On a panicky night

And while others thou art calling,

Do not pass me by. Frances Jane van Alstyne

 

Read Mark 6:45—52

It is evening. Night closes in. The wind is up. The sea is up. We’re rowing, but we’re going backwards. It’s a panicky night coming on. And however Jesus has been in the daylight, he’s ghostly now. He’s as frightening as the adverse night. Which is more scary: the storm, the sea, the wind, the dark, or a real meeting with Jesus? But then, in any case, isn’t he passing by? So will I let him go? Will I say where he just went? Could it have been a ghost? Just a thought I had, really? Will I say that? Or will I, after all, when I am desperate, really cry out to him? Often enough my friends panic, and I never seem to have the words for them that go all the way: that Jesus has actually got into the boat and calmed things down. I so much want to say that but I know I won’t be able to. I won’t be able to if I haven’t actually cried out to him when all else has been hopeless.

 

O Lord, darkness is not darkness to you. My fears do not frighten you. You say, ‘Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.’ No, my fears do not frighten you. They are just a thought I had, really. Before you my thoughts and fears are rather ghostly, passing ghosts, like phantoms. I let them go. And pray that the solid reality, what is true to you, remains.  Only what is true to you. That remains. Stronger than death. I hear you again, ‘Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.’