19th Sunday 2020
1Kings 19:9, 11-13; Romans 9:1-5; Matthew 14: 22-33
Where then is God to be found? Is it in the earthquake, fire and storm? Or is it in quietness and stillness? Or is it, perhaps, in all of them?
Elijah is in turmoil. He has fled for his life, terrified by the threats of Queen Jezebel to wreak vengeance on him for his massacre of the prophets of Baal: he is deeply depressed and longing for death. These are the circumstances in which he makes his way to Mount Horeb, and spends the night in the cave which, according to tradition, is that same cleft in the rock in which God revealed Himself to Moses.
Now he is called from the shelter of the cave to stand exposed before the Lord God. “Then,” we are told, “the Lord Himself went by” just as He had gone by Moses centuries before. We hear of the destructive gale, of the earthquake, and of the fire, and yet we are assured that God was not in any of these. They are merely the forerunners, preparing a way for God. It is only when these have passed, leaving stillness and silence in their wake, that Elijah recognises the presence of God.
Can we transfer Elijah’s situation to our own lives? Is there anyone who hasn’t experienced turmoil at some point in their existence? You or I may not have undergone the destruction brought about by fire, storm, or earthquake—or you may. We will surely though have found the smooth tenor of life disturbed at some point, whether by outward circumstances or inner distress. Indeed that may be a regular situation for us.
Is God present in that turmoil? Is He there in the gales, the earthquakes and the fires, actual or, more likely, metaphorical, which can disrupt our lives?
With all due respect to the author of this part of the Books of the Kings, I would maintain that He is. We may not be aware of His presence until “the storms of destruction pass by” as the Psalmist expresses it, until the tumult dies down and we find calm in the gentle breeze or the still, small voice; but He is there. At the very heart of the storms in our lives, God is present, probably unrecognized, holding us firm, ensuring that the turmoil doesn’t destroy us, but serves in the longer term to strengthen us, to teach us to recognise Him in darkness and danger and in the unlikeliest places.
Then, when we emerge from the storm, we can come before Him in the stillness of our prayer, allowing Him to speak to us, revealing to us His presence in the very situation which, we had thought, demonstrated His absence.
The truth of this assertion is shown very clearly in the Gospel passage. Jesus appears to the hard-pressed disciples in the very eye of the storm, and when they cry out in terror He reassures them with the words “Courage! It is I. Do not be afraid.” The very thing which frightens them is, in fact, Jesus the living God. Notice that the Greek, of which “It is I” is a translation, is ego eimi –I am—the name, if such it can be termed, by which God identified Himself to Moses from the burning bush. That which they fear is revealed to be God Himself, inviting them to courage, calling on them to have no fear.
Peter believes that he does indeed have trust in this awesome presence, and sets out across the water, yet even when his courage and faith fail, the Lord reaches out to him, prevents him from sinking. From the depths of the tumult, God in Jesus holds Peter up, making up for the deficiencies in Peter’s faith.
In the same way, in and from our storms, the Lord speaks those same words to us—“Courage! It is I. Do not be afraid”—compensating for our own lack of faith, revealing His presence to us in what we had believed to be a sign of His absence. Then, when the storm is past, let us make sure that we give ourselves time and room for the gentle whisper of God to speak to us anew in the stillness.
