Jesus (33 page)

A young man, whom I'll call Aaron, once came to me for monthly spiritual direction. With palpable sorrow Aaron explained how he felt God had abandoned him after he was diagnosed with a chronic illness. His sense of God's presence, his ability to see God around him, the ease with which he had once prayed—all had evaporated. Thus, his sadness over his physical condition was exacerbated by a sense of abandonment. When I asked him if he had ever prayed about the Stilling of the Storm, he wept. Just mentioning the passage evoked tears—you could tell that he instantly connected with the disciples' feelings of abandonment.

When we next met, Aaron said that he was embarrassed about what had happened in his prayer. Imagining himself aboard the boat was easy, as was picturing the waves crashing around him. He saw the waves as apt images of his inner turmoil. But when he thought about Jesus sleeping, he said that he shouted aloud in his apartment, “Get up! Get up! Where are you, Jesus? Why don't you
care
about me?” He wept when recounting this.

After Aaron admitted his embarrassment, we talked about God's ability to handle his feelings of anger and abandonment, since God has been able to handle powerful emotions since (at least) the time of the Psalms. “How long, O Lord?” laments the psalmist. “Will you forget me forever?”
¹²
This is what Aaron, the disciples, and countless believers have said to God.

Expressing his emotions honestly made it easier for Aaron to talk to God honestly, and that in turn enabled him to notice God's presence in other parts of his life. Aaron's honesty didn't remove the physical pain, but it helped to reestablish an open relationship with God. For when you say only the things that you believe you
should
say, rather than being honest, any relationship grows cold, including one with God. Once Aaron was able to be open and transparent in his prayer, he felt God's presence. “Funny enough,” he said, “it made me feel calm. Like the sea after Jesus stilled it.”

Aboard the ship the disciples express the human tendency to fear. Were we somehow able to ask the disciples at that moment why they were afraid, they would likely scoff, “Why
wouldn't
we be afraid?” Those living along the Sea of Galilee knew what storms could do to boats, and to people. Fear made sense. Without a healthy fear of the elements, Galilean fishermen wouldn't have taken the necessary precautions to protect themselves, their boats, and their catches.

But Jesus warns against fear in the spiritual life. When it comes to God's activity, fear is, paradoxically, dangerous, because it turns us away from God. Rather than focusing on what God can do, we are tempted to focus on what it seems God cannot do—that is, protect us. Indeed, Jesus's earthly life is bracketed by warnings against fear. At the beginning of his earthly life, the angel announcing his conception says to his mother, “Do not be afraid.” And at the beginning of his new life, the angel announcing his resurrection to the women at the tomb says, “Do not be afraid.”

Jesus's counsel against fear reveals several truths, a few things he wanted us to know about the world, and about God.

First,
I have not come to harm you
. God's presence should not prompt fear, for God always comes in love. Second,
don't fear the new
. God's entrance into your life may mean something will change, but unanticipated doesn't necessarily mean frightening. Third,
there is no need to fear things you don't understand
. If it comes from God, even the mysterious should hold no terror. You may not understand fully what God is asking, but this is no cause to be frightened. At the Annunciation Mary couldn't foresee what her future would hold, but she was empowered to fear not. And at the Resurrection the disciples probably didn't understand what, or more precisely who, stood before them, but they soon learned not to be afraid.

A healthy fear may remind fishermen to guard against contingencies like a storm, but in the spiritual life fear can lead to the inertia of hopelessness. It can paralyze us, destroy our trust, crush our hope, and turn us inward in unhealthy ways. Unchecked, it can lead us into despair, if we conclude that only woe can come out of the present situation, which is an implicit denial of God's ability to do the impossible.

Notice that the disciples encounter fear where they are most comfortable—aboard their own boats in Galilee. Especially when God enters into our familiar surroundings, cozy places or parts of our lives where everything seems settled, we may be particularly frightened. Perhaps there is a sudden thaw in a frozen relationship. Maybe you fear this new challenge to your old ways. “What are you doing here, God?” we may say. “Don't make me let go of my resentments. I'm too settled.” We may not fear the storms as much as the calm after the storm.

Even in these places Jesus says, “Do not be afraid.”

T
HE
S
TILLING OF THE
Storm is similar to another incident in which Jesus brings calm: his walking on the water. Without delving into too much detail, we can briefly sketch out the narrative that appears in Matthew, Mark, and John.
¹³
In all three Gospels the story follows the Feeding of the Five Thousand on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. After feeding the crowd, Jesus immediately (
euthus
) dismisses the disciples and “makes” or “forces” them to board their boats and cross the sea. There is no indication why the journey is so urgent, unless we take the next line as an explanation: “After saying farewell to them, he went up on the mountain to pray.” Perhaps his insistence was a way of saying, “I really need some time alone.”

As I mentioned earlier, near the traditional site of the Feeding is a hollowed-out space on a hill called the Eremos Cave, in which Jesus may have prayed.
¹⁴
It is a small ovoid opening in the rocky hillside, perhaps five feet high by ten feet wide. The morning George and I scrambled up to see it (it's a few hundred feet from the shoreline), we found the cave empty and the dusty site barren save for an empty beer bottle sitting insolently at the opening. The cave can accommodate a single person and provides some shelter from the elements; if it existed in Jesus's day (and there's no reason to think it didn't), it would have made an ideal place for solitude.

By sunset the disciples' boat has reached the middle of the Sea of Galilee. (In Matthew, the Greek says, “many stadia away from the land”; a
stadion
is an ancient measure of roughly two hundred yards.) From his far-off position Jesus sees the disciples straining at the oars in the face of an adverse, or “contrary,” wind. Matthew says the boat was being “battered by the waves.”

Then “early in the morning” (or in the Greek at the “fourth watch of the night,” between three and six in the morning), according to Mark, “he came towards them . . . walking on the sea. He intended to pass them by.” The disciples are terrified and cry out in fear; they think they are seeing a ghost.

The one standing upon the waves greets them. “Take heart (
Tharseite
, Courage!), it is I,” Jesus says simply, which may be a gently human way of reassuring them. Or it may be an echo of God's divine declaration to Moses in the Book of Exodus, “I am who I am.”
¹⁵

“Do not be afraid,” says Jesus, who boards the boat. The wind ceases. To describe the overwhelming emotions of the disciples Mark writes,
lian ek perissou en heautois existanto
, literally, “very much exceedingly in themselves standing outside.” That is, utterly beside themselves. Although they have just witnessed the Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes, they still do not understand who he is. Their hearts, says Mark, are “hardened.”

Matthew's addition to the story is well known even to those who aren't familiar with the New Testament. Peter answers Jesus with a challenge: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.”

Why does Peter, who often serves in Matthew as a mouthpiece for the disciples, request this? Is he looking for proof that the one speaking in the teeth of the gale is truly Jesus? Does Peter want to arrogate to himself God's prerogative, power over nature? Or is he simply curious to see if he can do what Jesus is doing? What fisherman wouldn't want command over the waters?

In response Jesus says, “Come.”

Peter begins to walk on the water, but then notices the strong wind. Distracted by danger, Peter fears, begins to sink, and cries out, “Lord, save me!” much as the disciples did during the storm. Taking his eye off Jesus means that he can do nothing on his own. Jesus stretches out his hand, takes hold of Peter, and says, perhaps bemused, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” Jesus brings Peter back into the boat, where all prostrate themselves and pronounce him the Son of God. In Matthew the disciples are more able to apprehend Jesus's identity. Once again, the disciples may have recalled the psalms that speak of God's saving those in danger of drowning.

In both Matthew and Mark, Jesus manifests his awesome power over the sea. In both instances the disciples are terrified. In both Jesus warns them against fear. But besides counseling against fear, Jesus offers another blessing desperately needed today: calm.

Let's consider this in light of the frenzied state of our emotional, mental, physical, and spiritual lives today. The more I listen to people, the more I hear them speak about their lives using the same words: overworked, overbooked, overwhelmed, stressed-out, crazy-busy, nuts, insane. “I have no time for my family.” “I have no time to pray.” “I barely have time to think.” Now this does not describe everyone's life: the unemployed, the underemployed, the sick, those in the last stages of life. But our culture has impressed upon us the equation that the busier you are, the more important you are.

Some of this pressure may be the result of an economy in which more hours are demanded from employees. Some of it can be traced to increasing pressures from advances in technology. Newer forms of communication mean that it is easy for us to be always connected. You're never far from work or from anyone intent on contacting you. But some of our busyness is the inevitable outcome of a world where overactivity is praised. And if everyone else is busy, who are we to opt out?

Yet it may also mask a subtle form of pride. Being busy is often an indication of generosity; some people pour themselves out for others in a selfless way. But sometimes busyness is the way we prove (consciously or not) to ourselves that we are important. This tendency on an individual level is then multiplied out in the community, leading to a society in which extreme busyness is a badge of importance. It may also mask an inability to be still. What would it mean if we weren't running around like demoniacs? What would happen if we weren't overbooked? What would we do with ourselves if there wasn't some task at hand?

Not long ago I found myself in a kind of storm. Trying to be generous, I had agreed to do many talks around the country. This had been my pattern for the last several years. I enjoy speaking to groups and visiting colleges, parishes, and retreat houses, but it was becoming unmanageable.

One weekend I flew to a city several hours away and, while my hosts were delightfully welcoming, the logistics of the trip were unavoidably bollixed up. There was confusion over where I was staying, a more grueling itinerary than anticipated, no heat in my bedroom, delayed flights, stormy weather, and an ear infection that made flying agonizing. After returning home, exhausted, what Thomas Merton would call a “filthy” cold hung on for two months. The doctor said that overwork and stress had played a part.

One day, looking over my schedule for the coming year, which was packed with travel, I began to worry. Fear set in. How could I continue at this pace? But gradually, I noticed something else within me: a deep-down desire to live a calmer, quieter, more contemplative life. A great many people were counting on me for lectures and retreats. Yet the more I thought about it, the more my longing for a quieter life increased. Still, in the midst of the storm I was bewildered. Should I cancel engagements and disappoint others or continue on and disappoint myself? I promised myself that I would pray about it the next day.

Early in the morning, when I closed my eyes, the first thing I saw in my mind's eye was Jesus, clad in a light blue robe, standing silently on the sea, a glassy calm. He stretched out his hands as if to say, “Come.” But unlike Peter I didn't feel the invitation to walk on the water, as if to prove something. Instead, he seemed to be saying, “Why not come into the calm?” The wind whipped around his blue garments, with the sound of a flag in the wind, but both he and the sea remained calm.

Why not come into the calm? Why not indeed? It seemed a real invitation: Come. That morning I crafted a letter of cancellation to many of the events I had already accepted. I am loathe to cancel anything, as I consider it as a breaking of my word, but the choice was either a life of storms or a life with at least a little more calm. So I was honest: I needed more quiet in my life in order to be a good Jesuit. I wrote my e-mail, took a deep breath, and hit “Send.”

The responses were more understanding than I could have imagined. “Good for you!” most of them said. “I should do the same thing,” wrote another. The president of a Jesuit university where I was scheduled to deliver a lecture wrote a compassionate note, averring that it's important to take care of oneself and live a contemplative life, in order that one may be of greater use to God. I felt a great calm.

Not everyone can jettison tasks in this way. A new mother or father cannot simply stop rising in the “fourth watch of the night” to change a squalling infant. A person caring for an elderly parent cannot simply walk out of that boat. But most of us know that there are some unnecessary things that prevent us from living more contemplatively, extraneous tasks and events and dates and appointments and things that can be thrown overboard. Do you have to make everyone happy by agreeing to every request? Must you say yes to something else you cannot possibly do—on the job, at your children's school, or in your family? Aren't there a few things that you can drop overboard?