Encountering the rock of our faith

In a gently rounded bay on the northwest shore of the Lake of Galilee is a place called Tabgah. There, nestled close to the water, is the “Church of the Primacy of Saint Peter” where pilgrims remember the risen Christ calling the disciples to join him for breakfast.

After they had eaten together, Jesus asked Peter, three troubling times, if he loved him. Some people say the three questions are in counterpoint to Peter’s three-fold denial of Jesus before he was crucified. Others say the reason Jesus asked the question three times is because Peter did not understand the first two questions—when Jesus asked, “Do you love me with the same other-serving, self-denying, sacrificial love I have shown?” and Peter responded, “I love you with familial, fraternal love.” The third time, Jesus asked, “Do you love me with familial, fraternal love?” and Peter said, in his anguish and confusion “Yes, that is how I love you.”

In any event, Jesus’ questions gently reminded Peter that he was a less than perfect disciple (because there are no perfect disciples), and restored him as “the rock” upon which the Church would be built. Jesus also tells Peter that his life, as chief among the followers of Jesus, would henceforth be one where he will be led where he does not wish to go.

The Church of the Primacy of Peter is built on rock, and a large swath of the floor, extending up to the altar, is exposed limestone—which is less a tribute to Peter than a memorial of the place where Jesus served breakfast to his disciples (it is called Mensa Christi or the table of Christ). It is a visual reminder of the strong love and indestructible hope of the risen Christ—the true rock upon which our faith is founded.

In July, I took a time of “sabbath rest” to step back after four years of intense episcopal ministry and refresh my spirit. Rather than slip away on a quiet retreat in some holy place, I chose to build a small addition to the home of one of my children (for me, a perfect way to cleanse the mind and awaken the body). My design called for a pier foundation, which meant digging two four-foot-deep holes to establish footings and forms for concrete posts.

My brother was on hand to assist with the foundations and framing of the addition, and we each took on the hole-digging. Almost immediately, we encountered rocks, some almost a foot in diameter. About a third of the way down, I encountered what seemed to be a large rock, but when I tried to dig around it to find its edges, its enormous size became evident: it was a boulder that could not be moved. I stood on it, weighing my options, and realized that I needed to clear space around it and underneath it if I had any hope of having a concrete pier anywhere close to my original plan. After considerable effort and salty prayers, the mould for the footing and a hollow tube were put in place, the concrete was poured, and all was well.

It strikes me that while we can and must guide change in our personal lives and in our diocesan church in order to “proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ,” we are not without a solid foundation—and we can’t simply do whatever we want. The rock of our faith is the grace of the risen Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit. We acknowledge this and become more deeply aware of who we are called to be when we pray, alone and together, listening to words of scripture and the creeds and liturgies of our church, singing hymns, and sharing bread and wine at the table of Christ. The rock of our faith is solid and real.

The rock of our faith will not budge to suit our plans, but as we take time to explore its generous contours and let ourselves be led to places we might not otherwise wish to go, we can be secure in the knowledge that we have solid footings.