Where?

Where?

Immediately after this, Jesus insisted that his disciples get back into the boat and cross to the other side of the lake, while he sent the people home. After sending them home, he went up into the hills by himself to pray. Night fell while he was there alone.

Meanwhile, the disciples were in trouble far away from land, for a strong wind had risen, and they were fighting heavy waves. About three o’clock in the morning Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. When the disciples saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. In their fear, they cried out, “It’s a ghost!” But Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage. I am here!”

Then Peter called to him, “Lord, if it’s really you, tell me to come to you, walking on the water.” “Yes, come,” Jesus said. So Peter went over the side of the boat and walked on the water toward Jesus. But when he saw the strong wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted.

Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him. “You have so little faith,” Jesus said. “Why did you doubt me?” When they climbed back into the boat, the wind stopped. Then the disciples worshiped him. “You really are the Son of God!” they exclaimed. (Matthew 14:22-33)

On a September morning in 2001, Frank laced up his boots, pulled on his hard hat and headed out the door of his New Jersey home. As a construction worker, he’d made a living building things. But as a volunteer at the World Trade Center wreckage, he was just trying to make sense of it all. He’d hoped to find a live body. He didn’t. He found forty-seven dead ones, instead. Amid the carnage, however, he stumbled upon a symbol – a twenty-foot-tall steel-beam cross. The collapse of Tower One onto Building Six had created a crude kind of chamber in the clutter.

It was in this chamber, through the dusty sunrise, that Frank spotted the cross. No winch had hoisted it; no cement was securing it. The iron beams stood independent of any human help at all. It was standing there alone. But, then again, not completely alone. Other crosses rested randomly at the base of the large one. Different sizes, different angles, but all crosses. Several days later engineers realized the beams of the large cross had actually come from two different buildings. When one crashed into another, the two girders bonded into one and were forged together forever by the ensuing fire. A symbol in the shards. A cross found in the crisis. "Where’s God in all this?" Frank pondered. We wondered ourselves; perhaps even now. But the discovery dared us to hope that God was right there in the middle of it all. Can the same be said about our tragedies?

When the ambulance takes our child or the disease takes our friend, when the economy takes our retirement or the two-timer takes our heart – can we, like Frank, find Christ in the crisis? The presence of troubles doesn't surprise us, but the absence of God absolutely undoes us. We can deal with the ambulance if God is in it. We can stomach the ICU if God is in it. We can face the empty house if God is in it. But is he? Is God in it? Well, Matthew would like to answer that question for you.

The walls falling around Matthew were made of water. No roof or building had collapsed, but it felt like the world was crashing in. A storm on the Sea of Galilee is like a sumo wrestler belly-flopping into a kiddy pool. The northern valley acts like a wind tunnel – compressing and then blasting squalls of terror onto the lake. Waves as tall as ten feet are common. And this is a lake, mind you, not the ocean. His account begins at nightfall. Jesus is on the mountain in prayer, and the disciples are in the boat in fear. They are "far away from land . . . fighting heavy waves." (Matt. 14:24) And when does Christ come to them? At three o'clock in the morning. (v. 25)

Now, if “evening” began at six o’clock and Christ came at three in the morning, the disciples had been alone in the storm for nine hours. Nine tempestuous hours. Long enough for more than one of the disciples to wonder, “Where’s Jesus? He knows we’re in the boat for heaven’s sake – it was his idea to begin with! Is God anywhere near?” And from within the storm comes an unmistakable voice: “I am.” Wet robe, and soaked hair. Waves slapping his waist, and rain stinging his face. Jesus speaks to them at once. “Courage. I am. Don’t be afraid!” (vs. 27)

That wording sounds a little odd, I know. Because if you’ve read the story, you’re accustomed to a different shout from Christ. Something like, “Take courage! It is I” (NIV), or “Don’t be afraid … I am here” (NLT), or “Courage. It’s me.” (MSG) However, a literal translation of his announcement results in, “Courage! I am. Don’t be afraid.” But translators like to tinker with words for obvious reasons because “I am” sounds a bit truncated. “I am here,” or “It is I” feels more complete. But what Jesus shouted in the storm was simply the magisterial, “I am.” And those words should ring like the cymbals clashing in the 1812 Overture because we’ve heard them before.

Speaking from the burning bush to a knee-knocking Moses, God announced, “I AM WHO I AM.” (Exod. 3:14) Double-dog daring his enemies to prove him otherwise, Jesus declared, “Before Abraham was born, I am.” (John 8:58) Determined to say it often enough and loud enough to get our attention, Christ chorused: “I am the bread of life;” (John 6:48) “I am the Light of the world;” (John 8:12) "I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved." (John 10:9) "I am the good shepherd;" (John 10:11) "I am God's Son;" (John 10:36) "I am the resurrection and the life;" (John 11:25) "I am the way, and the truth, and the life;" (John 14:6) "I am the true vine." (John 15:1)

The present-tense Christ. He never says, "I was." But we do, don’t we? We do because "we were." We were younger, faster, lighter, prettier, etc. Prone to be people of the past tense, we tend to reminisce. But not God. Unwavering in strength, he never has to say, "I was" because heaven has no rearview mirrors. Or crystal balls because our "I am" God never sighs, "Someday I will be." But we do. Dream-fueled, we reach for horizons. "Someday I will . . . . (Pick your dream.)" But not God. Can water be wetter, or wind be windless? Can God be more God? No. He doesn’t change.

He is the "I am" God. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever." (Heb. 13:8) From the center of the storm, the unwavering Jesus shouts, "I am." He’s tall in the Trade Tower wreckage. He’s bold against the Galilean waves, or the ICU, or the battlefield, or the boardroom, or the prison cell, or the maternity ward – whatever your storm, "I am." Right there in the middle of it; right there in the middle of the storm. And the actual construction of this passage echoes that point.

Matthew’s narrative is made up of two acts, each six verses long. The first act, verses 22-27, centers on the power walk of Jesus. The second, verses 28-33, centers on the faith walk of Peter. In the first act, Christ comes alongside the waves and declares the words engraved on every wise heart: "Courage! I am! Don't be afraid!" And in the second, a desperate disciple takes a step of faith and – for a moment – does what Christ does. He waterwalks. Then he takes his eyes off of Christ and does what we do. He sinks.

Two acts. Each with six verses. Each set of six verses contains 90 Greek words. And right in middle of the two acts, and the two sets of verses, and the 180 words is this two-word declaration: "I am." Matthew, a former tax collector who’s really good with numbers, reinforces his point. It comes layered like a great sub sandwich: Graphically: Jesus – soaked but strong. Linguistically: Jesus – the "I am" God. Mathematically: whether in the number of words or the weathered world, Jesus – in the midst of it all. That’s because God gets into things. He gets into Red Seas, and big fish, and lions’ dens and furnaces. God gets into bankrupt businesses and jail cells; Judean wildernesses, weddings, funerals, and Galilean tempests. Look and you'll find what everyone from Moses to Martha has discovered. God right there in the middle of our storms. And that includes your storms, too.

A while ago, a young woman, recently married and the mother of an eighteen-month-old, tragically passed away. Her life abruptly cut short – abbreviated. And the shelves of help and hope are barren at those times. But at her funeral the officiating priest, a close friend, shared a memory in his eulogy that gave those in attendance both help, and hope.

For several years she had lived and worked in New York City. Due to their long-standing friendship, the priest had stayed in frequent contact with her via e-mail, and late one night he received a message indicative of God's persistent presence in her young life. It seems that his friend had missed her station while on the subway. And by the time she realized her mistake, she didn't know what to do. She prayed for safety and some sign of God's presence because this was neither the hour nor the place for a young, attractive woman to be passing through a rough New York neighborhood, especially alone.

At that moment the doors opened, and a homeless, disheveled man came on board and plopped right down next to her. Terrific. “God? Are you near?” she prayed. The answer came in a song. The man pulled out a harmonica and played, "Be Thou My Vision" – her mother's favorite hymn. The song convinced her. Christ was there, in the midst of it all.

Frank saw him in the rubble. Matthew saw him in the waves. The young woman saw him in a stranger. And you? Look closer. He's there. Right in the middle of it all.

Grace,

Randy