Double Hamster on The Rocks

14:29 And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.

14:30 But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and
beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.

14:31 And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him,
and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?

14:32 And when they were come into the ship, the wind ceased.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them.—Hamlet Act 3 Scene 1

Peter, alone and in the face of a storm, leaves the gunnels of his boat to walk on the Sea of Galilee toward Jesus. These are the same waters exposed to the breath of G_d in Genesis and cousin to the seas that supported the Jonah-eating whale. In the Bible, land is given to man but the seas are forever reserved in their unformed state, a precursor to creation. The sea is not parted to reveal dry land, as it was for Moses. Nor is there a whale to carry Peter on a blind but guided tour through the depths of creation. Where the world was first divided in favor of man and where man passed through the raging water protected in the living capsule of the whale, man now stands alone on the surface of creation, perched only tenuously on the paper thin divide from which the solid land—the original domain of man—was first drawn.

Typically, people that comment on this scene fix upon the role of water in the process of creation and upon the relationship between Peter and Jesus. I want to pause and think about the first relationship, between Peter and the sea. What is it to stand in such a position, under a leadgray sky among raging waves? We can think that the water feels like ice upon the soles of Peter’s feet—it is unlikely that he would have floated above the water because the scene would be meaningless without the slight interface, the memento mori that comes with the sting of salt water.

Water captures us, swallows our limbs and flows through our nose mouth and ears. It overtakes us and pulls us inexorably to cold death. Creation—the endless process of tearing down and rebuilding whether in farming, in the body, in cities or in civilizations, does the same thing. At great cost the cells in our body organize and enter a limited form of equilibrium. This equilibrium frays over time and breaks down, a sea of carbon that meanders through a vegetation cycle. We are not able to predict and control this cycle any more perfectly than Peter was able to chart and predict the approach of each wave or to predict the break of each water chain on the surface of his skin.

In this respect, the sea, like the process of creation, presents us with a mystery—it represents the point at which G_d’s principles exceed human understanding. It serves as a reminder that, while some spheres of this world may have been created for benefit, 2/3 of creation remain unseen and impossible to understand. Surrounded by water, by the unknowable process of creation Peter stumbles forward beyond the immediate touch of Jesus but above the water all the same. The boat—the human device for navigating creation—remains behind as Peter steps out of a certain framework to move through creation supported by what? By faith.

A few thoughts. I’m not thinking clearly right now so I’ll need to work on this later.

Peter, leaving the safety of the boat, retraces the steps of the disciples, who have left land and home to follow Jesus.

[It serves, possibly, as a warning (through Peter) to the church, whose members will band together and acquire their own boat in the form of land and power, building cathedrals, promoting the arts, and forging a body of law and doctrine that will challenge the Jewish faith in its complexity. ]

While Christianity has been associated with all sorts of mystical practice, from monks in their anchor holds to flagellants and martyrs, Christians most commonly step off of the boat when they tithe. A tithe, after all, is more than an act of charity. The person who tithes hands over accumulated labor that was intended to provide protection against the vagaries of creation. The person who tithes is ripping planks out of the boat, prepared to walk on the surface of the sea once the hull gives out.

Tithing might be the most mystical religious act. Like prayer, it promotes a sense that one is handing something over. Unlike prayer, real labor, first converted to money, is given as a gift. This adds something.

After the destruction of the second Temple, the remaining Jewish scholars suggested that animal sacrifices which took place in the Temple should be replaced by prayer. Prayer was not new. People had prayed for millennia, but I’d like to think that prayer became more dynamic at that time. What, for example, does the idea of ‘unblemished’—so important in sacrifice—mean in the context of prayer?

Imagine it this way: you are walking along the road, carrying two doves to the temple for sacrifice. Along the way, you are robbed but it is too late to go back and get another set of doves. You arrive at the temple empty handed but the rabbi looks at you and says “That’s okay, just remember Abraham and Isaac: I want you to make a sacrifice of yourself through prayer.” How would that prayer be different? Into what parts of yourself would you reach? What would you offer up? I can’t answer this. The best forms of prayer are only possible in the context of a life that I’m not living right now. I suspect, however, that the penitent, knees on floor, feels at such times that the smooth stone has given way to water and that the skies—previously bright—have darkened overhead. She’s alone on the churning Kinaret, having left the boat of the constructed world, calling out, seeking G_d, waiting for the hand that will guide her forward, moment to moment, through the raging sea.