Reluctantly we voyaged, into the arms of chaos. The mob behind us, more desperate. The rabbi, serene. The water? We felt we had no choice.
“Cast off! Row! Row!!” He bellowed above the hazy sounds of the brewing storm. Descent of rain from above. Demands to reign all around.
He bade us go amidst the panic. I see it now: Hands everywhere. Hands reaching out of the mass. Hands holding back Cephas, and his hands straining to stay. Hands on ropes and oars. And hands all over him, the rabbi. How did he get away?
All voices condemned to join the pandemonium. All voices, but his, and he shouted again, just once more. Cephas heard his name and with his gaze anchored home, released his grip, falling back against his brother. Then, eyes still locked, he stood and lifted the sail, and the others were rowing, and I watched the shoreline shrink.
Hours later, we wrestled wind and waves, and there was little time to wonder where he might be. Exhausted, we watched in despair as mountains of water beckoned us to ascend. The boat did well that day, climbing again and again, only to fall. I still remember Cephas, whispering into the mast. The rest of us rowing, drenched in fear. I began to recite the shema, wearily seeking distraction, and I heard the others take it up.
Finally, it was near sunrise, when the night is at its longest; suddenly, I saw a man, walking on the waves. I held my breath, and as we crested the next peak, I saw him again. I cried out, thinking him a ghost.
Others joined, creating a chorus of fear, but as the boat came down atop the collapsing wave, our voices were again no match for his.
“It is I.”
And it was. The wild water spiraled into itself, gathering and settling quietly. A mist hovered briefly and then spilled across the expanse. Stillness. In the sky, the stars came to life, transforming the darkness.
In the new light, I could see him – no, them – coming across the last length of sea. Cephas had his arm draped across the shoulders of the rabbi. They stepped into the water, held aloft by something I still don’t grasp completely. Side by side, their heads leaning into one another; and they were whispering. We held out our hands above the silent sea and lifted them into the boat with us. No way we could make it to the other side by that point. Nobody wanted to even try. We decided to dock early, to the east.
It wasn’t until that day on the beach, at breakfast, after another long night at sea, that Cephas told me the story of how he, in the midst of the storm, above the cacophony of voices in the boat, heard him calling, “Cephas, come.” So, he had leapt from the boat! I always thought he had been tossed. He described the water to me that morning. We sat in the rocky sand, eating fish, and he described the weightlessness of standing on a wave. He told me he walked several yards in exuberant awe. But then he looked away.
He took his eyes off of the rabbi’s. He stared into the night. He began to sink.
But a hand reached out for his. And then there’s the part that Cephas told Levi. But there’s also what happened next, as the rabbi carried him back to the boat. That’s the part Cephas told me, on that last morning we were with Jesus…
“Why did you doubt?”
“Because I saw the wind. And I was afraid.”
“Yeah, you looked away. But look at us now.”
What rapture it was, Cephas told me, what joy to see his feet, in step with the rabbi’s, leaving watery footprints. He tried to explain himself, to say that the wind and waves had been too real to ignore, too dreadful. But Jesus stopped him with a whisper:
“Fix your eyes on mine. So, even when you can’t see me, you know I still see you.”
Matthew 14:22-33 • Mark 6:45-52 • John 6:16-21