faithful will remember the name of their God by welcoming the stranger within their gates.

This is relevant, I think, to Jesus' curious warning upon accepting Peter's messianic pronouncement. Yes, this affirmation of the Nazarene is the very rock on which the church is founded, but what exactly does it mean? Roman Catholics and Protestants have quibbled over this for close to five hundred years – is it Peter himself that Jesus is referring to here, or is it merely his loyal confession? Putting this ecclesiological debate aside for the moment, it is important not to overlook Jesus' desire for secrecy on the part of his disciples. How uncharacteristic of a man who has so recently been walking on the Sea of Galilee and feeding thousands of hungry wayfarers. Why stay tight-lipped on the matter? After all, isn't this good news? Isn't this the message that the apostles were to spread throughout all of Galilee and Judea, even to the ends of the earth? What's the use in being a "secret messiah"?

There are various explanations that can be offered here, the most obvious being that Jesus does not want the Romans to catch wind of this claim lest it be perceived as the kind of political subversion it actually was. This possibility seems to appeal most directly to my students who want to see in Jesus a kind of business manager who is interested primarily in the efficient operation of his mission. But I'm not convinced. Rather, I am more drawn to the likelihood that Jesus wants to buy a little time, not because he dreads what awaits him in Jerusalem, but because he needs ample opportunity to teach his disciples what centuries of hope in a political or apocalyptic savior had erased – namely, that the anointed one has come to complete a mission whose precedent could be found in an unlikely daughter of Egypt. In other words, Jesus was there to draw out of the chaotic waters of empire a new people of God and to initiate a Kingdom whose integrity rests less on the cold logic of the law than on warm-blooded compassion.

So as I sit here in this hip little Telluride bakery and consider the Hispanic woman working the register, or think of all the meat processors who have come to populate my own corner of the country, and all the other brick-makers upon whose backs our affluent economy has been foisted, I have to wonder where we as Christian Americans (or as any national group dealing with immigration issues in the global marketplace) have come to place the bulk of our faith. What do we do with the command to welcome the stranger within our gates? What do we do with the fact that the one whose name we invoke as central to our spiritual lives was himself a convicted outlaw, an enemy of the state? Are we more enamored with the cost-benefit analyses that have defined this issue so simplistically for us, or are we more inclined to follow the lead of one of the unsung heroes of our faith tradition, Pharaoh's daughter?

There are indeed many these days who are in need of being "drawn out of water." In light of this, one of the most important questions we can now ask ourselves is, Where do we as Christians truly belong? Are we first citizens of a nation, or inheritors of a Kingdom? More to the point: are we going to allow ourselves simply to be people of the law, or will we become – like Pharaoh's rebellious daughter – children of justice and compassion?

Related Interest

On a not entirely unrelated note, if you have not heard the band Pharaoh's Daughter you should really check them out.

Art and Images

1. Photo by Karen Endacott, Last Dollar Trail, Uncompahgre National Forest, San Miguel County, Colorado (August 18, 2008).

Gathering Others

Isaiah 56:1, 6-8

Matthew 15:21-28

I'm not really sure what drew me to Lars and the Real Girl, but after seeing the film last night it has immediately become one of my favorites. It wasn't the clever dialogue or the cinematography that did it. The direction didn't particularly stand out for me, nor did the performance of any one actor. Rather it was the unusual story itself and the intimation it gave me into what the Kingdom of God might look like in a small northern town where the bitter winters have over the years forged an uncommon community spirit.

Lars Lindstrom is a pathologically shy young man who spends his days either at work or in a small apartment attached to the garage of his brother's house. On Sundays he has the opportunity to attend the local church where he tries as best as any awkward introvert can to become an active part of the community. His only comfort in life, it seems, is a powder blue blanket his mother knit for him while he was still in her womb. Lars never got to know his mother, however, since she died while giving birth to her son. He was then left to be raised by a grieving and emotionally unavailable father. As a result of these unfortunate circumstances, Lars's greatest discomfort in life is the touch of a human being – any human being. A friend's hand on his shoulder can send him into the deepest agony.

Knowing this, it is easy to understand why Lars tries to address his loneliness via the internet, ordering for himself a "fully functional" and life-like doll named Bianca, whom he immediately introduces to his brother and sister-in-law, and soon to the entire town, as his girlfriend. It is not long before Lars is seen accompanying Bianca in public, pushing her in a wheelchair (to which she has been confined from birth, he explains) and chatting with her about his childhood memories and his most intimate dreams. By all accounts it appears to be a budding romance, and going quite well, if it weren't for just one little problem. You know… the doll thing.

But here is where the Kingdom of God enters the picture. Were this one of those "realistic" films, we would at this point be treated to a kind of medical who-done-it where doctors chase down the patient's affliction and dismantle it piece by piece. Or we might see the derelict loner descend into a kind of delusional pathology that eventually manifests itself in mass murder. In any case, Lars would more than likely be portrayed as an abhorrent "other" upon whom all of our irrational fears and regrettable animosities could so easily be placed.

Thankfully this does not happen.

The genius of this picture lies in the fact that the story is less about Lars than it is about his community, a town that has over the last twenty-seven years adopted him as its own. Lars is fortunate enough to live among an extended family that decides – beyond reason and despite fear – to stick it out with him, come what may. The community lovingly enters into his "delusion" and eventually arrives at a refreshing and not so frightening reality of its own. At one point, the local pastor even comments that Lars's companion "has become one of us. She is our teacher. She loves this town, and most of all she loves Lars."

Would that the same were true for so many these days whom the church has deemed unacceptable, disagreeable, or "delusional." After seeing this film, I could not help but wonder what rich personal realities have gone unexplored on account of the seemingly customary exclusion of the "dangerous others" who petition us for our care and attention. To our great detriment, the church has too often been content simply to uphold the status quo, to remain – like the disciples in the tempest-tossed boat on the Sea of Galilee (Matt. 14:22-33) – trembling and in fear of what strange ghost beckons us to venture beyond our comfort zone.

What a lesson in contrasts, then, as we read Jesus' dialogue with the Canaanite woman in this week's lectionary passage. I can imagine the trepidation with which many pastors might approach this text realizing that, for those parishioners who have been playing along at home, the story throws an unwelcome wrench into the conventional image of the loving, accommodating, compassionate Jesus we all know and love. It certainly upsets Paul's frequent contention that in Christ there is no longer slave nor free, Jew nor Greek, male and female. On the contrary, Jesus here seems begrudgingly to offer his blessing to a woman who so fervently and faithfully seeks his attention. Can it be true? Does Jesus actually tell this poor and pleading creature of God that she should take her proper place in line behind the deserving children of Israel, back among the lowly dogs?

One way that scholars have tried to explain this passage is to attribute it to an early Jewish-Christian community intent on preserving its Judaic heritage, especially with respect to the mission of the messiah. There are other passages in Matthew – probably from this same tradition – in which the Gentiles fare rather poorly: the apostles are not to enter their territory as they evangelize (Matt. 10:5-6), nor are these outsiders to be regarded as any kind moral guide (Matt. 5:47). Mark includes a similar pericope in his gospel, though without the damning verse 24 that seems to settle the score so decisively: "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel." The Canaanite woman's response to Jesus' rejection seems to echo Peter's cry as he succumbs to his fears, walking the waves on the Sea of Galilee – "Lord, help me." Instead of extending a helping hand, however, Jesus' reply to this woman is to suggest that her ethnic heritage entitles her only to crumbs from the children's table – leftovers.

We can take some solace in the fact that the oral tradition upon which this text is based – in both Mark and Matthew – was in the distinct minority in the early decades of the church. Where would Paul's mission to the Gentiles have been had this perspective enjoyed a larger following? This is a Jesus that we do not know, and certainly not a messiah who is as well-versed as he seems otherwise to have been in the prophetic voices of the Hebrew tradition. The words of Isaiah come particularly to mind:

Thus says the Lord: Maintain justice, and do what is right, for soon my salvation will come, and my deliverance be revealed. …And the foreigners who join themselves to the Lord… these I will bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer; their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be accepted on my altar; for my house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples. Thus says the Lord God, who gathers the outcasts of Israel, I will gather others to them besides those already gathered (Isaiah 56:1:7-8).

Had Jesus somehow forgotten about this tradition? Was he ignoring it? Or – and this is a shocker – are there simply places in scripture where we have to say, "No, this is wrong. This is not the Jesus of tradition!"? We know what a slippery slope this can be, but what are our alternatives?

The only interpretation that has given me some comfort this past week has been metaphorical. Indeed, I think this text has much to say to us today as the body of Christ who, in the dubious tradition of our savior, continue to exclude the undesirables who come knocking at our door, pleading for our help and acceptance, only to be sent away like stray dogs. In the Matthean passage, it does appear that Jesus is guilty of a shameful act, but more deplorable still are the acts of those of us who can enjoy the view from the other side of the resurrection -- with the gospel witnesses to our advantage, and with the rich theology of Paul on our side -- who continue to insist on the church as an exclusive body, as the "children of Israel" with whom "dogs" need not associate.

When I imagine the persistence of the Canaanite woman in our present context, I cannot help but think of the thousands of gay and lesbian Christians who have in recent years set aside their fears and their ecclesially-induced self-loathing to demand from the body of Christ not only a hearing but a blessing and acceptance. I have to admire those whose convictions are so strong, and so central to their lives, that they are not at all willing to choose between their faith and their God-given sexual orientation. Frankly, were I in their situation I would have summarily bid the church adieu upon its very first condemnation of my person. Thankfully, there are those with greater faith and courage than I. Like the Canaanite woman rebuffed by Jesus – not once but three times – these men and women have kept the conversation alive and moving ever forward toward a hopeful reconciliation. Just this summer, for example, the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA) removed the institutional barriers to the ordination of gays and lesbians, this in addition to similar – and prior – decisions in the U.C.C. and Episcopal denominations. But of course this is only a small step toward the goal. How long will it be before the worldwide body of Christ can exclaim to its gay and lesbian faithful, "Great is your faith… be it done for you as you desire!"

In the film, the love-starved Lars suspects that because of the hand he has been dealt in life he will have to endure a dismal existence devoid of the one thing he both craves and fears – human touch. Nearly three decades of being emotionally excluded by his father, and then by his brother, have left him with little choice but to find solace in a world of his own making. This retreat might have been complete had it not been for the realization on the part of his Christian community that they had a central role to play in suffering along with one of their own in order to keep him from slipping away from the fold.

It is not often that a contemporary film can offer such depth and insight into a lectionary text, but this is the Jesus I know – a messiah not willing to offer crumbs to dogs while a chosen few enjoy the bounty of the Kingdom. This is the Jesus I know – a community that refuses to relinquish even one of the faithful to the irrational fears the world so often encourages. And it is here that I will gladly (and uncharacteristically) tip my theological cap to the apostle Paul who knew perhaps better than anyone the radically inclusive nature of Jesus' ministry: to maintain justice, to do what is right, and most importantly, to gather others – besides those already gathered – to God's holy mountain (Is. 56:1,8; cf. Micah 6:8).

Related Links

More Light Presbyterians

The Epistle: A Web Magazine for Christian Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender People

The Gay Christian Network

Inclusive Church

Whosoever: An Online Magazine for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender Christians

Photos and Art

1. Still shot from Lars and the Real Girl, directed by Craig Gillespie, written by Nancy Oliver, 2007.

2. "The Canaanite Woman," from the 15th-Century illuminated manuscript Les Tres Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, folio 164r, Musee Condee, Chantilly, France.

3. Georgi Mabee, York, England. See more of this young photographer's very fine work.

Fishermen Rush In

Matthew 14:22-33

Miracles – I don't know what to do with them.

In the first place, apart from being improbable in a world that we know to be governed quite nicely by the laws of physics, miracles always seem to distract us from the real intent of a biblical story. There are all kinds of compelling questions that can be raised about our text for this week. For example, why is it that Matthew alone includes the incident of Peter taking a faithful plunge into the storm-tossed waters of Galilee? Why this addendum to Mark's simpler narrative? Why do Luke and John exclude the event altogether? And what, pray tell, is "the fourth watch of the night"?

There is so much here that can keep us intellectually and spiritually occupied, but the unfortunate reality is that many, if not most of us, are drawn simply to the spectacular in this pericope, a momentary suspension of natural law by divine intervention that enables a man – a truly flesh and blood being, as solid as the next guy, lest we fall victim to docetism – to take a pre-dawn stroll across the Sea of Galilee. I have a hard time with this, and I will often shock and bewilder my more conservative students by telling them, frankly, that I cannot believe that this incident ever happened. Nevertheless, I still consider the story to be true.

It was John Dominic Crossan who first helped me to see that while a suspension of the laws of physics seems out of the question for most of us, we can still look for the miraculous in the grace-induced interruption of the laws of human nature, and this in events that occur almost daily in our experience. We all know of situations in which a person has set aside a concern for his or her individual needs in order to extend a hand of friendship and hospitality to an outsider. Given our natural tendency toward selfishness, is this anything short of a supernatural occurrence?

According to Crossan, there are two ways that we can talk about, say, the lepers to whom Jesus offers the gifts of both health and fellowship. On the one hand, we can believe precisely what the narrative tells us, that a person unclean in body (and, by implication, also in spirit) was made physically whole. At Jesus' touch, this man's festering wounds utterly disappeared. This would be a most fortunate subversion of the laws of nature, and an appealing hope for anyone who has suffered from a chronic illness. But it also defies what we have come to expect from the debilitating inertia of a disease like leprosy.

On the other hand, perhaps it was simply Jesus' forgiveness of the man's sins and the subsequent invitation to be welcomed back into the fold of Israel that constituted the real healing that took place in this story. Despite his disease, the leper could once again be a part of a community that would care for him and tend to his wounds. In contrast to our conventional understanding of the miraculous, this would represent instead a grace-induced interruption of the laws of human nature. Fear of the defiling presence of the other, so common among every last one of us, would have in this case been effectively dispelled. Reconciliation and wholeness – shalom – would have thus been restored, not so much in the body of an individual but in the life of a welcoming community of believers. (See John Dominic Crossan, Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography)

I hesitate to say it, but the latter approach is the only way I can now conceive of miracles (my apologies to Benny Hinn). The laws of nature seem pretty constant to me – in fact, every aspect of my perceived reality rests necessarily on this assumption. Human nature is the wild card, and thus the place where real change is likely to take place. It gets subverted and transformed all the time, and not always in such obvious or extraordinary ways. So when I approach a narrative like this one – Jesus walking on the water – I have to ask whether I am allowing myself to get too distracted by all the special effects. The most important question is: At what point in this story does the sinfulness that marks our day-to-day existence get so burnished by the grace of God that our true humanity is able to come fully to the surface?

It is reassuring that some of the early fathers tried to downplay the obvious spectacle of this passage and focus instead on a metaphorical reading of the text. The most common reference, it seems, is to the disciples' storm-tossed boat as a symbol of the earthly church. St. Augustine, for example, goes a little overboard (if you'll pardon the pun) with his nautical allusions, using his sermon on this passage as an occasion for both ecclesial endorsement and pastoral care.

Meanwhile, the boat carrying the disciples – that is, the church – is rocking and shaking amid the storms and temptation while the adverse wind rages on. That is to say, its enemy the devil strives to keep the wind from calming down. But greater is he who is persistent on our behalf, for amid the vicissitudes of our life he gives us confidence. …Therefore, stay inside the boat and call upon God. When all good advice fails and the rudder is useless and the spread of the sails presents more of a danger than an advantage… the only recourse left for the sailors is to cry out to God (Sermon 75.4, in Manlio Simonetti, ed., Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture: Matthew 14-28 [Downer's Grove, IL: Inter Varsity Press, 2002] 11-12).

It's comforting to know that even the great North African bishop could preach a real clunker on occasion.

Other commentators – namely Hilary of Poitiers (c. 315-367) and Chromatius (fl. 400) – regarded this passage as a kind of prophecy of imminent events. Their interest is drawn most notably to the inclusion of the curious phrase, "the fourth watch of the night," seeing in this a pre-figuration of the trials and tribulations yet to come before Christ's return in glory. Reading their words, I was struck by how they seemed to be at once both ancient and contemporary. There are not a few believers today who can still be taken in by their apocalyptic numerology:

…the Lord comes in the fourth watch. For the fourth time, then, he will return to a roving and shipwrecked church. …The first watch was that of the law, the second of the prophets, the third of the Lord's coming in the flesh and the fourth of his return in splendor. But he will find the church in distress and beleaguered by the spirit of the antichrist and by disturbances throughout the world. But the good Lord will then speak out and dispel their fear… of impending shipwreck through their faith in his coming (On Matthew 14.14, in Simonetti, op.cit., 12).

So, there you have it, the twin poles of scriptural interpretation when it comes to such a confounding text: it is either too trite or too apocalyptically tedious.

As I have pondered this pericope over the last week I have tried to keep several things in mind. First, though I am not especially taken by the way that either Augustine or Hilary has developed the idea, I think the metaphor of the disciples' boat as church is a compelling one, especially when we draw out some of its implications. I think it is true, picking up on Hilary's theme, that there are many today who are content to sit passively, even fearfully, in the bow or stern of the craft as they await the second coming, consoling themselves that they will at least be spared the tribulations of those left behind. Thankfully, there are a few among them who, like Peter, are willing to take a chance on something new and even dangerous.

Second, I have tried to hold forth the notion that, as John reminds us, the one traversing the Sea of Galilee in this narrative is indeed the very Son who was in the beginning with the Father, brooding over the face of the deep, calling forth order out of chaos. Though it is unlikely that either Matthew or Mark had such a high Christology, it is nevertheless certain that the early church soon came to understand Jesus as the one through whom the cosmos came into being. "He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together" (Col. 1:17). More than this, it is the Spirit of Christ who calls us to be faithful participants in the continuous acts of creation that move the church and the world ever closer to the Kingdom of God. It is no coincidence that the words Jesus utters to his disciples in this passage are vaguely reminiscent of the sacred name first spoken to Moses from the burning bush: "It is I."

And here, I think, is where the real miracle takes place, not with the messiah who steps intrepidly through the blustering chaos on his way toward his disciples, but in the man who alone is able to discern that the most fundamental calling of the church is not to sit fearfully by in the hope that the storm may eventually pass, but to take an initial leap of faith into the very waters that threaten us. Only here, amidst the foreboding depths, can we be about the task of co-creation. It is probably predictable that Peter, "the Rock," would soon sink into the abyss, but this is not the main point of the narrative. Even before his confession of Jesus as the messiah (Matt. 16:13-20), it is indeed this first step over the bow upon which the church is surely founded, and certainly not in the timid fretting over ghosts that has stifled so much of our ecclesial imagination, both in recent years and in ages past.

So an oft-overlooked truth of discipleship lies in this: Fishermen rush in where ordinary saints fear to tread. This is a miracle that has less to do with a divine suspension of the laws of physics than with a grace-induced interruption of the weaknesses of our human nature. It is possible to put our fears aside and to be about the work of the Kingdom. It was for this reason that Matthew provided his little addendum to Mark's original text. In other words, it is not enough to know that Jesus walked on water; we need also to take the first step in joining him.

Photos and Art

1. Patras, Christ Walks on Water, n.d.

2. Jesus Walks on Water, stained glass, n.d., Austin Avenue United Methodist Church, Waco, TX.

3. Andrea Vanelli, Saint Peter (c. 1390).