Chapter Nineteen
Y
ou could watch the sun sinking into the western mountain horizon. How odd, I thought, that you can almost see the great source of brilliant light turning into gold before your very eyes, and you can watch it move . . . I loved sunsets. They always gave a satisfying final touch to a good day and a redeeming patina to a terrible one. What happened between sunset-to-sunset seems almost inconsequential. A nourishing philosophy. I felt content.
By the time we made our way back to Galilee, a large mass of people once again hovered close about Jesus. Sometimes they seemed to appear out of nowhere; from behind the rocks, from behind the brush, up from the wadis. It was amazing. I have seen great crowds before, especially in the Temple at Jerusalem, and once I attended a contest of sport in a Roman arena. But I have never seen anything like the crowds that followed Jesus. For the most part, they were quiet. Many were sick or infirm. They had obviously come to be healed. Jesus did not heal every one. I always thought that strange as well. He did not go to all the leper colonies and empty them of disfigured tenants. He did not visit all the homes of the infirm and do the same. But he did heal many and it was enough to make for these huge crowds. Then there were those seekers after God, the curious and the critics.
For some reason, though we had not had a particularly difficult day, Jesus seemed exhausted. He had stopped smiling and clearly seemed to desire to deliver himself from the crowd. A child came up to him bearing a small bouquet of wild flowers. Jesus stopped, took the flowers, bent, kissed the little girl on her head, and kept moving. We reached the waterfront where a small flotilla of boats was tied. The boats themselves were substantial; they could easily hold fifteen to twenty men. Masts stood in each with a single crossbeam near the top to hold sail. Into one of these, Jesus climbed while the apostles, a few others and I followed. Seeing our purpose, the other boats began to fill as well. “What course, Master,” from Peter. Jesus had seated himself on the bench in the stern of the boat. He assembled a coil of rope and a small seat cushion for a pillow. He laid his head on it, closed his eyes and responded simply, “The other side.” Amazingly, he was asleep.
Peter, James and the other fishermen among us raised the sail that filled with breezy winds, as did the rest of the boats and we were off to the “other side,” wherever that meant. I don’t think any of us really knew. Somewhere, I guess. Maybe just an evening sail, but if I knew Simon Peter, he had fishing and the deep on his mind. Yet, how could we fish with all of the other boats so close by? I looked at Jesus asleep in the stern as we scudded away from shore. In a few moments, the shoreline was a distant blur. Sleeping there on the bench, a coil of rope and a pillow under his head, he did not look like anyone other than a very tired ordinary man. We had all grown used to that. The amazing things he said and did astounded us, but most of the time Jesus was just one of us. He was our undisputed leader, no doubt of that, but it was difficult to sustain the impression that he was extraordinary. He ate and drank with the rest of us, sat around campfires at night and swapped stories with the rest of us. He spoke our language, the language of coarse men. Often we acted as athletes act in their dressing rooms before or after a sporting event. We were men acting and doing as men act and do. We laughed and joked with one another and Jesus was a part of that. We had grown close to one another, our sense of camaraderie intense. We were sometimes confused as to how to perceive him. It was a strange mix of the desire to worship and adore him, or just to accept him as one of us. At this moment as he lay asleep, it was the latter. We saw him as a very tired man. And we took him as he was. That felt right, for the moment.
The Sea of Galilee is one of the most unique bodies of fresh water in the world. Thirteen miles long, seven miles wide, about 150 feet deep in its deepest quarter, its waters sweet and teeming with fish, it is surrounded by mountains, high on the east, lower on the west. Snow capped Mt. Hermon in the distance. From the cold heights of these mountains, cold oceans of air swept down on occasion upon the warm waters and generated sudden, intense storms. The fishermen among us knew all about these storms and had endured dozens of them in their professional lifetimes. There was nothing about this sea or the vessels that ploughed on it that Simon Peter did not know about. Of all the fishermen, he was the most experienced, the most respected for his deep water savvy. If a storm came, it would not catch this man by surprise.
We were well out from shore, the shoreline a distant haze, the mountains rising majestically out of the wet horizon. Peter said suddenly, “Strike the sails.”
“Why, Simon,” said another of the fishermen among us. “The night has not yet fallen. The skies are clear. The stars are beginning to show themselves.”
“I smell it,” said Peter quietly.
“Smell what?” laughed another. “We all know Simon, do we not?” he continued jokingly, “The only thing he smells is his upper lip.” As the laughter began to rise, we heard both anger and urgency . . .
”Strike the damn sails!”
Instantly, John reached for the lines.
The wind hit us like a rolling boulder from the north. The sail could not be reefed enough to avoid heeling over sharply so that Matthew — no seaman — almost fell out. The other boats were hit as hard as we. Some did not reef their sails at all and you could hear them ripping as they heeled so sharply that water gushed over the port gunnels.
Torrents of cool air tore at the water’s surface which undulated and splashed small whitecaps back as if angry at the wind for disturbing them. It seemed as though in only a few seconds the small whitecaps heaved into threatening waves. Another mountainside of wind. Our boat kicked, heaved and heeled and the lake vomited into our boat like a sick sow. Water swirled around our feet and you could see fear on the faces of those of us who were not fishermen. “Bail!” screamed Peter. I looked for a vessel that would allow me to move water out of the boat. Nothing. No vessel of any sort. I cupped my hands and began to toss water back into the sea as fast as I could. “Bail!” All of us madly began to slap at the water in the boat when the boat heeled again and a massive amount of water flowed into it. It was obvious. Obvious! It was impossible to fight this. Our boat was wallowing. God knows what was happening to the other boats. Yes! God knows! The thought flitted into and out of my head so fast that I did not recognize its significance. The bow dipped into a trough between the waves. I looked up and saw a wall of water descending on us. Had it hit us full force we would clearly be gone. Oddly, I thought of Jesus about the same time I heard someone cry, “Master!” Then the wave hit. The boat filled with water and began to sink. Then I heard Peter’s voice above the wind. “This is the worst storm I’ve seen. We accomplish nothing. Keep bailing!” With uncertain sea legs, he made his way to the stern of the boat where incredibly, Jesus still lay asleep. How could he sleep through this? Mad thoughts went through my mind, Had he taken some kind of medicinal potion? Another wave hit. He slept on, undisturbed.
Peter reached for Jesus garment grabbing fistfuls of his garment. Shaking him he said, “Master! Wake up! We are perishing!” His eyes fluttered open. I heard Peter scream, inches from Jesus face, “For God’s sake, help us bail! Do something!” and then with vehemence, “Don’t you care at all about what’s happening here? How can you sleep through this?” Peter was by default our leader at this stage of things. This was not Jesus’ expertise. Peter the fisherman had survived countless storms on this lake. Even though he said it was bigger than any he had seen, we still looked to him to get us out of this — not Jesus. What did he know of storms and waves and boats?
I was close enough to see his eyes. He looked at Peter with what at first I thought was rage, but then they softened to understanding and compassion. He took Peter’s wrists and said simply, “Where is your faith, Simon? Release me.” Peter unclenched his fists that were filled with the clothing of the Master. Peter was affected by these words, but he persisted, “Faith? We are about to drown and you speak of faith? Where is your sense, man? At least attempt to help us!” Just then, another wave struck us heaving the stern of the boat where Jesus lay, up into the wind, which shrieked, through his clothes. What was the point of waking him? What could he do now? It would have been merciful to let him drown in his sleep.
Holding on to the rigging, Jesus managed to stand. He looked at the sea heaving and tossing and then into the darkening sky. Clouds had obliterated the stars and moon. It was dark, foreboding and terrible. A fitting place for death. In our panic, the other boats were forgotten. The dog barked, and as was her habit it seemed, only once. The dog! I had forgotten the animal had been sleeping under the bench where Jesus himself slept. Unlike the rest of us, the beast did not seem excited. She looked at Jesus and licked his hand. The Master merely stroked the animal’s head. Abruptly, he spoke to all of us, “Where is your faith? Why are you so frightened?” We looked at the water in our boat, the raging wind and waves and wondered if Jesus had taken leave of his mind. And then he spoke to the elements as if they themselves had a mind of their own, sentient beings, “Peace!” he cried to the winds. Suddenly, instantly, there was no wind at all. Not so much as an eddy of air. “Be still!” He spoke again to the waves. This took a few seconds longer but the waves subsided and the surface of the water became as smooth as glass. For the first time we could see the other boats. Some were swamped completely with men in the water. Abishag panted contentedly.
Jesus spoke to Peter, spoke to all of us again and for the third time asked of us, “Where is your faith?” I thought you knew. The disappointment in his eyes was palpable.
Our minds could not begin to conceive of the reality of what had just taken place. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, had I not been there to experience it myself, I could never have believed it. Things like this did not happen. It is beyond the ability to imagine. Questions flooded my mind. The others questioned as well. “What manner of man is this? Who is this?” Jesus merely returned to his bench, the coil of rope and the cushion. He laid his head and stared at the sky until his eyelids became heavy once again. Abishag curled beneath where he lay.
We looked at the other boats devastated by the storm and began rescue and repair operations. Jesus did not help. He had done with his part. Not a single soul was lost.
I — all of us — we were all stunned. Later as I thought upon it, and I thought upon it often, I considered: It is impossible to understand or appreciate his teaching or the things that he did if we did not understand and appreciate his Person — who he was. Who he is.
We would not forget this day.
