Love > Chaos: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on August 13, 2023 at St. Anne Episcopal Church in West Chester, OH, on the occasion of my first service as Rector. The lectionary text cited is Matthew 14:22-33, when Jesus walks to the disciples across a stormy sea.

Anyone who has ever moved, whether across the country or the globe, or even just across town, knows that it can be an experience of utter chaos. And although I was determined, back when my call to St. Anne was finalized, that for once I would have an incredibly organized and orderly moving process, and that I would have all my boxes packed weeks in advance, life had other ideas. A confluence of events, both planned and unplanned, conspired to find me, just several days before the moving truck arrived, drowning in piles of books and papers and boxes and yet more books, questioning why on earth I ever felt it necessary to acquire three separate copies of Shakespeare’s complete works and a cardigan sweater collection large enough to rival Mr. Rogers (you’ll see those in the fall). 

One evening, as I sifted through the clutter and felt a rising anxiety that it all might rise up and swallow me whole, like Jonah in the belly of the fish, I opened a box of old papers and came across a collection of cards and letters, mostly from college days, some even older than that, and I started reading them. There were birthday cards from my late father; letters my mom sent me when she was living in Africa; postcards from old friends I haven’t seen in years. And as I sat there, reading through them, reminded of all the places I been and the people who have loved and cared for me so well along the way, I looked around at the disorder of my apartment and my life and I had a feeling of clarity, of reassurance, that yes, even here, even in the midst of change, in the midst of upheaval, love would sustain me, just as it always has. 

Those moments of chaos, both large and small, are no stranger to any of us, I’m sure. No matter who we are or where we come from, there are turbulent seasons of life, when the safe and familiar fall away and we are left out in the open, unsure of how to navigate, or even just how to keep our head above water. And it is perhaps quite natural for us, in such moments, to assume that the resolution to chaos is its opposite: order. safety. calm. Once I get everything in my life in order, then it’ll all be ok. Once I get all my books and cardigans stacked and sorted, it will all be ok. Somewhere, over the rainbow, just on the other side of the chaotic present, there will be a moment where life makes perfect sense and nothing is complicated.

There’s just one little problem—that perfect order which we seek never quite comes to pass. Someone gets sick, or an unexpected bill comes along, or the person we expected to stick around says goodbye, or we simply have too much to do and not enough time. And the waters rise, and we feel, once again, like the forces of chaos are stronger than our best laid plans. 

Surely the disciples felt a bit like this when they were out in that boat, battered by the storm on the sea. In the passage just before this, Jesus has just miraculously fed over five thousand people, so they’re all feeling pretty good about themselves, and then he says, take that boat and go over to the other side, and that seems straightforward enough for a group that includes some fishermen. But then the storm comes, and Jesus is nowhere to be found, and they are tired, and afraid, and the forces of chaos, both literal and proverbial, the dark and restless deep, the cresting wave, the rising anxiety, seems ready to overtake them, and any pretense of control, of order, of safety, is carried away on the howling wind.

And then, suddenly, in the midst of the chaos, there is Jesus, walking towards them on the water, saying do not be afraid, saying, take heart, saying, do not be afraid, saying come. 

And I think it is crucial–if we are to understand what this gospel might be telling us about navigating the chaotic storms of our own time and of our own lives–it is absolutely crucial to note that Jesus does not make this invitation to step out of the boat after he has calmed the wind, but before. He speaks from out of the whirlwind, as God did to Job. He is, in effect, saying to Peter (and thereby to us) come out and walk with me on the troubled waters; come and stand out here, where there is more beauty than there is safety; out here where there is more meaning than there is order; and know that I have come to you, across the sea, across the waters of eternity, not always to make things simple, but to make them true.

For it is here, in that space where nothing is familiar and yet where everything is possible, where a hand reaches out to guide us into the unknown, it is here that Jesus reveals good news for anyone frustrated by the inescapable complexities of life: that the true opposite of chaos is not order. The true opposite of chaos is not safety, nor simplicity. It is love. The opposite of chaos is love. 

For when things fall apart, as they sometimes do, and when things get messy, as they often will, whether in our personal lives or in our families or communities or in the world around us, when the piles of problems and to-dos loom up and threaten to swallow us whole, it is love that will reveal itself, even in the midst of the chaos, like an old letter in a moving box, like a hand clasping yours in the darkness, like the Son of God holding us close within the roar of the sea. It is only love that is more powerful than chaos, not because love eliminates chaos, but because chaos, no matter how hard it tries, cannot eliminate love. Chaos can wreck our best laid plans, but it cannot drown out love.

And you know this already, each of you and all of you together, surely. Because the divine spirit of love is alive and strong at St. Anne, and I have already heard from so many of you how that love has sustained you through occasional seasons of change and challenge in your lives, just as it has through many seasons of joy. 

And I know in my heart that we are embarking, this day, on a new season of joy together, but I am also comforted by the reminder that even when we must face and solve challenges together, even when things get a little complicated or confusing or messy, as they sometimes do, it is that love—love of God and neighbor and of one another—that will carry us through any storm.

And it is that kind of love—the wild and free kind that is undaunted by chaos; that doesn’t hesitate to get its feet wet; that doesn’t mind troubling the waters for the sake of justice or navigating the unknown for the sake of spiritual depth—it is that Jesus-type of love that this world needs so desperately right now. And that’s the kind of love we’re going to continue cultivating here and sharing with everyone who comes through these doors and those beyond this place who need to hear about what happens here. Believe me, they need to hear about it.

Because how marvelous it is that the God of the universe, the Lord of all creation, the One who breathed over the swirling waters at the morning of the world, is coming to find us, still, on this very morning, undeterred by any storm, unstoppable, unimaginably determined to love us, saying, sighing, singing, roaring that invitation into the wind:

Take heart. 

Do not be afraid. 

Come.