A Fourth Church Sermon by Katherine L. Kussmaul

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March 22, 2009 | 6:30 p.m. Vespers
Service of Ordination to the Ministry of Word and Sacrament
for Jocelyn C. Cadwallader

Step Out

Katherine L. Kussmaul
Associate Pastor, Cary [North Carolina] Presbyterian Church

Psalm 139:1–18
Matthew 14:22–33

It’s a round of sherry inside, and it’s “chucking it down” outside. The bell rings. A bright, bold, boisterous woman covered head-to-toe in yellow rain gear pushes her way through the door. “Hello, I’m Geraldine. I think you’re expecting me.” “No,” Mr. Horton replies as Geraldine turns her back to remove her rain-soaked gear. “I’m expecting our new vicar—unless, of course [big laugh], you are the new vicar and they’ve landed us with a woman as some sort of insane joke.” Geraldine turns to Mr. Horton, clerical collar in full view. “Oh, dear,” she says. “You were expecting a bloke, beard, Bible, bad breath, and instead you got a babe with a bob cut and a magnificent bosom.”

Long-established, ever-in-charge, David Horton was afraid: afraid of change, afraid of unknown, afraid of being—or becoming—the laughingstock of the country. And so when the sun rose the next morning, he called the bishop, in hopes of returning this new-style vicar for a classic-cut man.

● ● ●

Several weeks ago, I was sitting with a group of eighth graders. We were talking about hunger—in North Carolina, around the country, and throughout the world. One of them quite wisely said, “It’s like everyone is waiting for a magic-wand solution to drop out of the sky, an instant ‘poof’ that will wipe away world hunger, but it’s not going to happen that way. Our world isn’t going to be fed unless we, each of us, feeds a neighbor, supports a food charity, takes action.”

We talked as a group about what keeps us from taking action. It’s not that we don’t know what to do, the group of eighth graders decided; it’s that we’re frightened that we can’t do enough or frightened that the actions we do take will balloon and grow into something bigger than we feel able to manage. We know what needs to happen, but we’re afraid of (we fear) what might happen if we step out.

Fear—it’s toxic. While fear can sometimes keep us safe and protect us from danger, fear is more often toxic quicksand. Fear sucks us down, planting our feet in sinking cement. Fear envelopes us, luring us inward and limiting our ability to live and make meaning. Fear seeps into us, providing us a myriad of reasons to stick with what we know.

Fear can, more quickly than we can say the word itself, permeate our beings, contaminating our minds, hearts, and spirits so that we slip into toxic indifference—toxic indifference that keeps us running the rodent wheel, round and round and round, running the wheel, as individuals, as communities, as church.

Running the wheel means sticking with what we know: continuing patterns and traditions not because they work, but because we know them. Accepting what we do as all we need to do, not because we’re addressing every concern, but because what we’re doing is tried and true. Running the wheel means staying in the comfort zone, endorsing the status quo, supporting what is safe, known, established.

“Toxic indifference” and “running the wheel” are two phrases about which Jesus had quite a bit to say. And what he said was in no way a rosy endorsement. Rather, Jesus proclaimed an uncompromising, far-reaching message of open door hospitality and table-turning ethics.

This message, this gospel message, called women and men, boys and girls, from established roles and predictable social patterns to bold, new paradigms—paradigms that, because of what they proclaimed, were risky, scary, frightening: engaging outcasts at the well, sitting at table with sinners and tax collectors, touching and being touched by bleeding women and leprous men. This work, this ministry, was scary, frightening work, and it should be no surprise that the disciples were afraid.

Their fear came to a head during the heavy windstorm on the Sea of Galilee. It had been a long day and Jesus was ready—eager—for some time to himself. But before he headed off to pray, he sent the disciples ahead, putting them in a boat, launching them into the sea. The winds picked up, and like all men of the sea, the disciples realized they had placed their lives in the hands of the unpredictable deep—the unpredictable deep that swallowed sailors, that overturned boats, that expressed emotion from calm and serene to stormy, rough, and deadly. On this particular night, the unpredictable deep was raging, “the wind was against them,” violent waves voiced its tumult, the deep was in control—the disciples were afraid.

And then, early in the morning, Jesus walked out, challenging the power of the sea by stepping out upon it. Knowing that no one dare challenge the sea, the disciples assumed they were seeing a ghost—that is until they heard Jesus speak: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” He reached out to Peter: “Come.”

Peter bravely stepped out, and he too walked on the water, challenging the power of the sea, “taking on” the unpredictable deep until, until, “he noticed the strong wind [and] . . . became frightened.” Peter was “getting it done,” leaving the wheel behind, stepping out of the boat, “taking on” this bold new paradigm until the fear, the toxic quicksand grabbed him and he started to sink.

Then Jesus, the one from whom we cannot flee, reached out his hand, the hand that holds us fast, to catch him. For even “at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right shall hold me fast.” Even in the unpredictable deep, Jesus is with us, leading us, holding us, hemming us in, behind and before.

● ● ●

The village council, back in Dibley, England, stepped out onto the raging sea of David Horton. The village council came together in a strong, steady resistance that gently and boldly pushed back on David Horton’s one-man rampage. The little parish stepped out into the new white caps of women’s leadership and, in a few short months, came to embrace—love—Geraldine, the vicar of Dibley, and their parish, which was once wasting away, became a place of vibrancy, creativity, community, and laughter.

A woman many of us know stepped out, indeed, she steps out all the time, but she stepped out “taking on” an unknown sea in a foreign city. Rather than being trapped in long-held cycles of negative communication and faith-based stereotyping, she stepped up to create new models—building relationships, embodying Christ’s love, in the midst of angry adolescents eager to express their emptiness. She stepped up, trusting God to hem her in on all sides as she ministered with the people of Belfast.

A group of impassioned young adults are stepping out on Monday. Young adults convicted, called, to care for the earth have stepped off the wheel of naïve consumption and endless resources and have organized a “Go Green” proposal to present to Session. The proposal is intended to educate, enlighten, and lead an entire faith community to be a green congregation, a congregation infused with intentional care for God’s creation. These youth don’t know how the sea of session will respond, but they step out, trusting God to guide them.

My friends, we—as individuals, communities, and church—are in much the same situation. We stand on the edge, the edge of many boats, peering into countless seas—some calm, some stormy, some raging with tumult. Some seas are unknown, others will present active resistance, and other seas will seek to swallow us as soon as our feet hit the water. The seas are scary and, truth be told, it would be easier to stay in the boat.

But here’s the rub: we know that the gospel of Jesus Christ calls us to step out from established roles and predictable patterns that sustain the wheel into bold new paradigms of faith, paradigms that push doors open wider, that overturn heavy tables of injustice; paradigms that demand a way for the lost, the hungry, the needy; paradigms that embrace tradition while pursuing faith-filled innovation. And this work, this ministry, this calling, can be risky, scary, frightening.

Like Peter, we must face fear and tackle toxic indifference. We must step out into the unpredictable deep, going into the unknown. We must step out into the farthest limits of the sea, trusting, believing, knowing, that our Lord hems us in behind and before and will always hold us fast.

And I believe that if we do, if we let go of the fear, if we get off the rodent wheel, if we loose ourselves from the bonds of toxic indifference, if we truly step out in faith, then we will find—God will reveal—a new way, a way that is more loving, more hopeful, more gracious; a way that takes doors off their hinges; a way that feeds all people; a way that brings about God’s kingdom here and now with greater joy and deeper faith, all to the glory of God.

Step out.