The Fisherman's Pentecost

Texts: I Kings 19:9-18 and Matthew 14:22-33

So, I have a confession to make. I don’t know much about fishing or being on a boat. Which is a little sad, since my family has a history of maritime adventures—my grandfather served in the merchant marines during WWII, my dad built ships after he got out of the Coast Guard and my aunt spent 15 years living on a boat and running a seafood business. Me? I’ve never been on anything bigger than a canoe or a little motor boat on a very small, very quiet lake.

I’ve never been in a storm on a boat.

 Did you notice that all of our texts this morning are in the middle of storms/ Elijah stands on a lonely mountain, hiding for his life, in the middle of a storm and an earthquake. And Jesus, Jesus, is walking on water in the middle of a storm.

We haven’t had much stormy weather lately. Except that our world is full of it. I cannot but notice that the news these past few weeks is full of dire news. I feel bombarded with stories of death and tragedy and war. In Aberdeen, in my ministry, I hear stories of tragedy constantly. I hear about missing children and suicide, desperation and loss—the storm of being caught between lack of adequate jobs and deep, grinding poverty. I toured Olympia yesterday and heard the same stories of people struggling to survive in our communities.

And, this past few weeks, we hear of hundreds, thousands dead in Gaza—caught between a powerful army and overcrowded desperation. Because I have worked in many immigrant congregations, I can’t help but hear the stories of the thousands of children fleeing across our southern borders —caught between economic devastation, the intense violence of their homelands, and US border policy.  Everywhere, there are storms. Everywhere, the clouds seem ready to block out the sun, and we see pain and despair and struggle of people forced to flee, forced to live in economic struggle, forced to watch loved ones die. Forced to do so by those more powerful than they are. Unable to stand up against a world where jobs are hard to find, or armies are powerful, or gangs have taken over.

Did you notice something else about our texts? Into each of the storms in our text, God walks in. Elijah stands in the desert on his lonely mountain, sent into hiding for speaking the truth. He is grieving the deaths of those killed by the king of Israel. Ahab was an abusive king, a man who robbed the people of Israel of land and life. Elijah is at the end of his rope. He is vaguely suicidal—only a few verses before, he begs God to let him die. The storms are too much.

And God comes to him in a still small voice. And gives him hope and courage and a promise for the future.

And Jesus. Our text begins as Jesus sits alone on a hillside, praying. Grieving too; he has just received word that Herod has executed John the Baptizer. In a drunken party, the king had ordered John’s death. John had spoken truth to power too and now he was dead. Perhaps Jesus was thinking about himself too—he must have known that his ministry will not end well or peacefully either. He must have known that he too might die quite soon. I imagine Jesus too was grieving. And it was in his own grief, he walks out on the storm of the Sea of Galilee.

The disciples see Jesus walking on water and they imagine he is a ghost, some thing of legend or folklore.

God walks in as the storm threatens to overwhelm his people. It is the disciple’s baptism. Or, as Irene Martin says, this is the Fisherman’s Pentecost—the time when the Spirit is revealed to them in power and they see God in power.

It is a demonstration of power.

Power over the sea, power greater than Rome, than Herod, power greater than the worst enemy his disciples can imagine.

It is that power that gives God’s people hope.

It is that same power that rescues Noah and his family in the ark and rescues the ancient people of Israel from Egypt and from slavery when they cross the Red Sea. That same power that gives freedom and liberation.

It is that power that gives us hope. Today, in the middle of the Pentecost season, it is our Pentecost.

How many storms have you endured in your life? Or are you in the middle of a storm right now? Of loss of those you love? of ill health, of trying to find a job or pay the rent, of dealing with a loved one you just can’t quite reach, or of confronting injustice? Are you looking for Pentecost, for the coming of the Spirit of God in your life and your community?

Today, when I think of the children on the border, or in Gaza, or in Aberdeen, I shudder at how powerless they are. How powerless we find ourselves so often. How powerless our communities can be, as I look at so many storms in our world, storms that threaten to break us apart, storms that kill so many—from Aberdeen to Gaza, from Honduras to Lacey and Olympia.

And I think too of Peter, amazed to find Jesus on the water, who jumps out of the boat. Now, I might not have too much experience in these matters, but jumping out of the boat in the middle of a storm really, really does not seem like the smartest move. I mean, Peter has fished his whole life, right? And now he jumps OUT of the boat?

The moment that strikes me the most, however, is when Peter, realizing his monumental mistake, reaches out for Jesus’ hand.

The hand of his grieving, tired, wounded healer. And they get into the boat together.

In the middle of our storms, we still take Jesus’ hand and we face down, together as a community, a world that seems to grow more dangerous and more uncertain and more difficult.

As I toured Olympia yesterday, I was privileged to visit Quixote Village. Back when I was a student here in Olympia Quixote was a tent city, moving from church parking lot to church parking lot. Now, this community has designed about 30 homes in community. The folks I met yesterday were eager to give me a tour of the homes they designed and the flowers and the gardens they have planted. As I looked around and heard these stories, I could not help but think—this is Pentecost. That they, together, as a community, have faced down the powerful forces against them—job loss, homelessness, an economic crisis, and a world that does not value them. They have claimed the power of the Spirit of God. This is Pentecost.

We may not always be saved from the difficulties and storms of life. But we can claim the power of Jesus, the power of Pentecost and live in light of that. In the face of Ahab, in the face of Herod, in the face of Caesar, in the face of Hamas and Israel, in the face of the Honduran federal police and their gangs, in the face of all that threatens to overwhelm and destroy God’s people.

We can claim the power that Jesus gives us—the power that lets Peter, if only for a moment, walk on water, holding Jesus’ hand.

When we feel powerless, we can hold on to Jesus’ hand, we can remember a promised kingdom, where justice is found.

I remember that old hymn that I sung all the time as a kid;

Precious Lord, take my hand

Lead me on, let me stand

I am tired, I am weary, I am worn.

Through the storm, through the night

Lead me on, to the light.

Take my hand, Precious Lord, lead me home.

Home to God, home to the kingdom of God, home to a safe shore, home where all are loved and protected, home where Gazans and Hondurans, Mexicans and Aberdonians, Olympians and Laceyites, were all the oppressed and the tired and the powerless find freedom together in the kingdom Jesus promises…

That, my friends, is the call of the Fisherman’s Pentecost.