To carry us through
Clare L. Hickman
Christ Episcopal Church
February 27, 2022—Last Epiphany C
Exodus 34:29-35; Luke 9:28-36
This past week, Lutheran pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber wrote something she titled, “Freaking the hell out,” in which she talks about the passage in Luke where the disciples were out sailing and a storm came up: “…the boat was filling with water, and they were in danger. They went to Jesus and woke him up, shouting, “Master, Master, we are perishing!” And he woke up and rebuked the wind and the raging waves; they ceased, and there was a calm. He said to the disciples, ‘Where is your faith?’” (Luke 8).
And (as Bolz-Weber notes), that last part can sound like an accusation. As though, if they had only had more faith, the storm wouldn’t have happened. Or if they had only had more faith, they wouldn’t have panicked. But we know that neither of those things is true. Terrifying things happen in this world, raining down on both the righteous and the wicked (Matt 5:45), and our adrenal system kicks right in. Jesus knows that. So, what if it’s less an accusation, and more of an invitation?[i] What if Jesus is actually offering a tool to be used, in the midst of the storms of this life, that might be just enough to take the edge off the panic that can threaten to overwhelm us?
Where is your faith? That is, what are you focusing on? What feels like the strongest, truest, realest real to you right now? For the disciples, it was probably the roaring waves, and the fragility of the boat, and how very far away the shore was. Of course it was.
But what if they could have remembered and trusted that God was still with them in the boat? Would that have made a difference? What if we could remember and trust that God is present through the very worst things that happen in this world, that God will never leave any one of us, even as things are falling to pieces? Can we learn to put at least a little of our faith (that is to say our trust, and our focus) in that?
What if that made it possible to take hold of the feeling you know you’ll have on the other side of things? When you look back and realize: that was truly terrible, but I somehow made it through?[ii] If you could remember that, even in the midst of the storm, it might make the storm easier to endure.
Which brings us to the Transfiguration. This story of Jesus suffused in glory on a mountaintop comes just one chapter after the stilling of the storm, and I believe it picks up that same call to look past the current terror to see what lies beyond. After all, the disciples and Jesus are about to begin their headlong journey toward Jerusalem and the crucifixion. And as in the storm on the sea, Jesus knows it will be all too easy for betrayal, pain, and loss to overcome the disciples: to be the only thing that they can see. And so he gives them this beautiful glimpse of the power of God (of the resurrection that lies beyond crucifixion). To remind them that there is a realer real: that God is with them, and that the story isn’t over until God is done with the story.
I am trying so hard to take hold of that truth, right now. Because it is terrifying to watch a war begin (always terrifying, but particularly so one involving a nuclear power led by a corrupt oligarch with dreams of major domination). Terrifying to see Russia blatantly set up the pretext for the attack and then launch the attack, sending tanks, planes and soldiers into Ukraine. Terrifying to watch this violent seizure of territory, power and control. Terrifying to hear about civilians and soldiers dying; to see video of buildings destroyed, and the desperate flight of refugees. And terrifying not to know where it will stop. It is already horrific, and how much worse might it become?
Honestly, a global pandemic has expanded my ability to imagine the unimaginable. And so I reached a moment when it suddenly occurred to me that if this becomes World War III, that my boys and their friends are all 19, 20, 21 year-old men. And it was a heart-stopping moment, in which all I could see was the death and the fear and the greed and the power-hungry leaders. Without a doubt, that was the strongest truest realest real I could see.
I was drowning. We’re probably all drowning at least a little, and it’s so tempting to allow ourselves to look away. We cannot look away. As our bishop, Bonnie Perry reminded us all in her message about the Ukraine the other day, we must bear witness. But it will not help if we are swamped by despair as we do so, if the terrors blind us to our faith that God is still in the midst of it all somehow, that the horror isn’t the truest truth of it all.
The horrors are still there. But we are different. When we stop panicking, we become able to act: to pray, and not cease from praying. And to pay a deeper kind of attention, deep enough to know that even when a military response is the best bad option, the tremendous human cost of it must never be ignored. Because even though it will probably never be MY children (in fact) sent off to war, it will be someone’s children dying, and our hearts should never stop breaking about that.
Many of us have already been stirred by the courage of the Ukrainian people. We recognize heroism in their bravery and their spirited defiance. And as devastating as their deaths are, their willingness to give their lives to protect their country, their families, and democracy itself is already a glimpse of resurrection in the midst of crucifixion.
We must let their heroism call to ours. Let it strengthen our own willingness to endure and to sacrifice, if necessary. Just as our heroism in the pandemic was mostly the long drudgery of wearing masks, our heroism in this war might well be to endure things like higher gas prices, and maybe even an economic downturn if things get worse. It could be that the more we can endure those kinds of costs, the fewer lives will have to be lost. That too, is strength. That too is the power of God working in us, bringing light to the world. As is, for instance, taking in and caring for refugees from the many, many conflicts across the world.
Where is our faith? When storms rage around us and seem to be the realest truest thing, the Transfiguration asks us to shoulder the sacrifice but at the same time to seek out beauty and hope in the world. What might happen, if that were our trust and our focus? Let us remember that God is still with us, that God is still at work, and the story is ongoing. With Christ’s power working in us, may it be so. Amen.
God of timelessness,
From chaos and disorder
you brought forth the beauty of creation;
From the chaos of war and violence
Bring forth the beauty of peace.
God of compassion
You saw the humanity of the outcast and the stranger;
Help us to see the evils of our hatreds and suspicions
and to turn them into the embrace of your Beloved Community.
God of peace,
Through your love on the cross
You overcame the power of violence and death;
Turn us away from the love of power
That we may transform a warring world
through the power of your love. Amen.
God of peace, your prophet Isaiah promised
swords would be turned into ploughshares,
and your son’s mother Mary proclaimed
the mighty would be put down and the humble exalted:
visit the people of Ukraine;
deliver them from fear, violence,
attack, injury, destruction, death;
and give them courage, solidarity and allies
in their hour of vulnerability and sorrow.
Turn the hearts of those bent on war and invasion.
Strengthen the hand of all seeking to halt conflict,
restore order, and pursue justice.
And make this moment of peril
an occasion for your Holy Spirit to show your world
the cost of conflict and our dependence on one another.
In Christ our Lord, who went to his death because of our hatred,
and rose again because our hatred
is never stronger than your indomitable love. Amen
Revd Dr Sam Wells, Vicar, St Martin-in-the-Fields
[i] Nadia Bolz-Weber, “Freaking the Hell Out: an essay on fear and faith” https://thecorners.substack.com/p/freaking-the-hell-out?utm_source=url
[ii] ibid