A little faith

The cantata for last Sunday's Bach Cantata Vespers was BWV 81, Jesus schläft, was soll ich hoffen? (Jesus sleeps, what can I hope for?). It's based on the gospel lesson for the Fourth Sunday after Epiphany from Matthew 8 (from the lectionary of Bach's day). The disciples are in a boat on the Sea of Galilee with  Jesus asleep in the stern. A storm is brewing, they are frightened -- how can Jesus sleep through this? But then he wakes up to tell the storm to schweigt, hush, be still.  

Arias and recitatives dramatize a journey from despair and fear to eventual peace and reassurance. From Jesus' absent to Jesus present. There's a gorgeous lament at the beginning of the cantata and then a fast and furious storm in the orchestra, with the tenor hanging on by a thread. Then the bass stands up to sing the words of Jesus, heard over the storm. Peace is restored and the choir (possibly the congregation, too, in Bach's day) sings the second stanza of the chorale, "Jesus, Priceless Treasure," with "Jesus will protect me" as the final line, the melody firmly descending the five notes of a C minor scale, from dominant to tonic.

"Why are you afraid, you of little faith?" (Matthew 8:26) were Jesus' words to the disciples, and the homilist, speaking before the cantata performance, turned the words "a little faith" a bit sideways and explored whether "a little faith" was enough. In Matthew's gospel, it is. It is enough to clothe the lilies of the field (Matthew 6:28-29), enough to save Peter as he sank down under the waves after impetuously stepping out of the boat to walk on water in another storm on the Sea of Galilee (Matthew 14:22-33). Even a little faith -- a diminutive one, which honestly, might be the best we can come up with -- will see you through the storms of life, the preacher said. An effective idea which gave structure to the sermon. I listened all the way through, which I must admit, is rare with sermons. 

But still, it begs the question: What is faith, this unseen thing that, whether large or small, is supposed to be there for us in the darker moments of life? Conviction that will carry us forward? Even when the swirls and anger of the storm are worse than frightening -- when they are meaningless, heartless?

The sermon like the cantata text came to rest on the words "Jesus will protect me." It works out that way in the Bible story. Jesus and his band of disciples arrive safely on the other side, surviving the storm to live another day. But there's trouble ahead for Jesus, and neither he nor his Father works a miracle to save him from trial and execution. Trouble ahead also for the disciples further down the road.

None of us are protected from the wounds of life. Not from petty hurts that conspire with our own worries and fears to distort our outlook. Not from blows so gutting that it's hard to imagine a life beyond them. And not from our own aging, deterioration and death. 

A strong faith is not an insurance policy against danger or suffering or struggle. I thought that way as a child -- that I could conquer all things with God by my side. Now, not so much. Great faith, small faith -- meh. 

"Life is suffering," said the Buddha (though in truth the concept of dukkha is more subtle than that). Awful things happen, whether you have faith or not, and faith won't erase the wounds. After Jesus' resurrection the disciple Thomas declared he would acknowledge the risen Christ only if he could touch the wounds in his hands and feet, put his hand on the place where the spear had slashed Jesus' side. 

It's the wounds that matter, scarred, healed over, but still vibrating with the wounds of the world. It's in the hurt, questioning places that even a "little" faith gasps, breathes, lives. Why? Because Jesus meets me here, wounded, suffering, compassionate. And it's where I meet others, in that boat that's never quite still in BWV 81.