SUNDAY SERMON
Our Personal Storms
Second Sunday after Pentecost, Year B
June 22, 2003
Gospel: Mark 4: 35-41
Fear in the face of the force of nature seems the most natural thing in the world. Don't we all feel at least a little apprehension when our TV weather forecaster breaks in to tell of worsening weather and possible tornadoes? High winds and pounding rains may well produce in us high anxiety and pounding hearts. I bet most of us have vivid memories of the worse storm we were ever in. Mine was in an airplane coming back to Memphis from Chattanooga. Lightening was flashing on an almost continuous basis. We could hear the thunder over the roar of the jet engines. The plane was pitched from side to side, dropped hundreds of feet at a time, stopped with a jar, then heaved up again. We were all literally hanging on to our seats for dear life. The ordeal seemed to last forever, but I'm sure was not more than twenty minutes. Only now can I describe it as an adventure. Then it was the most terrifying twenty minute ride of my life.
We all know about storms. The disciples did too. They were seasoned fishermen who spent many hours a day in a small boat on that sea. They had experienced the storms that can come up quickly on it. They had weathered many, but their terror seems to indicate this was not one of those nasty squalls they had lived through many times. Their terror tells us they thought this storm more dangerous and life threatening. Can we really fault the apostles for fearing for their safety?
And can't we understand they would rush to Jesus in this time of great danger and fear? Sure. In Matthew's version of this story, they say "Lord, save us! We're perishing!" But in Mark's version, their attitude is very different. "Teacher, don't you care that we are perishing?" As I read these two versions, I couldn't help but think how human both are, but how different. In the Matthew version, the disciples know that Jesus is the one who can help. Their words carry the anguish of their plight, and they plead with him to intervene. In Mark's version, the plea is replaced by accusation and judgment. They characterize Jesus' calm as indifference and callousness.
I couldn't help but think of a family story as I thought about this contrast. Once when my two older brothers were small, they were chasing each other, hitting and yelling. My Dad was sitting quietly reading the paper in the very center of this whirlwind. My Mother, always very high strung anyway, reached her wit's end with the chaos. "Roy," she demanded in a loud voice, "say something to these boys!" My brothers stopped dead in their tracks. Dad lowered the paper and said, "Hello boys," and went back to reading. I never thought to ask what happened next, but I suspect Mom and Dad had a private conversation later about this.
In our own personal storms, we have all have probably approached Jesus in these two ways, pleading sometimes and accussing other times. What makes us choose one way over the other? When we attack or accuse God for not caring about our plight, can it be we are demonstrating our lack of trust of God's power and love? Maybe we're betraying the nature of our relationship with God in Christ. "Teacher," the disciples called him. Could it be they only had an intellectual relationship with him? In Mark's Gospel, though Jesus had performed healings prior to this story, most of the Gospel up to this point isn't about Jesus' power, but his teachings. The section immediately prior to this story is a section full of parables. Maybe "teacher" was the best they could do. Even after Jesus quiets the sea, they ask themselves, "Who is this that even the wind and sea obey?" His identity seems still hidden from them.
Today, more than ever, it may be easy to know Jesus only in our heads--to know about him. We've heard the stories about him in sermons and in our Christian Ed classes so many times. There are no surprises left for most of us. We can recite the facts. But it may be hard these days to know who he is, that is, to have a living relationship with him rather than a collection of information about him. It's like the difference between looking through a family photo album and seeing the same person in picture after picture. We remember the events recorded; we know who's in the picture. It means something to us. But, if that person is sitting next to us as we flip the pages, we'll turn and laugh or cry with them; touch them, gaze eye to eye. Add details to the shared stories. Relive them as if they were happening at that very moment. It will be an entirely different experience.
I think it's hard to know who Jesus is because we may not have him sitting next to us, as it were, as we flip life's pages. So many things compete for our energy and attention. A couple of days ago, a friend and I were in my office chatting. My e-mail alert beeped just as my phone rang. And neither were happening for the first time that day. As I excused myself to take the call, he pulled his Palm Pilot out and began to make entries; then his cell phone buzzed. When all the distractions were over and we were talking again, he just shook his head and said, "I think it was much simpler when I couldn't carry my phone around and when, if I wanted to write a note, I needed a pen and paper." It was simpler, less frantic. We didn't have 150 cable channels to choose from or high speed internet access to entertain and distract us. Not that I am nostalgic for those days, but I do find it harder to be still, to be quiet, to listen, to just be. Yet, it may be in those still small moments that our relationship with the risen Lord is most real and most likely to be nurtured.
When the sea and wind die down at his command, he asks them, "Why were you afraid? Have you no faith?" Something I've found odd about their attack on Jesus, their accusation that he didn't care they were in danger of being swamped, is that he was in the boat with them. How could he not care? Their fate and his fate were absolutely linked together. Knowing who Jesus is, not only puts him in the same boat with us as we travel through life, but it can be our reminder that we are safe. Not that we won't be battered, tossed, and get soaking wet in life's storms. We will. But, we can have faith they didn't have. We can know we are not in the storm alone. Whatever the outcome, we will not be abandoned.
There's a hymn from my youth that lingers. Some nights when sleep won't come, I sing this to myself:
When peace, like a river, attendth my way,
when sorrows like sea billows roll;
whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say,
it is well, it is well with my soul.
Though Satan should buffet, though trial should come,
let this blest assurance control,
that Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
and hath shed his own blood for my soul.
For such assurance to be real, we need to know Jesus, not just know about him. As in the rest of life, a relationship that isn't attended to, not developed, not nurtured is limited in its ability to sustain us in our time of need. If we spent only one hour a week with a person in relationship, and during much of that time, we were distracted by our surroundings or by tugs from elsewhere, we surely couldn't expect much from that relationship could we? And so it is with God in Christ.