Oh Y’all of Little Faith

First things first, the “y’all” in the title is universal. I’m certainly included in it. This is not going to be a fiery scolding or a paint-by-the-numbers set of instructions to correct what you are doing wrong, faith-wise. It has been aspirational and encouraging to meditate on faith this past week, to dwell on walking-on-water style belief and what that means to us as a community right here, right now. I’ve also wrestled with it, spent a considerable amount of time untangling some uncomfortable thoughts. I’ve read a chapter from a really earnest and sad and ultimately oversimplified online book called Why Won’t God Heal Amputees? And I’ve had a lot of arguments with the air (with God? With myself? I don’t know.) Ultimately though, this story- the Jesus Walks On Water and So Does Peter For A Minute Story- brings me so much peace. I hope to spread some of that around today.
It was a dark and stormy night…
To start, the tale of this miracle has always* read to me as a funny anecdote, one of the stories the disciples told over cups of wine, crying and laughing together after Jesus was gone- the way we ourselves do at a wake, some of us drunk, all of us sad, taking turns telling our favorite stories about our lost loved one, one of the few comforts during times of mourning. The disciples say to Peter, cracking up, “Remember the look on your face when he said, yeah, come on then, walk out to me!” Thomas shakes his head: “I thought to myself- he has lost his mind, this is really it this time, he’s a goner.” He claps a hand on Peter’s back, “I’m glad you made it.” “To Jesus!” Peter raises a glass. “To Jesus!” they echo.
When this story is told in Bible schools across the country it is usually with a stern, disappointed Jesus, admonishing a doubting Peter and, vicariously, our own doubting selves.  But what if that Puritanical filter that influences so much of our current faith traditions in this country has skewed the story? I like to think about Jesus laughing as he says: “Oh ye of little faith,” teasing Peter. It wasn’t his idea in the first place, Jesus’. Peter was the one who saw Jesus approaching the boat and got carried away, wanted to try for himself. Jesus rolled with it because he was a good friend. Caught him when he fell, which was also cool of him. He was the one who just walked across the Sea of Galilee in a storm after preaching all day, after all. He was probably tired, and so perhaps the irritated, exasperated Jesus is the correct interpretation. But maybe, I think there is a possibility, that Jesus was actually just relieved to be messing around with his friends for an evening after being responsible for the masses and carrying the weight of the world. Maybe this story was included in the canon, at least in part, as a reminder that life can just be straight up ridiculous sometimes- but it is possible that we can pull each other out of the storm. Maybe this even has something to do with what it means to be faithful. I told you this story brings me peace. Here is the first reason why.
The opposite of faith is not disbelief.
At least, I think to describe it that way misses the mark. For a long time faith has been synonymous with belief- confidence in a set of doctrines; in this form it has morphed into an adjective, a way to describe a person in broad strokes- a Jew, a Christian, a Muslim. Faith contingent on a set of beliefs has become a static thing, a state of being tied directly to unwavering and correct thinking.
Carried out to its hypothetical extreme, this definition of faith gets us into some tricky and appalling theology. It seems logical on the surface- if faith, the correct set of beliefs, can move a mountain like Jesus said, then what of the sorry people trapped in the mine underneath that mountain? What are those poor suckers doing wrong? Well-meaning (and not-so-well-meaning) people decided a long time ago that what they were doing was failing in their beliefs. That’s what they were doing wrong, and that’s why they are trapped under a mountain. Those of us who pray for the impossible, and then impossible doesn’t materialize, have obviously been shown unworthy because of our poor faith. Our disbelief has betrayed us and so the tumors don’t shrink, the numbers don’t add up, the war rages on and not everyone comes home. And it’s all our fault. Or God’s. Or maybe Jesus lied.
This type of theology, it is so, so damaging, and yet so ingrained. It has been far easier to wrap our human minds around a simple dichotomy of black and white belief- I believe in God or I don’t. Either fully faithful or fully atheist. Some of the more radical among our ancestors have gone so far as to embrace some doubt as, well, okay, but only as part of a process towards a full resolution- a hero’s journey that encounters trials and tribulations, dragons and demons, overcoming them to arrive FINALLY, at a solid, unwavering, and well-defended castle of BELIEF. (I am thinking of our hallowed Thomas Jefferson, meticulously cutting out the parts of the Bible that he couldn’t reconcile. I picture him leaning back, surveying his work. Was he satisfied with the end result? Did he figure it all out? Was there comfort in it? I doubt it.)
In the comments section on a recent Rachel Held Evans blogpost- I know- it’s almost never a good idea to read the comment sections on the internet. Our worst human selves live in the comment sections on the internet. One of the healthiest habits I can think of is to Stop Reading Comments on the Internet. But anyway, I was reading the comments section on the internet on a Rachel Held Evans blogpost (a really good one about doubt called “I Don’t Always Tell You,” thanks to Amara for sharing) where a very interesting debate surfaced over whether or not you can believe two opposite things at the same time. Can you hold two opposing thoughts at the EXACT same time? Or can you really only flash back and forth between the two in a rapid strobe-effect, so quickly that it’s pretty blurry and the observer can’t necessarily keep up, but still always discretely either one or the other, never overlapping? It’s theological quantum physics- Schrodinger’s God in a box.
I used to believe the latter- the flash back-and-forth model. The goal, I thought, was to suss out and deal with the darkness, the doubt, face it head on and work through it so that the darkness is eradicated, the strobe slows down and eventually you are left only with unblinking light.
But here is Peter walking across the waves. He and Jesus are laughing, wide-eyed, their friends gape-mouthed on the deck of the ship. And it’s real and it is true- the gritty salt in his beard, the bizarre feeling of water underneath his feet, behaving wholly unlike water has ever behaved before- it kind of tickles. He turns to take in the view of the shore from smack in the middle of the sea and sees the wave rearing up towards him. And instantly Peter forgets that Jesus is beside him. He forgets that he has, until this point, been standing tall. He is lost only in the truth that waves are dangerous and humans can’t walk on water.
And these things ARE true. Waves are dangerous. Humans can’t walk on water. You’ll notice that we, as a species, still require boats, bridges, Coast Guards, and swimming lessons.  Those things never stopped being true. They were true at the same time as the waves crashed harmlessly and two men walked on water.
So what if the real truth is that belief and disbelief, doubt, can and will always co-exist and that this does not invalidate one’s faith? That a deep faith hasn’t systematically eradicated all of the doubt, but instead kept it in context with all the other, simultaneous and contradicting truths? That in fact, the two opposites inform and feed the other? Would it feel as wonderful to be pulled from the waves without the knowledge of waves and storms in the first place, and how it feels to sink amidst them? When Jesus said, “Why did you doubt?” I don’t think he meant, “Why did you believe that waves are dangerous, and that humans can’t walk on water?” I think he meant, “Why did you focus only on those things, and forget all the rest of it, forget that I’m here, too?” The opposite of faith isn’t disbelief, its tunnel vision.
This moment of tunnel vision is when I picture Peter starting to flail a bit, assuming the stance of a person suddenly aware they’ve wandered into quicksand. I picture this happening before he actually starts to sink. Then the water breaks and his actions are given the context they presumed.
Because here is one thing I feel like I really know. I try to avoid declarations, especially about God and/or Universal Truth, and I am extremely wary of those that make these types of declarations regularly, so I feel like this should carry some oomph, because I’m about to make a declaration. Here it is: Tunnel vision breeds fear, and decisions borne out of fear are rarely the right decisions.
The fears I’m talking about are the kind that roil around in our minds and grow teeth as we lay awake at night. That our lives start to bend and take shape around because we see no way out that doesn’t terrify us. When you look at the truly disastrous decisions of this world, fear is so often at the root. Fear of being alone or rejected, fear of the unknown, fear of the other, fear of losing our stuff, or losing power, losing control. This kind of fear fuels wars, and Stand Your Ground laws; it turns otherwise normal and loving humans into grotesque masks of hatred shouting at black teenagers integrating schools in the 50’s, or at immigrant refugee children at the border today. Actions borne of fear are responsible for the deaths of children in Gaza and Iraq even as we sit in this room.
Acting out of faith does sometimes, as in situations like these, and maybe even oftentimes, require courage. We could talk all day about the heroes that highlight this for us. That iconic photo of the Tiananmen Square dissenter. The countless, nameless souls working the Underground Railroad during slavery, forming the Resistance during Nazi occupation. Martin Luther King Jr. and the freedom riders during the Civil Rights movement. All of these people whom, despite having every reason to be so, so afraid, chose to act in faith instead- taught themselves stoicism, were spat upon, threatened and beaten and even killed, and offered only peace in return. I picture God in the waves there, at every turn.
I also think, though, that courage isn’t necessarily required and that actions borne of faith can be as simple as offering forgiveness and kindness to a child that is On Your Nerves and seemingly always doing the exact wrong thing. It can be deciding to give that weird guy in the cubicle next to you at work the benefit of the doubt. It can be deciding to do that thing you’ve always wanted to do and think you might be good at, and going at it full throttle. Or it could be walking into a tense situation (in hospitals, crime scenes, work crises, family reunions, rush hour traffic, the mall at Christmas) with the peace of someone who remembers that the waves are tall and the water’s deep AND ALSO Jesus is still standing there, maybe just out of your direct line of vision, and he’s maybe chuckling at you, but he’s definitely got your back.
I want to be very clear and careful here, too. You will not get guilt from me if you have reacted in fear to protect yourself or a loved one from someone or thing trying to do you harm. When I talk about the truly dangerous actions borne of fear, I’m talking about the aggressors, not their victims. And anyway, you won’t get guilt from me for anything here. One of the other reasons I love this story and why it ultimately gives me peace is how quick Jesus was to pull Peter up. The translations I read state: IMMEDIATELY. And it doesn’t say he pulled him up and then had to carry him back to the boat while everyone looked on disgusted because he was such a loser and a doubter and didn’t even have the faith of a puny ol’ mustard seed. As far as we know, Jesus pulled Peter up and simply restored his balance. They walked to the boat together. Not only does this speak to me of forgiveness and the expectation that stumbling is part of growth, but it illuminates the powerful role of relationship and community in faith. Faith is something communal- the space in between people that can restore a person’s equilibrium, a landscape we create and sustain together.
So, that’s my conclusion, then. That what if when we say “living by faith,” we don’t mean- believes all the right stuff all the time. That instead, we mean that what we strive for, and what matters the most, is that our actions come not from narrow-minded fear but from the peace that comes from seeing both sides of the big picture? Even when that fear is based on objective and true facts- like dangerous waves and the incontrovertible truth that humans can’t walk on water. That to live a faithful life is to look at those facts, feel that fear, but then zoom out and hold both- the sadness and the hope, the two truths of this world- that it is terrible and mean and full of suffering, and also awe-inspiring and full of kindness, beauty, and love- all at the same time, all the time. That faith means simply remembering that God is with us, and His love is immediate and within our grasp.

Natasha

*I actually don’t remember the first time I heard this story. I was probably a toddler. But my dad told me somewhere along the line during my childhood that he always pictured Jesus laughing on that line- “Oh ye of little faith”- and it everafter became an entry point for me, a way of relating to and thinking about these humans kicking around the Middle East two thousand years ago.