Refuge in the Storm: A Meditation on Matthew 14:22-33

Our Gospel story today is filled with familiar metaphors. We talk about suffering life’s “storms,” “drowning” in grief or despair, “waves” of emotion that leave us “tossing and turning”; “walking on water” as an image of rising above it all; and finding “refuge in the storm.” All of these expressions point to the universal experience of suffering and the desire to relieve suffering. This story touches on something deeply and profoundly human.

This story about how Peter and the disciples find refuge in the storm has a striking parallel in the Buddhist Jatakas. A young monk, a lay brother, is traveling to visit a spiritual teacher when he comes upon a roaring river. The monk is so filled with joyful thoughts of the Buddha that he begins to walk across the water. About half-way across he notices the crashing waves, and begins to sink. He immediately redoubles his concentration on the Buddha, and again rises above the waves and safely reaches the other shore.

The great spiritual traditions teach us how to find refuge in the storm. The reality of the “storm” is a commonly shared human experience. But so, too, is the possibility of finding refuge. This morning, I want to reflect with you upon the storm, and upon finding refuge.

The Storm

We’ve all had the experience of being wide awake at 3 o’clock in the morning, tossing and turning, filled with worry, drowning in grief or despair. We easily relate to the image of the disciples being buffeted by the waves in the early morning hours after being awake all night. The inner turmoil represented by the roiling waves is all too familiar.

But I think it is important to recognize that this storm imagery has a public and political dimension as well as a private and personal dimension. Roiling waves represent social unrest as well as inner turmoil. Recall that the disciples have just left a gathering of more than 5,000 people who came to Jesus looking for solace and leadership after the local governor, a puppet of Roman imperial rule, had executed John the Baptist. Together with Jesus this group constitutes an alternative community of hospitality and healing, a movement in opposition to the oppression of Roman rule, in which the hungry are fed and the sick receive care.

This gathering could only have been understood by the authorities as a provocation. And so I imagine the disciples were only too ready to leave when Jesus ordered them to go on an ahead of him. They no doubt wondered, “What have we gotten ourselves into?” Their inner turmoil reflected the social unrest of their time and place.

Our inner turmoil, our fear and despair, are not simply a failure on our part to be socially well adjusted; an inability to be normal like everyone else. It is the inner reflection of a sick system that is destroying the planet, impoverishing millions while the “lucky” few die of affluenza, and eroding the bases for both meaningful life and responsible liberty. To the extent that we internalize this cultural dis-ease, we become complicit in its perpetuation. We contribute, however unknowingly and even needlessly, to our own suffering as well as that of others.

The storm is real. Suffering is real, in both its internal and external dimensions, and these aspects are inter-related. How then do we find refuge from the storm?

Taking refuge requires three things: a spiritual teacher, a spiritual practice, and a spiritual community. The Buddhist tradition speaks of the “Three Jewels” or “Three Refuges”: “I take refuge in the Buddha, I take refuge in the Dharma, I take refuge in the Sangha.” We might think similarly in terms of taking refuge in the Christ, the Cross, and the Church. These are the means by which we learn to walk on water and even calm the storm altogether.

Taking Refuge in the Christ

We begin with the need for a teacher, someone to show us how to live a human life even as the storm is raging around us. When Peter calls out to Jesus and begins to walk on the waves, he is taking refuge in the Christ. When the young monk concentrates joyfully on the Buddha as he walks across the river, he is taking refuge in the Buddha.

As the Christ, Jesus reveals our true nature, the divine reality at the core of our being that is untouched by the storms of life. As Jesus walks on the water, he manifests the truth that we, too, can rise above it all and come to see ourselves as we truly are, rather than as someone defined by fear, anxiety, injustice and oppression. In imitation of Jesus, Peter, too, begins to realize his true nature. He begins to walk on water.

We take refuge in the Christ whenever we connect with our true identity, but we need to see that identity reflected back to us in the face of another. Here I’m reminded of a friend who recently described to me how she began recovering from addiction. She attended her first 12-step meeting in the attic of a community center in the East Bay several years ago. It was September, and the room was stiflingly hot. There was a huge floor fan blowing in one corner of the room. My friend sat right next to it, week after week. The fan was so loud she could hardly hear what anyone was saying, didn’t know what to do, totally out of her element and feeling awkward about the whole thing.

But she kept coming back each week because of one guy who sat across the room. This person radiated serenity, a degree of inner peace and outer calm that my friend desperately wanted. She took refuge in this stranger until she was able to realize in herself the peace that he saw in him. She allowed him to become her teacher.

The Spirit of the living Christ is manifest in many teachers – the saints living and dead, all those who show us our true selves. When we take refuge in the Christ, we consent to learn from them our true identity, no longer defined by the storms raging within us and around us.

Taking Refuge in the Cross

Peter, of course, doesn’t walk very far on the waves before beginning to sink. Realizing our true nature isn’t magic – it takes practice. It requires commitment to a way of life that allows us to discover our identity in Christ, rather than in the storm. Devotion to the Christ is necessary, but not sufficient. We need to experience transformation as well.

The story is told of a very observant monk, Br. Joseph, who invoked the sacred name of Jesus repeatedly throughout the day. He would sit on his meditation pillow in his room for hours calling upon Jesus, undisturbed, in perfect solitude. One morning as he was meditating on the sacred name, another monk, Br. Thomas, began banging on the door to his room, calling out, “Br. Joseph, Br. Joseph.”

Br. Joseph ignored him. “Bang, bang, bang, Br. Joseph, Br. Joseph.”

Br. Joseph sat still on his meditation pillow, but he began to feel annoyed. “Bang, bang, bang, Br. Joseph, Br. Joseph.”

This continued for some time until finally, Br. Joseph flew off his pillow, yanked open the door, and bellowed, “What do you want, don’t you know I’m calling on Jesus?” “Yes, I know,” Br. Thomas meekly replied. “But I called out your name just ten times and look how angry you are. How do you think Jesus feels?”

Jesus is far more interested in our transformation than in our devotion. Br. Joseph, for all his devotion, still had a ways to go before becoming Christ. True devotion is inseparable from transformation, dying to our ego so that Christ can be born in us and so that we can be, in the words of Martin Luther, “as a Christ to our neighbor.” A spiritual practice that cuts us off from the reality of the present moment and from those calling out for help is merely an exercise in self-centered navel gazing.

That doesn’t mean we should throw away our meditation pillow. It means that we must practice the way of the Cross, the way of solidarity and self-giving love. Authentic spiritual practice leads us into greater awareness of reality, of life in all its beauty and pain, and evokes a deeper sense of wonder and compassion. Contemplative awareness and self-giving love are interconnected; with greater awareness comes a greater capacity for service unhindered by ego, and the more we serve the more we become aware of our need to cultivate contemplative awareness. We learn to take refuge in the Cross, in a spiritual practice for the benefit of all beings, and not simply for ourselves. Br. Thomas only has to knock once before we open the door.

Taking Refuge in the Church

Learning to walk on water may seem miracle enough. But we are invited to experience an even greater miracle. We are invited to participate in the miracle of calming the storm.

Notice in our Gospel story that when Peter reaches out to Jesus and begins walking on the waves, however falteringly, Jesus leads Peter back into the boat – back into the community of disciples. It is only then that the storm is calmed. Taking refuge is not something we can do alone. And so we must take refuge in the Church.

Whatever degree of refuge from the storm we may enjoy in our solitude, if we want to address the underlying causes of the storm we need a community – a community that will support us and hold us accountable to the practice of solidarity and self-giving love; a community that in its own life freely offers hospitality and healing to all.

Whenever we encounter a community of devoted and transforming practice, we encounter the Church. And any community, no matter how frequently it invokes the name of Jesus, that doesn’t practice the way of the Cross is not the Church. It may be a social club, or a museum, or a really weird kind of performance art, but it is not the Church. It is not a place of refuge.

But let me be clear about what is meant by a place of refuge. Do not think of a nature refuge, a wilderness place set apart from the rest of the world, so that every other place can be exploited and degraded. Do not think of a ghetto, a place where marginalized people can find safety, while those outside the wall continue to be terrorized. Such places provide a space in which to walk on water, to rise above the inner turmoil and social unrest so that we can see reality more clearly and realize who we are really meant to be, but they leave the storm untouched.

When we speak of taking refuge in the Christ, in the Cross, and especially in the Church, think instead of an alternative community, a subversive cell that infiltrates the larger culture, until it slowly, gradually permeates the whole. Think of the tiny mustard seed that becomes a tree for all the birds of the air to make their home, or the leaven that makes the whole loaf become a thing of beauty and nourishment. We take refuge, not to set ourselves apart, but to to sanctify the whole of life.

It isn’t enough to walk on water. We need to calm the storm. But we can’t do it alone. We need a community of commitment and practice so that the whole world becomes a refuge until no one and no thing needs refuge anymore.

I take refuge in the Christ,
the one who shows me the way to live;
I take refuge in the Cross,
the way of solidarity and self-giving love;
I take refuge in the Church,
the community that practices hospitality and healing.