Ep. 15
Erica Lugg takes the disciples’ crossing of the Sea of Galilee as a picture of the place she calls “between shores” — far enough from the destination that it seems unreachable, far enough from the shore they left that going back feels just as impossible, and making no progress in between. She is careful about the geography: these were experienced fishermen, the crossing was only five to eight miles, and in normal weather it was a few hours’ work. Yet John says it was already dark when they set out, and Matthew puts Jesus’ arrival at the fourth watch, somewhere between three and six in the morning — meaning they had been rowing against the wind most of the night and covered three or four miles. Her point is that the dark place is not evidence that Jesus is absent; it may be precisely where he intends to reveal himself.
Obedience, she insists, does not buy us calm water. Jesus had told them to get in the boat and cross, and the storm came anyway, because obedience sometimes takes us into places where we cannot see. She tells a story about Aidan, her eldest, then three years old, walking home from nursery with Nick when a thunderstorm broke. Aidan sat down in the road and refused to move, and they were drenched — the point being that sitting down in the middle feels like a reasonable option, but you always get wetter doing nothing than letting your legs keep going. Jesus, she notices, let them struggle for a long time before he came, and that was deliberate: he had something to show them that they could not have seen in easy water. She is honest about the questions that arrive in that gap — where are you, God? — and answers them with promise rather than feeling: he said he would be with us to the end of the age, and feelings are not the truth.
When Jesus does come, John’s word is “suddenly”, and Lugg makes much of it: the suddenly of God rarely announces itself. The storm they had been fighting to control is the surface he walks on, and she draws the distinction sharply — her instinct is to manage a situation, to fix it and box it, but Jesus does not manage the storm, he rules over it. His words, “It is I; do not be afraid”, are the words of the burning bush, the divine name, so this is a revelation of identity rather than a cheery reassurance from across the water. That is why “do not be afraid” can carry weight at all. Their peace, she says, was not found in the weather changing; John never actually says the storm stopped, only that they reached the other side. The turning point was a change of heart — from fear to surrender, from striving to trust — and it came when they were willing to take him into the boat, which is a different thing from wanting him to sort out the storm while we keep hold of the tiller. She closes by inviting the congregation to give the wind and the waves to Jesus as an act of worship rather than waiting for every question to be answered.
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Watch the video: https://youtu.be/NcyWEcuO4qU