I get stuck sometimes in a familiar sort of rut in which I know that there is something that I ought to do, maybe even something that I want to do, but I cannot quite find it in me to do it. Motivation can be hard to come by in a world that increasingly rewards immediate results and instant gratification and looks with suspicion upon anything that takes too long to travel along an uncertain path. It is easy to get discouraged before we even begin.
It is hard, too, to be the kind of person who is foolish enough to do something, when the wisdom of the world is to give up from the outset, and to not even want to try. “People who try are full of themselves and disconnected from reality.” “People who try never actually get anything done anyway.” These are the kinds of things we tell ourselves to not have to do the things that we really feel we ought to do.
I kind of like and kind of loathe people who set out to do impossible things in particular, where the chance of success is basically nonexistent, and I sneer from my superior position of inaction because I already know how it will go, and they, seemingly, do not.
***
Peter tells Jesus to tell him what to do. Peter already knows the impossible thing he’s been waiting for the chance to do. Like a teenager confessing their deep and everlasting love in a moment of urgent compulsion, he blurts out that he wants Jesus to tell him to walk on the water. I imagine Peter has been hoping for the chance to do something impossible for quite some time. Day after day he longs to prove himself, and waits for Jesus to put him to the test.
Now in the aftermath of the surge of adrenaline that comes from seeing an unexplained ghost walking towards him after a hard night in the middle of an exhausting sea, Peter can wait no longer. He offers himself up to be tested.
So it is that he comes to find himself standing in the middle of the Sea of Galilee, footsteps away from the boat in the midst of a strong wind, and unsure of what comes next. He is overwhelmed with the terror of what he has done, the uncertainty of what he can and cannot do, where he can and cannot go, and so he begins to sink.
***
I am put in mind of our dear Don Cunningham who was recently telling a group of us stories about what life was like halfway through the last century for young, rambunctious boys growing up on Salt Spring.
The log booms that used to fill Ganges Harbour during the years of heavy logging on the island were one of the many enticing safety hazards which seemed to offer the possibility of something to do, something fun, and something dangerous enough to maybe be a little exciting. You could walk out across the logs there corralled in the water and waiting for their next stop, but you had to be careful, you had to be quick, and you had to be prepared to commit.
When logs are freshly set out in the water they are highly positively buoyant: they float, and float quite firmly. As they sit, and the longer they sit, they become more and more saturated with the water that surrounds them, and reach a point where they are just waiting to sink beneath the surface at the slightest bit of pressure, and then to move wildly within the pressures of the boom, particularly as the other logs shift and close in around the space they have left behind.
A little hesitation, and the logs might move quite terrifyingly and chaotically beneath your feet. An outright pause or a slip at the wrong moment, and you will follow the ground beneath your feet into the water of the harbour, and find yourself pinned between or beneath the rest of the logs into the boom.
***
This week, Bishop Anna and the Rev. Christine Conkin offered the annual diocesan retreat here at All Saints, which was a wonderful opportunity to connect with one another and faithful and curious people from around the diocese to engage together in important work. Rather than a retreat of comfort and contemplation, Anna and Christine invited us, and the whole of the diocese, to consider instead a call to action.
We explored together the image of empire, and how empires rise and fall in the world and enlist us to do their work in fighting against other empires, enacting conquest over resources that belong to all of us, and even in oppressing and destroying the lives of the other humans who get in their way. In doing the work of empire, we lose ourselves and surrender to illusions which rip us from the Kingdom of God.
To resist such forces, which are always and everywhere present, is an impossible task and an act of faith, and it requires all the gumption and foolishness of a walk across a log boom. Like that perilous task, it requires commitment and discernment, and it requires a plan. You have to know where you are going, and continue to press on and on.
***
We want God to call us out to do the work of the Kingdom. We pray for God to show us where there is good and holy work to do, but, like Peter, we do not know what we are asking for, and zeal and momentary excitement will not get us far enough.
Faith is not the same as denial, but that’s what Peter tried for a minute or two, and that’s often what we imagine. Faith let him forget how water and walking are supposed to work, until the wind brought him back to reality. Faith let him forget his limits, but only for a moment. While in the grip of the image of faith, he found that he could actually do more than he feared, and could actually do impossible things, but he did not have it in him to sustain it. He could lash out in a furtive act of wishing, but not complete the journey.
***
We are not one inflated moment away from changing the world, nor even changing ourselves. Even if God does call us out into the place of our longing, it will be up to us to sustain that journey, to plan our path, and to wisely work towards the fulfillment of our calling. The world imagines that history turns on one heroic moment, and Peter asks God to let him be a hero, but he does not know where he is going, and so the rock, Peter, sinks down into the water.
So it is that God does not call us in moments of drama to come and pursue a chance at glory, but instead meets us in quiet ways in a noisy world, and demands deep discernment to hear. Jesus goes up to the mountain by himself to pray and to be fed and to be led. God is not a lightning flash of excitement, but a slow fire that burns but does not consume.
May you let yourself be called by faith to do the impossible things that you already know God has made you ready for. May you commit your heart to the work that you have been given, and be comforted by the slow and steady progress you have made. May you do those things which will sustain you, and do what is foolish in the world’s sight, so long as it feeds your heart. May let yourself admit the quiet hope that God has sown in you, and offer your life to bring it to fruition.