The Rev. Joseph Farnes
All Saints, Boise
Proper 7B
I am not a fan of flying. People can explain to me all sorts of reasons why flying is incredibly safe (well, at least *used* to be, until a certain major company decided to really cut corners to maximize corporate profits). You could explain to me how lift and thrust work, how there are all sorts of safeguards in place, how the probability is higher that something would happen on my way to or from the airport than in the air… but no, my brain is completely aware that there are thousands of feet between me and the surface of the earth, and that gravity would be rapidly reducing the distance between me and the earth if it weren’t for that pesky jet engine.
But what terrifies me more is the anticipation that something will happen that I won’t foresee. The irony is not lost on me that I can have more flight anxiety when it’s a calm, clear day than it is when I was flying back to seminary in Austin, Texas in the middle of a storm. The “what-ifs” pile up higher and higher when there isn’t a serious situation at hand.
If I had been on that boat with Jesus, I’d have been an anxious mess before the storm arose. I’d have been wondering: is this boat really safe? What if I forget how to swim? How deep is this water, anyway? The disciples were at least accustomed enough to the water that they waited until the storm got bad before they panicked.
When Jesus says, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” I feel some shame. I know some Christians have a sense of confidence that their prayers will keep the plane aloft and safe even amid peril, that a miracle is surely right there for the asking. I admire their boldness. But I do not have that same sense of prayer. I know in my heart that plenty of people have prayed and yet suffered loss from natural disasters and violence. A miracle for me and not for them just… doesn’t sound right. I can’t be confident that I deserve it more, or that God has some secret plan for me – for one, I know I don’t deserve it more, and second, I just can’t imagine God being so seemingly callous to suffering. So I have to hold that it’s not about praying for a miracle so I can be safe; it’s praying that, in the midst of peace or peril, that I have the strength and courage to do what is good and right. Tragedy is part of our human life. We have to choose how we will respond to it.
In his second letter to the Corinthians, Paul is dealing with a congregation in turmoil. There is division. Paul’s reputation is ripped apart – some new preachers in Corinth say they are superior to Paul because Paul’s clearly a loser, a failure. These “super-apostles” point out that Paul frequently gets arrested and imprisoned. They point out that Paul lives a small, humble lifestyle instead of garnering riches and support. These “super-apostles” point to their success. They are charming, perfect pastors. Who wants to listen to the words of a loser when you can follow a winner? The “super-apostles” are a confident bunch, and the church in Corinth is awed by such confidence and power. Paul is a loser, not a winner, according to the Corinthians. Who wants that kind of faith? These super-apostles and their Corinthian fans would prefer heroes, pastors, and prophets who don’t get arrested and imprisoned.
Faith is not “claim your miracle.” Faith is not a power to get what you want from God.
Look at Job in our first reading: he has had everything ripped away from him. His children have died. His wife is disgusted by him. His friends condemn him: surely Job must have done something to deserve this suffering. And all Job wants is to have God come down and explain why. Job’s faith is not about getting his stuff back. The tragedy has happened. The pain and suffering are real. Job wants to know why. He wants meaning. And his faith is holding fast that he truly is innocent, contrary to what his so-called friends say. Job is faithful to God so much that he wants to argue with God. It’s not belongings, family, or dignity that Job wants; he wants God to come down here and make all this suffering make sense. The book of Job ends with an ultimately unsatisfying ending. But I don’t think that any explanation of suffering can ever be satisfying – suffering is real, and it hurts.
Faith isn’t about claiming a miracle, and faith isn’t about sweeping away the suffering of the present, either. Faith is not “I won’t be afraid, nothing bad will happen to me” but rather “God is with me, even when I am afraid.” That’s a big difference.
Faith, then, is an orientation to God. Argue with God – that is faith. Ask God to be present with you in your suffering – that is faith. Ask God to be present with you as you sit with someone else who is suffering – that is faith. Faith is not that we have answers or the power; faith is that our relationship with God abides even in suffering and tragedy.
So when we are on the boat on a turbulent sea, or in a plane in a frightening storm, we look to Jesus there with us. He is at peace. Even as we are afraid, he gives us his peace. A peace that does not take away our fear or anxiety, but a peace that sits with us. This is our faith: that nothing can separate us from Jesus, not fear, not suffering, nothing. Amen.