Church of the Incarnation

I grew up around water, and water has always been for me a powerful image for God. I hear God's gentle, soothing voice in the murmur of a mountain stream. And my little worries are washed away by the vastness of the ocean and the power of the tides.

But the body of water that best describes this life, for me, is whitewater - a fast-moving mountain stream in which submerged rocks cause unpredictable currents. In some places, the pull of the current guides you safely between the rocks. But in other places, the current swirls back on itself and pulls you under, dashing you against hidden rocks before spitting you out. Parts of the river are calm and gentle, almost like a lake on a windless day. But around the next bend the river can become a boiling, angry thing threatening to pull you into its foaming maw.

God, of course, is able to float safely through the rapids that threaten to undo us; God is safely tucked into a raft which cushions the blows of the rocks and slides over the dangerous currents. There's plenty of room in the raft, and God reaches out for us, trying to drag us into the raft with him. But we mistake his help for danger and we kick and fight, taking ourselves farther into the rapids.

From the raft, God tries to teach us how to survive the river's dangers. Through the prophets, God shouts instructions: "point your feet downstream so they'll hit the rocks first;" "don't try to fight the current." But we can't always hear his voice over the roar of the waves, and it's hard to follow instructions when you're terrified. So God stands on the river's banks and tosses us the throw-rope of the church, ready to haul us out of danger. But we can't see the rope for the foam, or we lose our grip on it as we're being knocked around.

So God does a remarkable thing. God jumps out of that safe, dry raft into the whitewater with us. "The Word becomes flesh and lives among us."1

For a time, the water is calm and Jesus floats beside us, allowing the flow of the water to carry him. It's good to have him with us. His gentleness calms us, and his hand in ours makes us feel safe.

But as we round a bend in the river, the water begins to churn and we feel our bodies growing tense. We lift our heads, straining to see the safest path, and we start to fight the current, trying to swim away from the rocks ahead. But still Jesus floats beside us, his hand in ours. He doesn't strain or fight the current. He points his feet downstream and floats on top of the swirling waters. He is arrested, questioned by the High Priest, and taken to Pilate; and still he floats. He is mocked and spit upon, and the soldiers flog him. His body is dashed against the rocks; blood pours from his head and his back, but still he floats, allowing the current to have its way with him. He lugs his crossbeam up the hill; nails rip through his flesh and splinter the wood of the cross. He hangs there in the hot sun, every breath an agony. And still he floats. The churning water is stained red all around him, and still he floats.

We kick against the waves, twisting to avoid a rock, and Jesus' hand slips from ours. We struggle, arms and legs beating the water, as we search for him in the foam. And then we see him, bobbing up ahead, rising and falling with the waves. His arms hang limply at his sides, and we realize his tumult is over. He floats away from us as peacefully as he once floated beside us.

But what about us? How are we to face the waves without his hand in ours, without his gentle presence beside us, floating calmly? We cry out, but the waves smother our voice, and hurl us into the next rock. We're alone in the whitewater. "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"2

Amen.

References:

1. John 1:14
2. Psalm 22:1