Scripture: II Corinthians 6: 1-13; Mark 4: 34-41
Sermon:
People have been telling storm stories for a long time. The latest movie version is
opening this week. The film's preview trailer starts with a few glimpses of a fisherman.
He lives an idyllic life in a picturesque village. We meet the woman concerned with his
safety. Then we see his boat peacefully leaving the harbor and venturing forth, staffed
with a hearty crew of Hollywood's best looking actors.
As the preview continues we see that a storm is brewing in the very water for which the
fishing boat is bound. A storm is coming, but not just any storm, a storm of unprecedented
magnitude, a "perfect storm" - so called because of the coincidence of the
perfect conditions for unbelievably violent weather.
Today's Gospel lessons starts with Jesus and the disciples boarding a boat to cross the
Sea of Galilee. At first it is so calm that Jesus is able to quickly fall asleep in the
bow of the boat. But before long the wind has kicked up and the disciples are bailing
water for all they're worth.
It's no wonder that the forces of nature--especially those present in the water--have
always fascinated storytellers. The ancient teller of the story which we read today in
Mark's gospel and the modern-day screenwriter share the fixation.
The miracle story preserved for us by Mark first catches the imagination because of its
sheer wonder. In the movie which opens this week, modern imaginations are confronted with
one of nature's forces which we can understand and analyze but not control. When the
Perfect Storm kicks up, the modern fishermen depicted in the movie are no better off than
the ones on the Sea of Galilee, despite the intervening centuries of progress.
For ancient Israel, waters were associated with profound evil. The depths were thought
to be the dwellings of demons--demons that were considered much more powerful than those
found on dry land. Thus, seas and oceans were places to be feared. Earlier in Mark's
gospel Jesus had confronted demons--in the desert, in possessed people who were healed.
That Jesus also had power to control the demons of the deep must have made him seem
amazing indeed to those who first heard this tale. We can hear wonder especially at the
end of the story as the rescued disciples ponder, with great awe, "Who then is this,
whom even the wind and the sea obey?"
I am told that the desert winds and the topography of the area surrounding the Sea of
Galilee make sudden storms a common occurrence to this day. Surely the disciples-- some of
whom were professional fishermen, after all--would not have been surprised to find
themselves in this circumstance. So their fearful reaction leads us to believe that this
storm was truly severe--indeed, life threatening.
As if in contrast to their terror, Jesus sleeps through the whole thing and the
disciples have to wake him up to tell him know what's going on. And then what do they say
to him? Do they warn him to get ready to abandon ship? Do they ask him to help bail the
water? No. They ask him a question: "Teacher, do you not care that we are
perishing?"
We all tend to focus on self-preservation in the face of threatening circumstances.
Unlike us, the disciples hadn't heard the rest of the story, so it never occurs to them to
ask Jesus to intervene. They never ask him to save them. Instead they question his care
for them. Clearly they feel abandoned, fearful, left to fend for themselves.
So this is really a story about fear: the fear of demons, the fear of the unknown
deeps. It's about the fear of being left to one's own defenses to confront ferocious
power. It's about the fear of finding ourselves inadequate to the task of saving
ourselves. It's about the fear of finding even our Christ to be inadequate.
Lynn was a typical teenager in many ways, but one who chose to experiment with the drug
known as speed as a way to contend with her frustration and alienation. To her amazement,
an accepting social group came along with the high, and before long she was hooked -
addicted to both being accepted and to the powerful drug. As her life became a chaotic
storm, those who loved her seemed oblivious to the situation. After receiving treatment
and achieving several months of sobriety, Lynn was interviewed by National Public Radio.
"Looking back it seems strange that no one did anything," she said. "My
parents seemed to not notice what was going on, despite my having dropped out of family
activities, despite my not eating or sleeping. It was as if they were afraid to know what
was really going on."
The discouraging diagnosis, the unmanageable debt, the late-night phone call, the chaos
of a corporate restructure, the departure of a life partner, the deterioration of an
elderly parent's health ... the stormy seas of life seem to come to all of us and they
make us fearful. Sometimes such winds and waves seem so powerful that they are
overwhelming in their force. The demons come out of the depths and seem to surround us. We
fear our inadequacy to face the storms. We may even wonder why Jesus seems to be sleeping
through the whole thing.
We who live in the western states have our own reasons to fear water. We are dependent
on fresh water for the lives we lead in this place that would otherwise be a desert. But
the mismanagement and disappearance of fresh water is a huge, global problem, the
description of which could consume this whole hour. It is the subject of the folio article
in the current issue of Harper's magazine. The problem described there is immense, and
involves the consequences of dams having been constructed on most of the earth's major
rivers, agricultural practices, population distribution and weather changes which seem to
be accelerating the whole crisis. With few exceptions, we seem unwilling to face this
storm - probably because the problem is so huge and so threatening! Changes in human
behavior could make an important difference. But the required conservation measures and
changes in our lives seem insurmountable - even if we had visionary world leadership and
agreement on what exactly needs to be done! We seem paralyzed by the fear of what could
happen if the world no longer had enough fresh water. We seemingly cannot find the energy
to creatively engage the storm.
The symbol of a storm-tossed boat is one that describes our beloved church these days.
I am especially mindful of this now in this season of judicatory meetings. In the past few
weeks we have witnessed the national meetings of several denominations, and others are yet
to be held this summer. This very week the Presbyterian General Assembly meets down the
road in Long Beach. At such meetings the roiling of the waves is evident. The clashing of
waves from the various factions of the church send up a spray which touches every
Christian who cares about the church's course. The power and persistence of the troubled
water through which the church has been sailing make some of us wonder if the tired old
boat may be destroyed. Disagreements over the roles of women. Declining membership.
Abortion. Inclusion of gay and lesbian people. Biblical interpretation. The forces and
counter-forces are fierce. Will they sink the ship? Will they break it into pieces? And
where is Christ amidst all this chaos - asleep somewhere? Doesn't Jesus care that we are
perishing?
The church's story is also a story about fear. The fear of demons, the fear of the
unknown deeps. The fear of finding oneself unable to control the raging storms. The fear
of what it may mean to exchange the idolatry of institutional survival for doing justice
and loving mercy and walking humbly with our God.
But the Good News in all of this is that Christ faces the storm with us. Jesus is in
our boat, alongside us, and is present with us even as we are filled with fear. The
promises of God are true: God loves us, and nothing can separate us from that love. God
enters into the world through Christ and is present with us every moment.
Does this mean that if we believe in the promises of God our lives will be smooth
sailing and that we'll never be fearful? Does God reward the faithful with easy lives? Any
observant person knows that such is not the case. Bad things happen to good people.
Sometimes bad things affect whole communities of good people. Demons are real. Even though
we no longer believe in their physical presence in deep water, real demons still torment
us. At times we hesitate to name it, but Evil is a powerful force in the world, capable of
kicking up fearful storms in our lives. But Christ's love is also abundantly present in
the world, and that love has the power to confront the storm and say, "Peace; be
still."
In today's Epistle lesson, Paul gives us a glimpse of what it looks like to depend upon
the power of Christ's love. Like our own, the Corinthian church was a troubled church, a
community confused by claims and counter claims and stressed to try and survive the
hostility of the surrounding culture. Paul's list of trials is long: imprisonment,
beatings, riots, labors, sleepless nights, hunger. Yet he remains hopeful and productive
despite having every reason to be paralyzed by fear. For a servant of Christ the storms
and hardships of discipleship point to the grace of God. Paul writes:
"We are treated as imposters, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well
known; sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing,
and yet possessing everything."
Paul knew that the troubled water is exactly where the Christ's church and Christ's
disciples are called to live. So it is not surprising that the church still finds itself
in stormy water. We must engage the storm by steadfastly standing for justice, even in the
face of the sin of exclusion. We must be willing to tend the sick, to speak for those who
have been silenced by the powerful, to feed the hungry, to soothe the distressed and
oppressed. Because when we in the church are fearful of such places of uncomfortable
service we are no better off than those fearful disciples were on the stormy Sea of
Galilee. When we give in to our fears and are unwilling to look beyond our own narrow
self-interests it is as if we are asking Jesus, "Teacher, do you not care that we are
perishing?"
Last month the General Conference of my church, The United Methodist Church, met in
Cleveland. Many of you saw the national news coverage of several dozen Christians being
taken to jail as they participated in civil disobedience. They were protesting the
church's continued practice of excluding gays and lesbians from full participation in the
life of the church. Similar protests are planned today at the Presbyterian General
Assembly in Long Beach. No doubt we'll see that on tonight's news.
One of those jailed in Cleveland was Bishop Joseph Sprague, a lifelong servant of the
United Methodist Church. In the tradition of other prophets, he wrote a pastoral letter
while in the Cleveland jail. That letter concludes with these words:
"...the question is not why I am in jail, but why more of us are not constantly
present where the hurts are greatest, the pain most intense and the Risen Christ
majestically present. Believe me, I have seen Jesus here in the Cleveland jail. And I am
grateful that when I leave, I shall emerge sadder but more peaceful, contemplative but
more committed, disappointed but more hopeful because I have seen the Risen Christ and I
am not, nor shall I ever be, the same again."
And that's the Good News of this story: that in the midst of the stormy sea, as the
waves kick up unexpectedly and violently, even as our boat begins to fill up and seems
likely to sink, Christ has the power to confront that which scares us the most and say
"Peace, be still." And in the silence that follows we are asked: "Why are
you afraid? Have you still no faith?" Why indeed! After having been created out of
the waters of chaos in the beginning of time; after having been led to the Promised Land
through the waters of the Red Sea; after having received new life through the waters of
baptism; and after being asked to offer a cup of cold water in Jesus' name, why are we
Christians still so afraid of getting wet? Why do the stormy waters present such a threat
to us? I think it's because we forget. When we allow our fears to rule us we forget what
we know about this Jesus. We do know who it is "whom even the wind and sea
obey." This is no stranger. It is our Risen Lord, the one who came to live with us,
to share our boat and to show us perfect love. That love has triumphed not only over the
stormy sea, not only over the demons and evils of the deep, but over death itself.
Christ-like love is a love that is more powerful than any fearful storm. This is the hope
of our stormy lives.
In the fourth chapter of first John, we find another author writing to yet another
troubled Christian community. It's one of my favorite passages in all of scripture:
"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do
with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. We love because God
first loved us. Those who say, 'I love God,' and hate their sister or brothers, are liars;
for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot loved God whom
they have not seen. The commandment we have from God is this: those who love God must love
their sisters and brothers also."
Perfect love casts out fear ... even the fear brought on by a perfect storm. As the
perfect storms of our lives - our church lives, our individual lives - kick up, let us not
give up to our fears. Rather let us engage the storms courageously and creatively,
trusting in the power and presence and love of the Risen Christ. Because in the end, our
worst fears really are true: our own powers are inadequate by themselves to quell the
rising tide. Left on our own we will not be successful in confronting demons. Only through
perfecting our love in the presence and power of Christ can we hope to sail through the
perfect storm. Only as we allow Christ-like love to cast out our fears can we engage
life's raging waters.
