“When All Seems Lost”

In 1995 the Rev. Daniel Thiagarajah was president of the Seminary in Jaffna, Sri Lanka, where he lived in the president’s house with his wife, Thaya, and three year-old daughter, Lydia. Which is where they were when the word came that the Sri Lankan Army had broken through the lines and was advancing towards Jaffna, and that for their safety the population ought to evacuate. As they piled into their van, artillery shells began to explode all around them – in fact, two landed in the mud right in front of the car, but failed to detonate. Thankful for this narrow escape, they headed south down the only road to safety, but were brought up short as they ran straight into the mammoth traffic jam that results when 200,000 people flee an on-coming army. Fearful that the packed highway would be strafed or shelled, the family split up – Daniel stayed with the van, and Thaya took Lydia on foot. They agreed that they would try to meet up well to the south, across Elephant Pass, at a church where Daniel had once served as pastor. And so Thaya walked, first on the road, and then through the fields, and finally through the waters of the Jaffna lagoon; for twenty hours she walked, as the waters swirled around her legs, her hips, and then up to her neck; finally carrying Lydia over her head as the bombs fell behind and the water rose higher and higher.

Our reading for today draws on a vivid image to talk about the human condition. It uses the image of sinking beneath the waves, of being swamped on the seas, as a way to raise up the inescapable reality of our existence, the truth that there are times in our lives when we find ourselves overwhelmed by the seas of misfortune, when we wake up and realize that we are in the grip of forces and powers which vastly outstrip our puny capabilities and weakness, when we can be terrorized by our worst fear, that there will be no hand to reach out and save us. It speaks to us of those times when all seems lost.

In Matthew’s gospel the disciples find themselves in a small boat far out to sea when a squall strikes, when a microburst suddenly whips the seas into mountains, violently wrenches the tiny craft off course, and threatens to send them all to watery graves.

            We know what he is talking about; we know that he is speaking about us, about the ways in which disaster can reach out and threaten any one and all of us at any time. He is talking about the experience of grief, of despair, of hopelessness, of powerlessness, of crucifixion. He is talking about that devastating blow when after three rounds of chemotherapy and months of hoping and retching and positive outlook and arms that have come to resemble pin-cushions the oncologists say “We’re sorry, there’s nothing more we can do.” He is talking about the numbness that descends when the somber officers in dress uniform turn off the sidewalk and walk up to your front door. He is talking about being up to one’s ears in pain and loss, eyes bleary from weeping, stomach churning without relief. He is talking not about “Reality TV”, where all problems are wrapped up in one short hour, he is talking about REALITY. And yes, he is talking about the horror of refugees fleeing for their lives. But he is also talking about the more mundane type of feeling overwhelmed, the sort of thing that comes from the drip-drip-drip accumulation of smaller griefs and woes, when the job loss comes just as the marriage is falling apart and you are trying to deal with a child with special needs at the same time as your parent is slipping into dementia….

            You might not agree with me on this, at least not openly. You might not want to admit that you ever find yourself feeling as if you are ready to slip beneath the waves. We are, after all, stoic New Englanders. We come from hardy stock, we are tough, we can take it, and after all, we say, “we are not as bad off as so and so.”  That might work fine at the supermarket, or at the beach, or even when you greet me after worship, but it doesn’t work so well at 2:00 in the morning when you are alone in bed and can’t get to sleep and you’re not sure how you are going to get through the night never mind another day. The Titanic is going down and you know it and you know that there is no way you are going to prevent that from happening and the bluffing and the façade just don’t cut it anymore. And the question comes,  I am sinking beneath the waves, and does anyone care? More importantly, does God care?

            That was the question on the minds of those disciples. It had been a long day, filled with Jesus teaching them and the crowds about the kingdom of God, and oh by the way feeding five thousand as well, and come evening Jesus had commanded his disciples to set sail for the other side of the Sea of Galilee. They encounter a terrifying windstorm, and considering there were four professional fishermen among the disciples, it must have been a true gale. Waves threaten to swamp the frail craft.

            Does God care? It is a question which goes right to the heart of any relationship – do you care? It is a question many adult children still struggle with right through mid-life – do my parents care about me? Do they love my brothers and sisters more than me? And so we keep track of how many visits they make to see our siblings, we carefully listen to see whether they praise our children as much as they praise their other grandchildren, we even try to gauge their love for us by trying to figuring out how they plan to dispose of their estate. Worrying about whether someone cares has a corrosive effect on the relationship, and over time, can even destroy it. Because the deeper meaning of “Do you care?” is, “Am I alone?”. For if you don’t care about me, then I really don’t exist for you, and I cannot hope that you will be save me in time of need.

            Jesus, Matthew tells us, cares. The disciples act as if he is alone – but Jesus is with them, even walking over the seas to be with them. But Peter doubts, saying, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” And of course he sinks, but Jesus reaches out and catches him, and after climbing into the boat with Peter, stills the storm. 

            When we read Matthew’s account of the stilling of the storm, we are challenged to examine our own faith. The suspicion that God does not really care about us corrodes our religious life. But, Matthew tells us, Jesus is with us in those times when we feel like we might sink beneath the waves. We are not alone, and God in Jesus cares.

            I don’t know how it was for Thaya that terrifying night when she struggled through the rising waters of the Jaffna lagoon, the only light provided by exploding ordinance behind her, her arms aching from carrying her precious daughter, her heart breaking over the destruction to her people, and her mind consumed by worry over Daniel stuck on the highway. But I suspect, from conversation with her, that even as she cried out in prayer for deliverance, her legs were kept moving by the deep-seated belief that nothing, not water nor bombs nor fatigue nor anything else in all creation, could separate her from the love of God in Jesus Christ. It was that belief, that trust, that kept her going all the way to an eventual joyful reunion with her husband, Daniel.

            And it is that belief, that trust, that keeps me going, and will keep you going, when all seems lost.