This is based on a composite of chaplaincy experiences… I gave this short homily before presiding at Communion.

When one’s health takes a tumble, like a swimmer caught in the flash flood or a rip current, the first and very normal reaction is fear. Fear at a loss of control. Fear of the unknown. Fear of death. In the ocean, I was taught to ride out the rip current until it decreases, and then look at a fixed point on shore and begin to swim across, not against, the current. Even if it seems that one is being pulled away from the shore, the best strategy is to simply slog your way. That fixed point of reference, even if it seems unattainable, is what keeps you from swimming in circles.

In the hospital, I offer a fixed point of reference. A point of reference to our God, who never changes. I help others navigate the sudden riptide of fear and change. I know that I am not in control. I do not know when the waters will abate, and I can’t promise that they won’t rise again.

Being in these moments of human sadness with patients and their families isn’t easy. There are days that it is simply hard.

I have sat with couples who had hoped for a baby. They had been to their 20 week sonogram, seen fingers, toes, faces and watched the heart beat. But for some unknown reason, the baby is born too soon. Their gestational age is far too young to be viable. Everyone knew as soon as the parents checked in the hospital that it was going to be a sad outcome.

I have worked with nurses, doctors and families in the NICU. I listen to their stories, their fears, their questions. I’ve baptized these little ones when the parents requested it. I’ve had “naming ceremonies” and christenings. I’ve held hands with the parents when the baby coded and could not be revived. The grief is so palpable. So painful. But for some, despite the loss and grief, there was another message. A message that they talked about with energy and conviction, despite their tears.

There was hope. There was a promise of something bigger, something that would last beyond this human moment. It was as breath-taking as it was sad. I read the Scriptures of joy through pain, of hope through loss. God’s love transcended the moment. We were all in awe because it was as breath-taking as it was sad.

Some call the sharing of the grief and suffering of others “walking through water.” You can’t help but get splashed by the hurts of others if you are willing to wade in to these moments. So while I walked through the water with them, I walked in the promises of the God who was there with us. I shared in the joys of our baptism, of the reminder of the presence and promises of God. Together we claimed them: hope and courage and peace.

The faces of the families fade away over time. But the memory of their frustrations, their worries, their pain, their loneliness, their uncertainties have stayed with me. They remind me of my own fragile humanity. In their longing for wholeness and health, I resonated with the longing for a safe haven, a homeland, a Place of rest that is free from struggle and pain.

I look to that Place… because
When you know that there is a moment coming,
When the death you see today will be defeated once and for all on that new day,
When you can look through the pain to the moment of transformation
When you see the cross and know that God offers us the way to victory in this present pain…

Then you shake off these waterlogged moments — the tears, the unanswered questions — and you take a next shaky step of faith.

Think about Jesus sitting at the Passover table with his friends during the last few hours of his life. They shared a meal, using familiar words and telling a familiar story. Jesus knew he would die. He also knew he would be raised from the dead, that death’s power would be broken. As I re-read the Gospels, Jesus didn’t keep that a secret. He told his followers that he would be raised up. That he would send “another Comforter” to walk through the waters with them. But it was beyond their experiences and their understanding. They didn’t get it. And when Jesus was crucified just a few hours later, they scattered — confused and hurt and grieving.

We can look at the pain of this present day… and then we can look towards Eternity — even though we can’t see it. We mourn what never happened. We grieve what was never realized. We miss the people whose faces and voices are a sweet memory.

BUT. We look ahead as people who have a future and a hope.

Because on the Night – the Night Jesus took the Bread and Cup — we were given the means of Grace to move through the highest waves, the strongest currents with Christ beside and before us.