I'd rather be sailing? (sermon from Sunday, June 24, 2018)

Reading: Mark 4:35-41

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was.  Other boats were with him.  A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped.  But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”  He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!”  Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm.  He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” 

“A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped.”

The disciples probably didn’t even want to be out there.  It was Jesus’ idea, not theirs.  “Let us go across to the other side,” he said. 

Surely some of them could read the signs, and knew they’d probably be sailing into a storm.  So did anyone say, “You know … can we leave this for now, and just wait a bit?  It’s probably gonna be a storm, so can we wait ‘til tomorrow … or maybe do something else entirely just as good and that won’t put us at such a risk?”

And even apart from the storm, I wonder if anyone questioned the plan itself to go “to the other side.”  Because the other side was the country of the Gerasenes – the land on the east shore of the Sea of Galilee, a land populated mostly by Greeks and other Gentiles, relatively few Jews, and full of pagan religion and practices.  They kept pigs, for goodness sake!  So did anyone say, “Um, Jesus … why do you want us to go there?  Aren’t things going well enough right where we are – here in Galilee, here among our own people and our own kind?  Do we really need to go out there and open ourselves to the risks?”

But that’s Jesus’ way, and Jesus’ will, isn’t it?  To bring the good news of God’s love to all people, and share the life of God’s kingdom with all the world.  So because of what they had received from him, and the way he had made them whole, how could they not go out and across to the other side when he asked them to?

And I wonder: when have we done that?  And when have we not? 

And the times we have, and have sailed right into a storm that has tossed us about and almost swamped our boat, do we look back on those times with regret?  Maybe just try to forget them?  Resolve never to do that – or put ourselves in that position, again? 

Or do we, like the Jesus-followers of the Bible, tell the story openly and gladly – even proudly, as a time when we at least tried as best we could to follow Jesus, to leave the safe harbour of where things always go predictably well, to venture out to some other side to share the love of God with people we haven’t up to that time really associated with, regardless of the risk and whether we even really succeeded or not?

Because storms don’t bother Jesus.  He doesn’t see them as problems to be solved, or things necessarily to be avoided.  He doesn’t even bother waking up in the midst of it, until the disciples shake him to, and ask him to please do something about it if he cares about them at all.

And how could they not?  Because often this is what we think God’s power is – the power to control things and make them turn out well.  At least for us, if he loves us.

But it’s not Jesus’ idea to still the storm.  That kind of power over the realities of life in this world is exactly the kind of power Jesus came to renounce in the desert when he went there on retreat after his baptism to grow into the true ways of God.  He learned not to turn stones into bread just because he feels hungry and he can.  Not to leap from the top of the temple and expect God to keep him from falling and being hurt.  Not to feel free to do whatever it takes – even use some of Satan’s ways, to try to make the kingdoms of this world into the kingdom of God. 

That’s often what his followers want him to do.  They want him to control things, because we imagine that’s what God’s power is – the power to bend the rules and control everything that happens.  And how can we not imagine that and want it to be true?  We’re human.  We’re creatures of our culture, and that’s one of the things our culture is mostly about.

But we are also creatures of God – not just with a worldly spirit, but also a holy Spirit breathed into us.  And it’s this – the holiness of living in God’s way within the limits and realities of life on Earth that Jesus appeals to, and seeks to nurture in his disciples.

I wonder: is the point of the story – and the real miracle of it, that Jesus is able to control the weather?  Or might the real miracle of the story be that Jesus – and in Jesus, God, is right with the disciples in their water-logged boat, experiencing with the storm, the waves, and the terrible danger with them?  And is the point of the story that that should have been enough?

Because God’s power is not found in the control of creation or of people, but in the willingness to be in covenant relationship – meaning vulnerable relationship, with them.  Not in being able to impose a divine will and insist that things turn out “right,” but in walking and living and sailing with us as we are and as we fumble around, make our way, and even sail into storms as we answer the call to go out to some other side in pursuit of living out God’s love for all the world.  God’s power is not seen in God’s imposing a kingdom on the world, but in God’s working together with us to make connections of compassion in the midst of hurt and sorrow, to gather communities of justice and peace in the midst of whatever darkness and coldness may have gripped the world in our day, to live out wellness and courage even in the midst of disease and brokenness, and to offer ourselves and call forth from others self-giving love even in the most selfish and scary of times.

Jan Richardson, an artist and theologian, has written a poem titled “Blessing in the Storm.”  I wonder if maybe it’s something Jesus wishes he could have said to the disciples, and that he’s happy to see us able to understand about God, and to live out in our love for others – both here where we are, and out there where and when he calls us to go:

I cannot claim
to still the storm
that has seized you,
cannot calm
the waves that wash
through your soul,
that break against
your fierce and
aching heart.

But I will wade
into these waters,
will stand with you
in this storm,
will say peace to you
in the waves,
peace to you
in the winds,
peace to you
in every moment
that finds you still
within the storm.