During the Fourth Watch of the Night

“During the fourth watch of the night,
he came toward them walking on the sea.” (Mt 14:25)
 
It is natural to be afraid of the dark, and of the storm.  The night and the stormy sea are primal images of chaos, representing that which lies outside of our control.  For diurnal creatures such as ourselves, the night is not our domain.  Our faculties of sight, hearing and smell are insufficient under these conditions.  We find ourselves vulnerable to fear and anxiety, with spectres of ghosts or beasts or enemies lurking at the edge of our field of vision.  As land-dwellers, we find ourselves likewise vulnerable upon the waters of the deep.  Our craft is small, frail and assailed by violent waves.  Should we capsize, we could not survive for long without a flotation aid, a means of propulsion, food and fresh water.  The ability to swim is no guarantee against the raw power of wind and water, and the horror of drowning has to be universal.
 
For monastics, the silence of the night is the ideal time for prayer.  Every night, we keep the fourth watch from three to six am.  We keep it with the recitation of Psalms and silent prayer and meditation on the word of God.  We keep it alone-together as is the Cistercian way.  It can be a peaceful time when the mind is quietened and deep pondering and stillness is possible.  But it is also a time when we are more vulnerable to those parts of our psyche which usually remain hidden from us.  The activity and social engagement of daylight hours keeps us focused on the surface of things.  But at night, the walls seem to crumble, so that fears and anxieties, rage, despair and other beasts come forth to wander in and out of our thoughts.  Or, to use another image, the waves of the sea begin to crash over the boat.
 
I believe it is no coincidence that so many of the Psalms reserved for Vigils speak of the fear of enemies pictured as beasts:
“Deliver me from my enemies, O my God;
    protect me from those who rise up against me.
Deliver me from those who work evil;
    from the bloodthirsty save me. …
Each evening they come back,
    howling like dogs
    and prowling about the city.
They roam about for food,
and growl if they do not get their fill.” (Ps 59:1-2, 14-15)
 
There is also no shortage of cries for deliverance from deep waters:
“Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck.
I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold;
I have come into deep waters, and the flood sweeps over me.” (Ps 69:1-2)
 
However, what we may learn from the disciples’ experience is that the night and the storm actually bring not chaos and destruction and certain death, but Jesus.  Jesus walks toward them out of the night, through the storm, treading underfoot the surging waters.  Unlike in the earlier episode when the sleeping Christ is awakened in the midst of a storm by his terrified disciples, and he “rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a dead calm” (Mt 8:26), here there is no rebuke.  Jesus is revealed as master of the elements, not by calming them, but by walking through them.  Fear itself turns out to have been an illusion, a distraction from Christ’s total mastery over the situation.  But it is also a clue: the place of fear is the very place where Christ is to be found. 
 
Could we choose to sit still with fear in the darkness of night and the violence of the storm?  Could we be like the watchman at the fourth watch of the night, who is alert for enemies, but instead receives Christ?  Could we even find ourselves propelled by desire out of the boat of our security toward Jesus?

Image: Carved icon by Johnathan Pageau at St Peter Orthodox Church, Bonita, Florida