Tag: jesus-christ

Jesus, Faith and Fear: The Triumph of trust

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

Lessons from Jesus Walking on Water

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Jesus walking on water Matthew 14:22-23

Could Jesus walk on water? Probably. But if that is where our fascination with this story begins and ends, we have missed the point of the narrative entirely.

The story of Jesus walking on water, recorded in the Gospel of Matthew, is one of the most famous passages in the New Testament. Yet, it is also one of the most thoroughly misunderstood. For centuries, modern readers have treated this account as a display of divine gymnastics, a spectacle designed to prove that Jesus possesses supernatural powers that defy physics. 

The problem with this framing is that the language Matthew originally used loses a tremendous amount of nuance in English translation.

First, consider how the voyage begins. Matthew notes that Jesus ordered the disciples into the boat. It was not a casual suggestion or a polite request; it was an imperative command. Jesus intentionally sent His closest followers directly into the dark, toward a journey He knew would prove perilous.

Second, consider the storm itself. Most English translations say that as night fell, the disciples’ boat was “battered by the waves.” That phrasing paints a picture of bad weather. But “battered” falls far short of Matthew’s actual intent. The Greek word Matthew chooses here is basanizomenon (Bah-sah-nee-ZOM-eh-non) It is the same word used elsewhere in the Gospels to describe torment, agony, severe distress, and demonic affliction. So Matthew was not writing a weather report. He was using language that denoted a deep, spiritual, and psychological anguish. This was an internal storm, a chaos so violent and overwhelming that no human skill or rowing technique could control it.

When we read the text through this original lens, the passage transforms from a story about physical buoyancy into a commentary on the human condition and the power of God to meet us in our internal hells. The moment Jesus climbs into the boat alongside Peter, the torment ends. It is at that exact moment, not when Jesus is hovering above the water, but when He enters their shared space of terror, that the disciples declare for the very first time in Matthew’s Gospel: “Truly you are the Son of God.”

So, if this story is ultimately about the reader’s internal and spiritual life, why does Matthew bother including such dramatic elements as walking on water?

The likely answer is that Matthew knew his audience. Human beings need something tangible to grasp intangible spiritual truths. Concrete imagery gives our minds an anchor. Unfortunately, over centuries of translation and institutional repetition, we have clung tightly to the physical anchor, the water walking, while completely abandoning the profound internal reality it was meant to illustrate. We inevitably focus our attention on the wrong message.

Matthew is attempting to do something far more radical with his Gospel than merely hand us a warm, sentimental reassurance. He is showing us what happens when our fear becomes more real to us than our faith; when the internal struggle grows so deafeningly loud that we can no longer see the help standing directly in front of us.

The point is not simply that Jesus can stride across a body of water without sinking. The point is that God actively enters the storm, stretches a hand toward those who are drowning in terror, and invites them to trust that they do not have to overcome the agony alone.

Notice what happens next in Matthew’s account. Peter does not remain safely inside the wooden walls of the boat. He sees Jesus walking through the dark, and instead of staying put, he steps over the edge directly into the raging water.

Peter’s faith is far from perfect. Almost immediately, he panics, loses his focus, and begins to sink into the deep. But his failure does not render his attempt meaningless. In his panic, he reaches his hand into the dark for help, and Jesus instantly reaches back to grab him. The Gospel presents Peter as an ordinary, terrified human being who was nevertheless willing to move toward God while still afraid.

That is precisely what faith asks of us today. Faith does not demand that we sit back and wait for God to erase war, eradicate poverty, or heal every broken body. It asks that we refuse to accept these horrors as inevitable.

We may not possess the power to calm every storm on the planet, but we possess the power to decide whether we will leave our fellow human beings to face those storms alone. We can feed a person who is hungry, shield someone who is vulnerable, challenge systems that cause suffering, and extend our hands when another human being begins to sink beneath the weight of life.

Maybe God does not enter the physical world by bending natural laws from on high. Maybe God enters the world through human beings who refuse to look away from suffering. The miracle is not always that the wind stops blowing. Sometimes, the true miracle is that, in the middle of the tempest, human beings become willing to reach for one another.

This brings us back to the ultimate declaration made by the disciples: “Truly, this is the Son of God.”

They did not make this confession simply because Jesus performed a miraculous stunt on the water. They declared it after witnessing Jesus meet their absolute terror with personal compassion, climbing into their battered vessel rather than abandoning them to the deep. They recognized something far more profound than raw physical power. They recognized a God who refuses to remain distant from human suffering.

The story of the storm does not promise that every trial will disappear the moment we ask God to make it stop. Instead, it tells us that God is deeply present in the struggle, that rescue often comes in forms we never expected, and that true faith will inevitably require us to step outside the safety of our boats. When we reach toward those who are drowning and refuse to abandon one another to despair, we finally begin to understand what those weary disciples realized in the dark so long ago: Truly, God is in this place.

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Abiding in God: Navigating Trauma with Faith

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

As with the entire lectionary, the gospel passage for today is taken out of context. One might think that it comes after the resurrection since it is the 7th Sunday after Easter, but chronologically Jesus is still seated at the table with his disciples the night before he died. He is preparing them for his departure, yet he speaks as if it has already happened. The language of this passage switches back and forth between future and past tense as if time has no meaning—and truthfully, it doesn’t. In this moment, Jesus is standing firmly in the room with them, yet talking as though he has already left the world.

The primary theme of this passage is eternal life, but we need to let go of our definition of that term. We almost always think of eternal life within the context of death and resurrection, which is linear thinking. We treat it as something we experience far in the future, stretching out after we die, like a prize we win after we cross the finish line of death. But it isn’t in the future, and it also isn’t in the past; it is always. Eternal life is not a reference to what will be, it is a reference to what is. God is eternal, creation is eternal, and we are eternal; not in the sense that our physical bodies will live forever, but that our existence is not limited or defined by the short time we exist on earth. When Jesus says, “This is eternal life: that they may know you,” he is using the present tense. It is an immediate reality, a current state of being that we are invited into right now, right in the middle of our messy lives.

Throughout the gospel of John, we hear terms like “abiding” and “dwelling.” In the original language, both of these words denote patiently waiting, living permanently within a space, and thinking about something at length rather than rushing past it. It means refusing to run away when things get uncomfortable. All of these definitions combined still do not fully capture what it means to live eternally with God, but it is as close as we can come with our limited human understanding. These terms aren’t meant to be theological puzzles; they are meant to convey a tangible sense of calm, comfort, connectedness, and most importantly, inclusion. To abide means to rest in the certainty that you belong permanently and safely in the heart of God, no matter how chaotic the external world becomes.

Yesterday, some of us attended a seminar on trauma and the church’s role in addressing it, and the concepts there fit beautifully with this idea of abiding. We learned about a concept called the “window of tolerance.” This is a psychological state of being in which we are able to experience joy, compassion, connection, and curiosity, precisely because our nervous system is not overly taxed or triggered by trauma. When we are in this window, we are mentally, emotionally, and physically present. In a very real way, being inside this window is the real-world equivalent of what John calls abiding.

This is, of course, a state that is fluid. We can very easily slip out of this window into an altered state where it becomes difficult for us to function. On one side, when we are overwhelmed, we might shoot up into the “fight or flight” response where we become overly agitated, anxious, or angry. On the other side, we might drop down into the “freeze” response where we shut down, numb out, dissociate, and feel completely exhausted or disconnected.

When the trauma and stress of the world pull us out of our window of tolerance, we lose our capacity for connection and curiosity. We can’t “abide” because our bodies are stuck in survival mode, convinced we are under attack. Jesus knew the trauma his disciples were about to endure the very next day, which is exactly why he prayed so deeply for their protection and their unity. He knew they would need each other to stay grounded.

This is where the church’s role becomes so vital, when the church stops being just a social club or a lecture hall and becomes a sanctuary for holy regulation. When Jesus invites us to abide in him, he is inviting us back into that safe, regulated space. And when the church understands trauma, we can become a community that helps widen each other’s windows of tolerance. By offering a space that mimics God’s character—one of calm, predictability, safety, and unconditional inclusion—we help soothe each other’s overtaxed nervous systems. We pull people out of the isolation of shutdown, and we calm the panic of hyper-arousal. In doing so, we create a sanctuary where people can step out of the chaos of linear time, drop their defenses, and return to the quiet, grounding truth that they are already safely held in the eternal life of God.

Long story short, our liturgy is the thing that provides the predictability. It helps us provide a sense of calm, it is in this space that we need to leg go of the things from the outside world. We need to let go of the anger, we need to let go of things like bulletins not being printed correctly. We need to let go of other people’s opinions or what we think about them. And we just need to be present for each other and abide in God’s love, which is why we are here. Amen

Finding God in a Troubled World: Lessons from Micah and the Beatitudes

Published on by The Rev. Jason A BurnsLeave a comment

In the past few weeks, I have found it increasingly difficult to balance my emotions with my hopes for the world. As a history teacher I am acutely aware of the barbarity humanity has inflicted and continues to inflict on itself. Time and time again one group of humans has sought to declare themselves superior to others; we have created norms and laws that cement those beliefs, but over time those values bend, and ultimately break due to the strain placed on them by the people who resist the barbarity. I am not going to take us down the path of remembering what we have all learned in history class, instead I draw our attention to the words of Micah.

Micah was a prophet, his job was not to predict the future, but to point out where the Israelites had strayed from the path God has set before them. He begins by invoking creation, “Rise, plead your case before the mountains, and let the hills hear your voice” this is to remind us that creation has witnessed it all. It has witnessed the entirety of human history; it has witnessed our rejection of God’s call to love; it has witnessed our moments of tenderness and inclusion; it has witnessed the things God has done for their creation. Micah then reminds his readers of those very things, the release from Egyptian bondage, the sending of Moses, Aaron, and Miriam to help us understand the kind of society God desires for us. He protected us from the curses of enemies, by turning them into blessings. This heritage defines us as people of God; it tells us that from the beginning God has been and is present among their people. Micah ends by telling us something that would have been harder to hear in his time, he says that God doesn’t want us to bow before them; make burnt-offerings; pour out rivers of oil; or give up our first born for our sins. God has said, through Moses, through Aaran, through Miriam, and now through Micah that they want nothing more than for us to do justice, to be kind, and to walk with God in humility. The only sacrifice God requires is the sacrifice of sin because it is sin that stands in the way of justice and kindness and humility.

 Matthew is echoing the message of Micah in his recounting of the beatitudes. There are many ways to interpret these famous lines, but the one I like the most is that the first four remind us of the different and most common ways that humanity suffers. We endure sadness, we, at times, feel abandoned by God, we, at times, adopt a sense of helplessness in the face of apparent authority, all the while hoping it could be different, but not believing it could be. The last five lines point us to the very things Micah pointed to as things that God does and desires for us, mercy, humility, and justice. Collectively the beatitudes are a reminder that God is with us through it all and if we can hold on to that then the glory of God’s kingdom in heaven will be revealed, we will find comfort, our thirst for justice will be filled, and we will see God among us.

It is difficult to see God in the world right now. It is difficult to see them among us as children are traumatized by the arrest of their parents or even themselves; it is difficult to see God among us as faithful people are gunned down while seeking the very justice God asks us to pursue. It is difficult to see God among us as we fight over government spending, or policies designed to ensure that all people are treated justly and humanely. It is difficult to see God among us as our neighbors freeze to death because communities ‘can’t afford’ to provide a warm space. It is difficult to see God among us when every day there are multiple news story about the lack of Justus, the want of kindness, and absence of mercy, which is why I know I have been finding it difficult to balance my emotions with my hopes for the world; but hope is not lost.

Hope is not lost because history tells us that God’s love always wins over the sins of humanity. God’s people were freed from slavery, they were comforted, they received mercy, and their desire for justice was fulfilled and the same will be true again, but how does knowing this help us now?

A key and unspoken component of Micah’s message and the beatitudes is that we must believe that God’s vision and hope for creation is possible and we must accept that we as individuals are not the solution, but we are a part of it. Jesus called us to be the church, to be his body in the world. A body that is imbued with the power of the Holy Spirit and empowered by God to act in their name as we seek justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with them. Walking with God, means that we are walking with each other, it means that we are aware of each other’s plights and even if we can’t help each other solve our problems, we can at least make sure we don’t make things worse. Walking with God means seeking to comfort and protect the oppressed in the ways the oppressed ask us to; it means speaking out when our fellow human beings are putting their beliefs about the world ahead of the humanity of their neighbors; it means respecting the dignity of every human being by putting their humanity before our political, cultural, and economic motivated views of them as “the other”; it means stepping back from the fray and asking where God is and accepting that if we can’t answer that question then perhaps we are the problem because as followers of Christ Jesus where we go, God goes.

Clinging to God’s vision for creation, as best as we can perceive it; gathering as a community of faith to remind ourselves of God’s vision and command to love; and engaging in spiritual practices that remind us that God walks with us; and trusting that despite humanities best efforts to interfere with God’s plans, God always finds a way to work through us to bring an end to injustice. This was true in the time of Moses, in the time of Micah, in the time of Jesus, and it is true today. We need only believe that it is true and do our best to help or at least not get in the way. Amen.