Journey's Weekly Homilies

Homily by Joe
19th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle A, 11 August 2002

1 Kings 19:9a, 11-13
Romans 9:1-5
Matthew 14:22-33

Maybe you’ve heard this one: a Catholic priest, a Methodist minister and a Baptist preacher are all out fishing on a boat. The priest and the Methodist minister successively make up excuses to go back to shore; each steps out of the boat and walks over the water to the shore and back. The Baptist minister, not to be outdone, announces his own excuse, steps out of the boat and plunges into the water. The priest says to the Methodist, “do you think we should have told him where the rocks are?”

Or this one: same scenario and course of events, this time with a Unitarian minister, a Wiccan, and a Baptist minister. After the Baptist has sunk into the lake, the Unitarian asks, “do you think we should have told him where the rocks are?,” to which the Wiccan replies, “what rocks?”

Walking on water, for whatever reason, has worked its way into the popular consciousness as the paradigmatic miracle performed by Jesus. Not healing, not feeding thousands, even more than raising people from the dead. In Jesus Christ Superstar, Herod’s desire to see Jesus work some wonder takes the form of Herod inviting him to “walk across my swimming pool.” Anyone who does anything extraordinarily well is said to be able to “walk on water.” And the jokes I started with make walking on water the ultimate ratification of one’s true faith or connection with the divine.

Besides Matthew’s gospel, the story of Jesus walking on water is found in the gospels of Mark and John (Luke, for some reason omits it). In all three, it follows the account of the miraculous feeding of thousands of people. Of course, in John’s gospel Jesus does things like multiplying loaves and walking on water all the time, often for no other reason than to show that he can. It’s a little surprising in Matthew, and even more so in Mark where such manifestations of supernatural power are very rare. And Matthew’s account is “lifted” almost word for word from Mark’s, though Matthew makes a small addition.

Both Mark and Matthew place these two miracles just after the death of John the Baptist; John’s gospel also makes a brief reference to the baptizer just before these stories. So in one sense these demonstrations of Jesus’ power serve to reassure the disciples that Jesus is greater than John and that they should not be afraid that a similar fate awaits him (at least not before he’s had a chance to better prepare them for it).

Because the disciples are the primary or only witnesses to these miracles, these stories are ideal for Matthew’s purpose. Matthew’s gospel is practically a training manual for being a disciple of Jesus. It’s so clearly written by a disciple for other disciples that its attribution to one of the twelve is entirely understandable, as is the tradition of placing it first among the gospels in the New Testament canon. In the part of the gospel we’ve been exploring since we returned to Ordinary Time, not only the explications of the parables but some of the parables themselves have been delivered only to the disciples. Jesus shares in private an explanation of the seed on various kinds of ground and of the weeds among the wheat, and only the disciples hear about the treasure in the field and the pearl of great price.

Jesus’ public reputation, though important, is really just the framework within which the training of the disciples takes place. So the crowds in the feeding scene show no recognition of the miracle that’s happened; they’re just grateful to have been fed and they depart without making a fuss. And it’s harder to be more removed from public view than the middle of a lake at night during a storm. There’s something important here for the disciples and Matthew shows this by his changes to Mark’s story: the addition of Peter’s walking on the water, too, and a more positive attitude toward the disciples themselves. “O you of little faith,” may not seem like much of a softening unless you’ve read Mark first. There the disciples’ hearts are almost hopelessly hardened and they cannot begin to comprehend. But for Matthew little faith may in time grow to great faith, though with Peter we know it will take a lot of time.

 In the Tao tradition of China there is this story of two birds:

 There is a great bird know as the P’eng. Its back appears as broad as a mountain range; its wings are like clouds across the sky. It rises up like a whirlwind until it breaks through the high mist and soars into the infinite blue.

As it glides effortlessly along on its journey to the sea, a quail in the marsh looks up at it and laughs. “What does that bird think it’s doing?” says the quail. “I jump up and fly a few feet; then I come down and flutter from here to there in the bushes. That is what flying is for. Who is that creature trying to fool?”

Jesus is telling his disciples that nothing they imagine can stand in the way of the Reign of God; physical hunger will not keep people from hearing the word and no obstacle on the journey can prevent the arrival of the good news. He tells Peter and the others not to sweat the small stuff. “They will hear.” “We’ll get there.” And most importantly, “I will be with you. Trust me and you can dare and risk more than you’ve ever dreamed possible.”

Paul reinforces this in his letter to the Romans. Despite the success of his ministry to the Gentiles, he is still so devoted to his own people that he would risk being cut off from Christ for their sake, risk the one connection that he’s just finished telling us can never be broken. His statement raises questions of what such a separation would mean for the integrity of a preacher’s message, but it speaks volumes about the intensity of his faith and his trust in the salvation offered by God in Jesus.

Maybe we can’t walk on water. But then, Peter couldn’t either. But in Christ we can do some daring things. We can take a stand and speak up when our time comes to do so. We can be the first to forgive. We can give more than we thought we had. We can even call God to account when bad things happen. But it never hurts to know where the rocks are.