 |
| Anchor as used on the first Royal Navy nuclear submarine, HMS Dreadnought, at Anchor Walk, National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, UK |
Submarines don't like to use their anchors. They have a nasty habit of not coming back up when we try to hoist them, and since they are stored in a place we can't get to, there's nothing we can do about if anything goes wrong. On one of my boats, we were supposed to anchor overnight outside Port Said in preparation for the next morning's transit of the Suez Canal. Instead, we lowered our outboard motor, and used it to stay in the same spot. This was just as well, because a huge ship transporting new cars had trouble communicating with port control, and ended up trying to anchor where we were, so we had to scoot out of the way rather quickly.
Speaking of anchors, in the book Think, Act, Be Like Jesus, which we are using in Sunday School this year, Randy Frazee opens the chapter on Hope with Hebrews 6:19-20. In preparing for this lesson, I got to thinking about the anchor as an analogy for hope, or faith. The basic premise, as I understand it, is that when we are beset by the storms of life, we can set down our anchor of hope on the firm ground of faith, and ride out the storm.
This is an excellent analogy, so let's run with it.
The problem with a vessel at anchor is that it does not go anywhere--that's the point of the anchor. But a vessel not going anywhere is not fulfilling the function of a vessel. Go out on the Hampton Roads sometime, and you will see plenty of vessels sitting there securely at anchor, going nowhere while their owners sort out some problem.
The problem with a vessel at anchor is that it does not go anywhere--that's the point of the anchor. But a vessel not going anywhere is not fulfilling the function of a vessel. Go out on the Hampton Roads sometime, and you will see plenty of vessels sitting there securely at anchor, going nowhere while their owners sort out some problem.
At some point, after the storm has passed, we must weigh anchor and continue our voyage through life. The good news is that we have our anchor--hope--held firmly against our bow (or tucked neatly into our ballast tank if we're a submarine). So we are always able to hold firm against future storms by setting our anchor back onto our faith.
Unless we're in water too deep to anchor--which is the majority of the ocean. That's a little scary--so let's not think about that just yet. We'll come back to it later. Meanwhile, we can push the analogy in some other directions.
When a vessel is at anchor, the wise mariner continues to check his position frequently. In the good old days, this was done by shooting bearings to at least three visual reference points, plotting the lines of bearing on a paper chart using pencil, and seeing where the lines crossed. These days we just glance at the GPS receiver. This makes sure that the vessel is staying within a circle around the point where the anchor was dropped, to ensure that we are not dragging our anchor along. Dragging anchor is a particular problem when the bottom is not well-suited for anchoring. And here we see the analogy to putting one's hope in a faith that is not well-suited to hold us firm. Some would say that I suffer from this, with my very progressive theology: that I drift with the tide of social opinions. Obviously, I wouldn't agree, but it does cause me to pause and question. And shoot some bearings.
There are other types of bottom that present a worse problem: the stuck anchor that won't pull up off the bottom. The submarine's nightmare. We are now stuck to our theology, unable to make any progress in the world because we are held firm by our anchor. This is the opposite to the dragging anchor: this represents the extreme religious conservative, like the Sadducees and the Pharisees of biblical Jerusalem. (It is, of course more complicated than that: both were conservative, but in different ways, and were continuously in social and religious conflict.)
A vessel with a stuck anchor really only has two choices: remain stuck in the same place forever, or cut the anchor chain and lose the anchor. Here the hope/anchor analogy breaks down a little, and we really need to look at the anchor more as faith, or religious grounding. A vessel without an anchor can still more around, even moor in ports. But if it encounters heavy winds and seas, it will have to weather out the storm on its own, without the ability to secure itself in place with its anchor. We see this in many young adults, as they cut themselves free of the religion of their upbringing, they seem unrooted. It can be frightening, both for the anchorless person and for those around him.
In my own progressive zeal I am often tempted, when I encounter somebody who appears to be stuck in what I consider a regressive religiosity, to push them--to try to open their eyes to the wonderful diversity of the world God has made. But I find myself repressing that urge, out of fear that I will end up breaking their anchor chain, and leave them without the security of knowing that they can anchor in their faith.
The more common response when a person whose anchor is stuck in the mud is pushed, is for them to haul in the anchor chain part way, reducing the distance from the anchor that they can be pushed by the currents. In other words, they cling more tightly to the security of whatever truth they have decided on. This situation is that in which certain politicians in North Carolina have found themselves: with their stability threatened by the Supreme Court decision on gay marriage, they had to reaffirm their anchoring by passing legislation to ensure that LGBT could not be a class protected from discrimination, even on a local level. (And then there was that silly business about bathrooms.)
Sometimes, a storm comes along that is very powerful. A vessel will try to ride it out at anchor, but the storm is so powerful that it not only breaks the vessel free from the anchor chain, but also breaks off the rudder and floods the engine. This vessel is now adrift, unable to choose its course, moving entirely at the whim of the currents around it. This vessel is likely to end up being thrown upon the rocks, possibly broken. This vessel is the addict.
The addict, like the vessel cast adrift by a powerful storm, cannot help herself. She needs to be helped by others. But she also needs to be ready to accept that help. For the vessel which cannot control where it is going, there is an international signal she is required to show, to let those around her know that she is "not under command." That signal, during daylight, is to hoist two black balls. And before you ask, yes submarines do carry this signal (or, at least, they used to).
Other vessels seeing the two black balls know that the disabled vessel cannot be relied upon to respond as expected by the nautical rules of the road. So don't expect the vessel to give way to you, just because that's called for by the rules: she is unable to control her own course. It's a pity we don't have a similar signal to show as people in society: "I am not in control of my life at the moment so don't expect me to behave in a socially appropriate way".
But the two black balls are also a call for help. They say "I need someone to come take control of my course, and tow me to a safe place so that I can be repaired." Of course, to be towed, one has to be ready to give up control, and turn over that control to someone else. This is the part that addicts find so difficult. They still live in the illusion of control, and are not ready to have someone else take over for them. But if they do, and can find a safe harbour, and get their rudder fixed and their engines repaired, and have a new anchor installed, then just maybe they can return to normal.
It doesn't always take a strong storm, the kind of catastrophe that affects all the ships in an area, to detach an anchor, or even knock off a rudder. To illustrate, let me tell you a story. It's a true story, even if I received it second-hand.
There once was a submarine officer stationed in Hawaii, who retired, and remained in Hawaii. His name was Bill. (It probably wasn't, but I can't remember what his name actually was.) Bill liked to sail, and not long after retiring he bought a new sail boat. But he had to take delivery in San Diego, so he flew there with his son and his son's friend, and the three of them set off to sail his new boat back to Hawaii.
One evening, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Bill emerged onto the deck of the sail boat, coffee in one hand, cinnamon roll in the other, to take over from his son and friend for the first watch of the night. Suddenly, he heard a sound, both strange and familiar. Familiar because it was the sound of submarine active sonar pings. Strange because he had never previously heard it while standing on the deck of a sail boat. In the middle of the Pacific.
Suddenly, barely 100 yards away, a periscope popped out of the water, swept round a few times, stared at the sail boat, then vanished again. Bill used his satellite telephone to call the watch officer at the Commander, Submarine Force Pacific, to report the sighting.
As it turned out when he got back to Hawaii, it was indeed one of our submarines, who had been just as surprised to find a sailboat in the middle of the Pacific as Bill had been to see a submarine. When Bill saw the periscope, it was actually the second time the submarine had been at periscope depth. After first seeing the sailboat, which they had been unable to hear before coming to periscope depth, the submarine had re-submerged and practised using active sonar to see if they could find the sailboat that way. After confirming their findings by looking at the sailboat through the periscope again, the submarine had gone on about their (classified) business. Slightly shaken, but much wiser.
But that wasn't the interesting part of Bill's journey. Without further incident, he got almost all the way home--indeed, he was in sight of Diamond Head--when the boat suddenly shuddered and bucked. When he tried to steer back to course, he found he could not steer: the rudder had gone. Then, again about 100 yards away, a whale spouted. He could almost hear laughter from the blow-hole. The whale had knocked off his rudder!
The rest of the story is even worse, but the important point is that we can find our self not under command, even in the absence of a storm. Sometimes massive marine mammals just come to the surface to mess with us--and there's nothing we can do about it, except to raise two black balls.
In many ways Bill was lucky. He lost his rudder within sight of land, and was able to get the Coast Guard to come tow him into port. Of course they hooked up the tow incorrectly, and ended up breaking his mast. And when he submitted his insurance claim, he was told that his insurance was for open ocean transit (wisely), but since he was inside territorial waters at the time of the incident he wasn't covered. But he did get home safely.
So what if we find ourselves in a storm in the middle of the ocean, where it's too deep to let go the anchor? It's time to think about that scary possibility. In this circumstance, we are unable to use our hope to anchor us in our faith--we are on our own. It takes courage (Brené Brown has a lovely discussion of that word) and resolve to fight through the storm, using our own resources, secure in the knowledge that we can--with luck--get back to shallow water and reconnect with faith.
Of course, we could just remain forever in coastal waters, always in sight of land and in water shallow enough to anchor. This was the way most people sailed in ancient times. In the Mediterranean, you can visit many different countries without ever having to lose sight of land. This way, we would have the security of always knowing where we are, always able to drop anchor, to be held fast against the storm by our hope and faith. Some of us would like to return to those times, when life seemed simpler, and safer.
Around Veterans' Day, I frequently see postings on the internet to thank the military, because without our brave military men and women we would all be speaking German, or Japanese. While I acknowledge the courage of people in the military, ready to die in the defense of our country, the statement itself is historically inaccurate: Hitler had no intention of invading and taking over the U.S.; neither did the Japanese. In fact, both were anxious to keep the U.S. out of the war, so that they could each pursue their hegemonic goals elsewhere: for the Germans, to the east, and for the Japanese, in the western Pacific. I bring this up only because of the issue of what language we speak now. If humanity had decided never to venture out from sight of land, to be brave enough to sail into waters too deep to anchor, then Americans would all be speaking Navajo, Cree, Ojibwa, Cherokee, or one of the many other native languages of North America.
It can be scary to sail into a future where we cannot see the end. It can be terrifying to venture through areas where we have to rely on our own powers, guided perhaps by God but unable to anchor ourselves in a religious faith. But without that risk, the explorer can never have the delight of finding that "far-off shore where he would tread" [Henry VI, Act 3 Scene 2].
In closing, let us acknowledge that risk presents the possibility of failing. In the clip below, J. K. Rowling reminds us that sometimes failure is necessary, to strip us of the inessential, and set us back on the right path.
J. K. Rowling, speaking at a Harvard Commencement on failure. See the whole speech here.
When a vessel is at anchor, the wise mariner continues to check his position frequently. In the good old days, this was done by shooting bearings to at least three visual reference points, plotting the lines of bearing on a paper chart using pencil, and seeing where the lines crossed. These days we just glance at the GPS receiver. This makes sure that the vessel is staying within a circle around the point where the anchor was dropped, to ensure that we are not dragging our anchor along. Dragging anchor is a particular problem when the bottom is not well-suited for anchoring. And here we see the analogy to putting one's hope in a faith that is not well-suited to hold us firm. Some would say that I suffer from this, with my very progressive theology: that I drift with the tide of social opinions. Obviously, I wouldn't agree, but it does cause me to pause and question. And shoot some bearings.
There are other types of bottom that present a worse problem: the stuck anchor that won't pull up off the bottom. The submarine's nightmare. We are now stuck to our theology, unable to make any progress in the world because we are held firm by our anchor. This is the opposite to the dragging anchor: this represents the extreme religious conservative, like the Sadducees and the Pharisees of biblical Jerusalem. (It is, of course more complicated than that: both were conservative, but in different ways, and were continuously in social and religious conflict.)
A vessel with a stuck anchor really only has two choices: remain stuck in the same place forever, or cut the anchor chain and lose the anchor. Here the hope/anchor analogy breaks down a little, and we really need to look at the anchor more as faith, or religious grounding. A vessel without an anchor can still more around, even moor in ports. But if it encounters heavy winds and seas, it will have to weather out the storm on its own, without the ability to secure itself in place with its anchor. We see this in many young adults, as they cut themselves free of the religion of their upbringing, they seem unrooted. It can be frightening, both for the anchorless person and for those around him.
In my own progressive zeal I am often tempted, when I encounter somebody who appears to be stuck in what I consider a regressive religiosity, to push them--to try to open their eyes to the wonderful diversity of the world God has made. But I find myself repressing that urge, out of fear that I will end up breaking their anchor chain, and leave them without the security of knowing that they can anchor in their faith.
The more common response when a person whose anchor is stuck in the mud is pushed, is for them to haul in the anchor chain part way, reducing the distance from the anchor that they can be pushed by the currents. In other words, they cling more tightly to the security of whatever truth they have decided on. This situation is that in which certain politicians in North Carolina have found themselves: with their stability threatened by the Supreme Court decision on gay marriage, they had to reaffirm their anchoring by passing legislation to ensure that LGBT could not be a class protected from discrimination, even on a local level. (And then there was that silly business about bathrooms.)
Other vessels seeing the two black balls know that the disabled vessel cannot be relied upon to respond as expected by the nautical rules of the road. So don't expect the vessel to give way to you, just because that's called for by the rules: she is unable to control her own course. It's a pity we don't have a similar signal to show as people in society: "I am not in control of my life at the moment so don't expect me to behave in a socially appropriate way".
But the two black balls are also a call for help. They say "I need someone to come take control of my course, and tow me to a safe place so that I can be repaired." Of course, to be towed, one has to be ready to give up control, and turn over that control to someone else. This is the part that addicts find so difficult. They still live in the illusion of control, and are not ready to have someone else take over for them. But if they do, and can find a safe harbour, and get their rudder fixed and their engines repaired, and have a new anchor installed, then just maybe they can return to normal.
It doesn't always take a strong storm, the kind of catastrophe that affects all the ships in an area, to detach an anchor, or even knock off a rudder. To illustrate, let me tell you a story. It's a true story, even if I received it second-hand.
There once was a submarine officer stationed in Hawaii, who retired, and remained in Hawaii. His name was Bill. (It probably wasn't, but I can't remember what his name actually was.) Bill liked to sail, and not long after retiring he bought a new sail boat. But he had to take delivery in San Diego, so he flew there with his son and his son's friend, and the three of them set off to sail his new boat back to Hawaii.
One evening, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Bill emerged onto the deck of the sail boat, coffee in one hand, cinnamon roll in the other, to take over from his son and friend for the first watch of the night. Suddenly, he heard a sound, both strange and familiar. Familiar because it was the sound of submarine active sonar pings. Strange because he had never previously heard it while standing on the deck of a sail boat. In the middle of the Pacific.
As it turned out when he got back to Hawaii, it was indeed one of our submarines, who had been just as surprised to find a sailboat in the middle of the Pacific as Bill had been to see a submarine. When Bill saw the periscope, it was actually the second time the submarine had been at periscope depth. After first seeing the sailboat, which they had been unable to hear before coming to periscope depth, the submarine had re-submerged and practised using active sonar to see if they could find the sailboat that way. After confirming their findings by looking at the sailboat through the periscope again, the submarine had gone on about their (classified) business. Slightly shaken, but much wiser.
But that wasn't the interesting part of Bill's journey. Without further incident, he got almost all the way home--indeed, he was in sight of Diamond Head--when the boat suddenly shuddered and bucked. When he tried to steer back to course, he found he could not steer: the rudder had gone. Then, again about 100 yards away, a whale spouted. He could almost hear laughter from the blow-hole. The whale had knocked off his rudder!
The rest of the story is even worse, but the important point is that we can find our self not under command, even in the absence of a storm. Sometimes massive marine mammals just come to the surface to mess with us--and there's nothing we can do about it, except to raise two black balls.
In many ways Bill was lucky. He lost his rudder within sight of land, and was able to get the Coast Guard to come tow him into port. Of course they hooked up the tow incorrectly, and ended up breaking his mast. And when he submitted his insurance claim, he was told that his insurance was for open ocean transit (wisely), but since he was inside territorial waters at the time of the incident he wasn't covered. But he did get home safely.
So what if we find ourselves in a storm in the middle of the ocean, where it's too deep to let go the anchor? It's time to think about that scary possibility. In this circumstance, we are unable to use our hope to anchor us in our faith--we are on our own. It takes courage (Brené Brown has a lovely discussion of that word) and resolve to fight through the storm, using our own resources, secure in the knowledge that we can--with luck--get back to shallow water and reconnect with faith.
Of course, we could just remain forever in coastal waters, always in sight of land and in water shallow enough to anchor. This was the way most people sailed in ancient times. In the Mediterranean, you can visit many different countries without ever having to lose sight of land. This way, we would have the security of always knowing where we are, always able to drop anchor, to be held fast against the storm by our hope and faith. Some of us would like to return to those times, when life seemed simpler, and safer.
It can be scary to sail into a future where we cannot see the end. It can be terrifying to venture through areas where we have to rely on our own powers, guided perhaps by God but unable to anchor ourselves in a religious faith. But without that risk, the explorer can never have the delight of finding that "far-off shore where he would tread" [Henry VI, Act 3 Scene 2].
In closing, let us acknowledge that risk presents the possibility of failing. In the clip below, J. K. Rowling reminds us that sometimes failure is necessary, to strip us of the inessential, and set us back on the right path.
J. K. Rowling, speaking at a Harvard Commencement on failure. See the whole speech here.
No comments:
Post a Comment