I keep meaning to talk about this but then don’t because I think that I should say something profound or clever or whatever. A common theme.
Maybe a profounder or cleverer me will come back later and do better. Until then, here’s simple me in a hurry.
The picture that’s currently my banner is important. I awoke one morning asking God the usual questions. The answer I got is Joshua: “. . . walk . . . be bold and courageous” yadda yadda (not to be confused, well, maybe to be confused but only later, with “yada’ yada'”). Almost immediately, the image enters my head of Peter stepping out of the boat. Yep, walking.
I’m twisted enough to believe that this is God’s idea of a joke–a joke, which is not to say that He’s not also quite serious. Walk, never mind that you’re walking on water. And one might argue that it’s a loose interpretation of the verb “walk” (hence, the “or not”). There’s no guarantee you won’t fall precipitously, or that, in the falling, you won’t inhale lungs full of water. My mind goes a million places–joyous, scary and wonderful. Maybe more scary than joyous or wonderful; consider it an optimist’s sandwich.
I’m twisted enough that I laugh. The truth is, it makes more sense than most things. It makes sense, in fact, of all of the things that don’t make sense. It makes even more sense now than it did then. That’s the beautiful, sucky thing about this kind of revelation.
I believe that this is life. It is, if nothing else, the life of faith. It may sometimes seem cruel, when the water gives way, as water is wont, beneath one’s feet. As I’ve said before, I don’t believe, in the final analysis, that it is cruel but it is certainly a compellingly realistic and frightening facsimile of cruelty. Despite my supposedly knowing better, it usually convinces me.
Part of me believes that an über me (the me God meant when He dreamt me) will one day glide effortlessly across the surface of the broiling sea or even, if über me so chooses–rather, if God says (because, the key thing about über me is that he hears the voice of God with perfect clarity and, hearing, responds without hesitation)–dive deep beneath the surface, because, you see, über me not only walks (actual walking not just “walking”) on water but breathes water as if it were air.
As this thought germinates and its roots take hold of my heart and my head, I begin to see a motif in Scripture that had erstwhile eluded me. It is this: that often, as we face this difficult–often watery–path, God seems absent or asleep. Indeed, in one account of the disciples tossed on the sea, Jesus is or appears to be, at first, not there. When He does show up, they think Him an unfriendly ghost. Then come Peter’s baby steps. In another episode on the stormy sea, Jesus is, quite literally, asleep. Asleep in the bottom of the boat. Nice one, Lord.
If you doubt the legitimacy of the motif, consider what Jesus quoted on the cross. And don’t even start with the “that’s not exactly what He meant” or whatever other dishonest bastardization you’ve conceived or borrowed to make His outburst palatable and theologically correct.
Jesus experienced the absence of the Father so that we wouldn’t have to. What else is there from which we more urgently need saving? And still we are, or seem to be, not fully saved. Who doesn’t wonder? Who doesn’t doubt? Who doesn’t feel, at times, somehow all alone or, seeing the foggy or distant apparition, more frightened than comforted by the presence of the Lord? Whoever you are, I’m not sure that I want to know you.
In November, 2006, Deb and I visited Christine in KC and, at our daughter’s behest (I say this to give her credit because it was a great idea for which I am grateful), we visited the Nelson-Atkins Museum. Some museums (such as the Dallas Museum of Art) get all uptight about people taking pictures–pbbbbt on them for that, btw–but Nelson Atkins did not, so I took several. This is a clip from a painting of Jesus asleep on the boat. He’s the serene one on the left, sleeping while everyone else panics. The painting really spoke to me. What it said is more than I can contain here. In any case, it seemed the hand of Providence, so I made it my banner.
So, anyway, there you have it. No great claim to faith or power. As I say, “walking” on (or under) water isn’t exactly a choice, except inasmuch as I see Jesus there, He calls and I answer (or something like that). It’s the theme. I’ll say more.
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Tue - 2008/07/01 at 21:53
ken
This made me think of the fact that Peter only sank when he got distracted by the wind and waves and took his eyes off Jesus. There are a lot of winds and waves in my life right now. Lots of scary distractions. Lots of sinking. Thank you for the reminder to keep my eyes on Jesus.
One more thing – I think you’re right that many times the things that seem cruel and bad on the surface when you’re going through them turn out to actually be blessings. Another lesson I needed reminding of.
Wed - 2008/07/02 at 08:46
joelmw
Thanks, man–even for just the reading but especially for your astute comments. I have struggled the last few days (and was probably saved mostly by my procrastination, lethargy and general lack of discipline and other tools of effectiveness; let’s hear it for the dark side) to not contextualize this immediately with an “uplifting” “God is good” homily, because I felt self-conscious for returning to my “God seems like a sick, cruel bastard” motif. I kept telling myself that the homily is sincere and accurate (which it is), but I never could swallow the delusion that it wouldn’t have been mostly a concessionary distraction meant to appease the various voices I fear offending, or causing to stumble or what-the-hell-ever. I do sincerely believe that God is good and I do consider the life a glorious gift and honor. But that doesn’t mean I always or generally really “get it” and I’m pretty much done with pretending that I do.
Thank you for seeing that and, by your encouragement, giving me space to speak what’s on my heart. I think you’re absolutely right that it’s all about where our eyes are (we fall as we lose focus) and that He works it all for good (even the falling). Everyone I’ve ever met has imperfect vision and even knowing the end doesn’t make it not hurt. I guess a couple of my soapboxes are understanding 1) that the traditional fuzzy filters and rose-hued lenses don’t improve our eyesight and 2) that numbness and denial aren’t the best responses to the pain.
Thanks for being my tribe, brother. I’m with you (and I’ll try not to hide in the boat). There’s a heckuva Jonah thing there, too. Haven’t got it all worked it. Maybe that’s the book. A book, at least.
Wed - 2008/07/02 at 21:12
gbeddingfield
Thanks for writing this. I have similar frustrations all the time. I sometimes vacillate between really liking God… and not liking him very much at all. When you write on it, you’re much less… pessimistic than I am. So, reading how you process it helps me to process things in a healthier way.
In the same way, I find the most comfort from the scriptures where people who follow God (like Jeremiah, Job, David, et al) have times where they’re really angry at God and accuse him of a mean bait-and-switch.
Wed - 2008/07/09 at 13:22
joelmw
Gabe: thanks, man. That means a lot to me, especially coming from you, whose faithfulness and general good sense about things of the Spirit I trust and admire. I do actually feel that I am a bit pessimistic (maybe we both judge our negative feelings too harshly? I really don’t know) so it is especially encouraging to hear that I might have had a positive impact. I can’t say that I haven’t hoped for such an effect but I’m mostly just trying to get the stuff out there with honesty while not, in the process, contributing to other people’s despair. Again, thanks.
I’m completely with you on the second paragraph. And it surprises me that–less so now, more when I was growing up, but still–we’re generally admonished to live a life that lies about those feelings that our biblical models fully and honestly engaged.