by James Martin
What topics come up in spiritual direction? Anything significant that arises in prayer, moments in your daily life when God felt close, and frustrations over how God might seem absent. Being a good spiritual director requires formal training, which includes learning how to listen well and notice where a person might be overlooking God’s activity. It’s not enough simply to be prayerful. St. Teresa of Ávila, the sixteenth-century Carmelite nun, famously said that if she had to choose for a spiritual director between someone who was wise and someone who was holy, she would choose the wise person. Optimally, you would like both!
My first spiritual “directee,” as they’re called in the trade, approached me when I had been a Jesuit for only two years. Following my novitiate, I studied philosophy at Loyola University Chicago. An undergraduate in my Introduction to Philosophy course asked if he could see me for spiritual direction. I asked my own spiritual director if I was ready. “You’re ready to be a director when people start asking you,” he said. It was a moving experience to hear, and see, how God was at work in this young man’s life. Directing him also introduced me to a common experience: my faith grew, the more I saw how God was at work in someone else. It’s a spiritual boost to see God’s activity in others, particularly during times when you, yourself, feel dry. It’s like doubting the wind and then seeing it sweep across a field of tall grass. You say to yourself, Ah, there it is!
The next summer I spent two weeks in a spiritual directors’ training program at a Jesuit retreat house outside of Toronto, Canada. Years later, after my ordination I spent an entire summer at a Jesuit retreat house near Cincinnati, Ohio, learning about spiritual direction techniques, most of which hinge on being a good listener. “Slow, silent, and stupid,” goes one mantra. Don’t rush; don’t be afraid of silence; and don’t assume that you know what the other person means—ask.
Since then I’ve served as a spiritual director for dozens of people, both on a regular monthly basis and during retreats—weekends and eight-day and thirty-day retreats. It is rarely dull. In Ohio one of our instructors told us, “If you’re bored in spiritual direction, it probably means that the other person is not talking about God. They might be talking about problems at work, difficulties at home, or health issues, but they’re not yet talking about God. Because the Holy Spirit is never boring!”
In my experience as a spiritual director, I’ve noticed that a handful of Bible passages seem to help almost everyone. I’ve already mentioned Jeremiah 29:11, which begins, “For surely I know the plans I have for you,” and invites the reader to meditate on God’s provident care. But the passage that is by far the most helpful for people going through difficult times is the Stilling of the Storm. I know of no other passage that is as helpful to Christians. It has been helpful to me too.
THE STORY IS ESSENTIALLY the same in the three Synoptic Gospels, though the song begins on slightly different notes. “One day . . .” (Luke). “Now when Jesus saw great crowds around him . . .” (Matthew). “On that day, when evening had come . . .” (Mark). For purposes of clarity I’ll focus on Mark’s account.
Jesus asks his disciples to cross in the boat to the “other side” of the Sea of Galilee. Mark’s audience will notice two things. First, Jesus’s request comes at the close of a long day of preaching, from a fishing boat offshore. The crowds have just heard several parables, the last being the Parable of the Sower. Jesus will now leave them behind to sail with the disciples. Mark tells us that other boats accompany them; these may have carried the larger group of followers. (Remember that there were increasingly larger concentric circles of apostles, disciples, and followers.3) Perhaps Jesus will reveal something special to the smaller group. So readers may think it’s a hopeful time.
Mark’s audience will notice something else: it is evening. On the sea this can be a time not of anticipation, but fear.
Before the story begins in earnest, the English translation includes a charming phrase. “And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was.” For many years I wondered about those words. What did it mean—“just as he was”? The English might be vague, but the Greek is clearer: paralambanousin auton hōs ēn en tō ploiō. A literal translation would be: “They took him as he was in the ship.” That is, Jesus was already in the boat, so the disciples just piled in, and together they set off for the other side. But the opaque English translation unintentionally reminds us that we need to take Jesus “as he is” rather than trying to make him as we would wish him to be. The disciples often had a hard time dealing with Jesus as he was, just as we do.
Suddenly a great (megalē) windstorm arises on the sea, and the waves begin to swamp the boat. The Greek suggests a kind of tornado. Even today storms suddenly stir up the Sea of Galilee, the result of dramatic differences in temperatures between the shoreline (680 feet below sea level) and the surrounding hills (which can reach 2,000 feet). The strong winds that funnel through the hills easily whip up waves in the relatively shallow waters (only two hundred feet deep). Today a boating industry for pilgrims thrives on the Sea of Galilee; often boat owners will take pilgrims on a tour and even include a Mass aboard the vessels. A few former pilgrims told me that while they were aboard those tourist boats, a storm arrived without warning. Their surprise was exceeded only by the sheer pleasure of witnessing a biblical “storm at sea.”
But the disciples would not have felt any pleasure. It’s important to remember the terror that storms held for those in Jesus’s day as well as the rich religious symbolism of water. In ancient times water was a symbol for life and a means of purification, but it also held out the potential for death and was an occasion of danger, as in the story of the Flood or the story of Jonah. The Psalms speak of God’s power over the seas and also use water as a symbol of peril: “Save me, O God,” says the psalmist, “for the waters have come up to my neck.”4 Raging seas and howling storms would have represented to Jesus’s contemporaries chaos and danger. Jewish belief was that the sea could also be the abode of demonic forces.
On a less theological level, sea voyages were simply dangerous, as St. Paul would attest.5 A storm at sea could be frightening even for experienced fishermen. Far worse is the storm at sea at night.
Not long after a terrible hurricane hit the East Coast of the United States and caused widespread destruction, I saw footage of a woman describing the panic she felt as the “storm surge” hit. She described the waves barreling up her street, bursting in the door of her house, and rising up to her neck; she could barely get the words out—the fear in her voice was still palpable. A cubic meter of water weighs over two thousand pounds, which explains the destruction it can cause during a hurricane or flood, crushing everything in its path. This is a window into the kind of terror that the water would have held in Jesus’s day.
But in the face of the chaotic storm Jesus is calm. Beyond calm. “He was in the stern, asleep on the cushion,” says Mark. What Donahue and Harrington call “untroubled sleep” signals trust in God’s protection even in the direst circumstances.6
A word about that boat. Before I left for Israel a Jesuit friend said that the most moving part of his entire Holy Land pilgrimage was the Jesus Boat Museum. That a museum, and not a church, won that accolade recommended a visit. So one day I dragged George to the ultramodern Yigal Allon Museum, located on a kibbutz by the shoreline.7
Inside was the Ancient Galilee Boat, the remarkably well-preserved remains of a first-century fishing craft discovered in 1986, when a drought lowered the level of the lake. The artifact from the time of Jesus sits in a pristine room, gently supported by cushioned metal struts. The dark, wooden vessel, which would have included a mast, is large—almost 27 feet long by 7½ feet wide. For me the most touching feature was evidence of numerous repairs, the reuse of timbers, and a multiplicity of wood types (twelve in all), some salvaged from other boats. It suggested, as the brochure said, “a long work life and an owner of meager means.” What’s more: “An analysis of crew size suggests
that this is the type of boat referred to in the Gospels in use among Jesus’s disciples.”8
A smaller, modern-day reconstruction of the boat in another room included a raised wooden ledge on which several people could sit. So it would have been easy for Jesus to find a place to sleep, perhaps on a cushion or a bag of sand used for ballast or comfort.9
But it wasn’t easy for his friends to understand how he could sleep in the violent gale. “They woke him up,” said Mark, “and said to him, ‘Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?’” Among his disciples were four fishermen, one of whom was likely the owner of the boat, and even they were afraid of dying. It must have been a hellacious storm.
Jesus rises up. Matthew uses egertheis, which conveys not simply standing, but rising to his full height to confront the storm. He “rebukes” the wind and says to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” The word Mark uses for Jesus’s rebuke (epetimēsen) is the same used for his commands to evil spirits, and Jesus’s phrasing is similar to the way he rebuked the demon in the synagogue at Capernaum: “Be silent, and come out of him!”
At once there is a “great” calm. The Greek megalē is the same word used for the “great” wind, highlighting both natural danger and Jesus’s power over it. We can tell that the disciples are terrified, because Jesus says to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” A more literal translation of Mark’s Greek—pōs ouk echete pistin—may better convey Jesus’s amazement at the disciples’ reaction: “How is it that you still have no faith?”
Their terror is not surprising. We’re so used to some Gospel stories that they can seem predictable. But sit on the narrow wooden seats next to the disciples, and Jesus’s power will render you speechless. And the disciples are frightened by not simply the miraculous—or what might seem magical—power, but what it meant. Controlling nature was the prerogative of God alone. The creation story in Genesis recounts God’s dividing of the waters, separating the rains above and the seas below, and also exerting power over chaotic nature.10 Jews aboard might have remembered one of many psalms on that same theme: “You rule the raging of the sea; when its waves rise, you still them.”11
The next line is stunning: ephobēthēsan phobon megan. They feared a great fear.
Fear of the storm has morphed into fear of God, the awe accompanying a display of divine power, a theophany. When they next open their mouths, I imagine them having a hard time getting the words out: “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”
The carpenter who just offered homey parables on the shoreline reveals a supernatural command over the waters. Jesus is mighty in word and in deed. I can only imagine the disciples sitting in stupefied silence as the voyage continued, now over calm waters.
BACK TO SPIRITUAL DIRECTION. Why has this story proved so helpful to so many people I’ve seen through the years?
Out of all my directees only one was a fisherman! But everyone faces stormy times, when God’s presence is hard to perceive. One of the most common struggles in the spiritual life is a feeling of God’s absence during painful times. Even some of the saints report this. Why is this so common? Perhaps because when we are struggling, we tend to focus on the area of pain. It’s natural, but it makes it more difficult to see where God might be at work in other places, where God is not asleep.
A young man, whom I’ll call Aaron, once came to me for monthly spiritual direction. With palpable sorrow Aaron explained how he felt God had abandoned him after he was diagnosed with a chronic illness. His sense of God’s presence, his ability to see God around him, the ease with which he had once prayed—all had evaporated. Thus, his sadness over his physical condition was exacerbated by a sense of abandonment. When I asked him if he had ever prayed about the Stilling of the Storm, he wept. Just mentioning the passage evoked tears—you could tell that he instantly connected with the disciples’ feelings of abandonment.
When we next met, Aaron said that he was embarrassed about what had happened in his prayer. Imagining himself aboard the boat was easy, as was picturing the waves crashing around him. He saw the waves as apt images of his inner turmoil. But when he thought about Jesus sleeping, he said that he shouted aloud in his apartment, “Get up! Get up! Where are you, Jesus? Why don’t you care about me?” He wept when recounting this.
After Aaron admitted his embarrassment, we talked about God’s ability to handle his feelings of anger and abandonment, since God has been able to handle powerful emotions since (at least) the time of the Psalms. “How long, O Lord?” laments the psalmist. “Will you forget me forever?”12 This is what Aaron, the disciples, and countless believers have said to God.
Expressing his emotions honestly made it easier for Aaron to talk to God honestly, and that in turn enabled him to notice God’s presence in other parts of his life. Aaron’s honesty didn’t remove the physical pain, but it helped to reestablish an open relationship with God. For when you say only the things that you believe you should say, rather than being honest, any relationship grows cold, including one with God. Once Aaron was able to be open and transparent in his prayer, he felt God’s presence. “Funny enough,” he said, “it made me feel calm. Like the sea after Jesus stilled it.”
Aboard the ship the disciples express the human tendency to fear. Were we somehow able to ask the disciples at that moment why they were afraid, they would likely scoff, “Why wouldn’t we be afraid?” Those living along the Sea of Galilee knew what storms could do to boats, and to people. Fear made sense. Without a healthy fear of the elements, Galilean fishermen wouldn’t have taken the necessary precautions to protect themselves, their boats, and their catches.
But Jesus warns against fear in the spiritual life. When it comes to God’s activity, fear is, paradoxically, dangerous, because it turns us away from God. Rather than focusing on what God can do, we are tempted to focus on what it seems God cannot do—that is, protect us. Indeed, Jesus’s earthly life is bracketed by warnings against fear. At the beginning of his earthly life, the angel announcing his conception says to his mother, “Do not be afraid.” And at the beginning of his new life, the angel announcing his resurrection to the women at the tomb says, “Do not be afraid.”
Jesus’s counsel against fear reveals several truths, a few things he wanted us to know about the world, and about God.
First, I have not come to harm you. God’s presence should not prompt fear, for God always comes in love. Second, don’t fear the new. God’s entrance into your life may mean something will change, but unanticipated doesn’t necessarily mean frightening. Third, there is no need to fear things you don’t understand. If it comes from God, even the mysterious should hold no terror. You may not understand fully what God is asking, but this is no cause to be frightened. At the Annunciation Mary couldn’t foresee what her future would hold, but she was empowered to fear not. And at the Resurrection the disciples probably didn’t understand what, or more precisely who, stood before them, but they soon learned not to be afraid.
A healthy fear may remind fishermen to guard against contingencies like a storm, but in the spiritual life fear can lead to the inertia of hopelessness. It can paralyze us, destroy our trust, crush our hope, and turn us inward in unhealthy ways. Unchecked, it can lead us into despair, if we conclude that only woe can come out of the present situation, which is an implicit denial of God’s ability to do the impossible.
Notice that the disciples encounter fear where they are most comfortable—aboard their own boats in Galilee. Especially when God enters into our familiar surroundings, cozy places or parts of our lives where everything seems settled, we may be particularly frightened. Perhaps there is a sudden thaw in a frozen relationship. Maybe you fear this new challenge to your old ways. “What are you doing here, God?” we may say. “Don’t make me let go of my resentments. I’m too settled.” We may not fear the storms as much as the calm after the storm.
Even in these places Jesus says, “Do not be afraid.”
THE STILLING OF THE Storm
is similar to another incident in which Jesus brings calm: his walking on the water. Without delving into too much detail, we can briefly sketch out the narrative that appears in Matthew, Mark, and John.13 In all three Gospels the story follows the Feeding of the Five Thousand on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. After feeding the crowd, Jesus immediately (euthus) dismisses the disciples and “makes” or “forces” them to board their boats and cross the sea. There is no indication why the journey is so urgent, unless we take the next line as an explanation: “After saying farewell to them, he went up on the mountain to pray.” Perhaps his insistence was a way of saying, “I really need some time alone.”
As I mentioned earlier, near the traditional site of the Feeding is a hollowed-out space on a hill called the Eremos Cave, in which Jesus may have prayed.14 It is a small ovoid opening in the rocky hillside, perhaps five feet high by ten feet wide. The morning George and I scrambled up to see it (it’s a few hundred feet from the shoreline), we found the cave empty and the dusty site barren save for an empty beer bottle sitting insolently at the opening. The cave can accommodate a single person and provides some shelter from the elements; if it existed in Jesus’s day (and there’s no reason to think it didn’t), it would have made an ideal place for solitude.
By sunset the disciples’ boat has reached the middle of the Sea of Galilee. (In Matthew, the Greek says, “many stadia away from the land”; a stadion is an ancient measure of roughly two hundred yards.) From his far-off position Jesus sees the disciples straining at the oars in the face of an adverse, or “contrary,” wind. Matthew says the boat was being “battered by the waves.”
