The sea is a terrifying place. Way down, at the bottom, is where the seven-headed dragon Leviathan lurks. When the winds begin to blow and the waves start pounding, the beast of the bottomless pit is wagging its tail, ready to pounce on all within its reach.
In our everyday lives, we may try to avoid the chaos of the sea, but no matter where we turn, the ancient dragon’s terrifying tentacles are at our heels, ever ready to trip us up and drag us down to Sheol’s innermost depths. When like Jonah we pass hell’s gate, we descend into hell and get stuck in the belly of the whale.
This is the horrifying situation in Mark’s account of Jesus walking on the water (6:45–52). Along with the disciples, for many dark hours we have rowed so as to reach the other side. But our headway is painful. We are getting tortured, literally. The wind is howling; Leviathan is on the prowl.
Where does one turn when the devil’s mouth gapes open, and the shady world of evil is ready to claim us for its own? Our human strength obviously falls short. Faced with Satan’s frightful presence, we are reminded of God’s words to Job in chapter 41:
Can you draw out Leviathan with a fishhook
or press down his tongue with a cord?
Can you put a rope in his nose
or pierce his jaw with a hook? (Job 41:1–2)
Clearly not.
Who can open the doors of his face?
Around his teeth is terror. (41:14)
When devilish winds are torturous and the monster tosses up the waves, the powers of hell below seem in control; we cannot reach the other side. But Jesus reminds us: the world is comprised of more than just the sea.
Look elsewhere; look up upon the mountain. There, in darkness, someone is kneeling, praying, all alone. The crowds are gone. They are filled with loaves and fishes (Mark 6:42), and they have disappeared. The disciples too, have left, for Jesus made them get into the boat. The Lord is in his holy temple; all the earth keeps silence before him (Hab. 2:20).
Note the contrast. The disciples down below fighting wind and waves, dreading jaws of hell, demonic powers dragging them down. Jesus our God, high in his holy dwelling atop the mountain, serene and peaceful, in his Father’s house.
Does he not know? Does he not care? Why did he make us get into this boat? Why has he left us rowing all alone? It is nearly morning, and we have been fighting all night long. Does he not realize that we have reached the very end of our rope?
The disciples’ questions are yours and mine. The very last words of Mark’s passage tell us plainly: “Their hearts were hardened” (Mark 6:52). Hard hearts prevent us from knowing what is really going on.
The reality check is Genesis 1—“The Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.” That is true in Mark 6, and still today. The creator God is hovering over the face of the waters that threaten to upend us.
The reality check is Exodus 14—“Moses stretched out his hand over the sea and the Lord drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night and made the sea dry land, and the waters were divided.” The redeemer God controls the chaos and drowns the enemy—Pharaoh, the monster of the sea.
The reality check is Deuteronomy 33—
The Lord came from Sinai
and dawned from Seir upon us;
he shone forth from Mount Paran;
he came from the ten thousands of holy ones,
with flaming fire at his right hand.
The creator and redeemer God is coming down the mountain. And, our text says, he sees that we are making headway painfully—torturously. God sees us, he comes to us, he is walking on the sea. That is the reality check of Psalm 77—“Your way was through the sea, your path through the great waters; yet your footprints were unseen.”
Jesus our God is coming down the mountain to stand upon the land, alone (Mark 6:47). Mountain, land, sea—all are his; he makes them all his home.
The disciples are scared out of their wits. Demonic waves and wind are all around. Who is that shadowy figure walking on these waves?
Jesus means to pass them by (Mark 6:49). This is our ultimate reality check. Recall when Moses is in the cleft of the rock, as the Lord comes down in the cloud: “The Lord passed by him” and proclaimed his name (Exod. 34:6). And remember Job—“Behold he passes by me, and I see him not; he moves on, but I do not perceive him” (Job 9:11). When God passes by, it means he has come down from his heavenly mountain temple—like he came to Moses, like he came to Job.
But like Job, we “see him not; he moves on, but I do not perceive him.” Like the disciples, our hearts are hard; we cannot see. We are beside ourselves with fear. “It is a ghost,” we cry. Well, no, it is not a ghost; it is God himself. God has descended from on high. “Take heart,” he says, “it is I—egō eimi—I am.” “Do not be afraid.”
God steps into our boat. It is like he speaks the words of Isaiah 51 to us:
Was it not I who cut Rahab in pieces,
who pierced the dragon?
Was it not I who dried up the sea,
the waters of the great deep,
who made the depths of the sea a way
for the redeemed to pass over?
I, I am he (egō eimi) who comforts you;
who are you that you are afraid of man who dies?
“He got into the boat with them.” When did God get into the boat with us? When he made the world and his Spirit hovered over the face of the waters. When he made a path through the waters while his footprints were unseen. When he came down from heaven to take on the form of a slave. When he hung upon the cross, forcing Hellmouth open one last time, like Jonah, to free those tied down in death’s domain.
Our God is a God whose character it is to get into the boat with us.
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bid’st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea.
Hans Boersma is the Saint Benedict Servants of Christ Professor in Ascetical Theology at Nashotah House Theological Seminary.
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Image by Jan Peeters, provided by Wikimedia Commons via Creative Commons. Image cropped.
