Be Still

June 21, 2015

Mark 4:35-41

³⁵On that day, when evening had come, Jesus said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” ³⁶And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. ³⁷A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. ³⁸But 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?” ³⁹He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. ⁴⁰He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” ⁴¹And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

Sermon: “Be Still”

When I was five years old, I took swimming lessons.  One of the first things we learned to do was float on our back.  I remember the experience very vividly.  My teacher had her arms under me, and told me to lean back, push my legs up toward the surface of the water and float, trying to be as straight and still as possible.  For a brief moment, all was well: I looked up at the blue sky above me, felt her arms holding me up, and was at peace.  And then she took her arms away, without warning.  That peace was engulfed in fear, as I was engulfed by water.  I couldn’t hold myself up, and underwater I went, taking a big shocked gulp of water. 

I was probably only under water for a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity.  When I came up for air, I was furious.  Three feet of solid five-year-old fury.  I got out of the pool, tears streaming down my face and proclaimed with wild indignation, “You moved your arms!  You promised you wouldn’t!”  It was several more years before I actually learned to swim and, if I’m honest, I still get a little nervous if my head is under water for too long.

It was a scary experience for a five year old.  But that’s nothing compared to the experience of a five year old at Emanuel AME Zion Church in Charleston this week.  She had to be still, too.  This little girl had to play dead while her family was killed around her because of the color of their skin.  I’ve wept for her this week.  I’ve wept for them all.  I’ve wept that we live in a world where five year old African American children have to play dead, be still, to survive, in church of all places.  I pray that that little girl finds the courage to be in church again.  And I pray that all of us will find the courage to stop the storms of racism engulfing our country.

That question the disciples asked Jesus during that sudden storm on the Sea of Galilee seems hauntingly appropriate now: “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”

It was, and is, a fair question.  Storms on the Sea of Galilee came suddenly, with no warning, because that sea is in a valley.  How Jesus slept through one is bizarre.  Perhaps he was especially worn out from teaching parables to pressing crowds.  He snoozed on, until the disciples woke him up with that question.  But he didn’t answer their question first.

He dealt with the storm first.  He rebuked that wind, and told the sea to be still.  Only when the surface of those tumultuous waters was glassy and smooth and calm, did he respond to those terrified disciples.  He didn’t respond with an answer (Jesus seldom did).  Instead, he asked them questions of his own:  “Why are you afraid?  Have you still no faith?”

This is one of those times when having a written word fails us.  I want to know Jesus’ tone of voice when he asked these questions.  They sound harsh, but was he breathless and teary-eyed after calming the storm as he said them?  Did he put his hands on their shoulders and softly ask?  Was his voice full of frustration, or was it thick with pity?  

We’ll never know.  But we do know this: Jesus calmed the storm first.  And those gail-force winds, that churning sea, were no match for him.  He spoke peace right into that storm, until all was still.

You see, he did care that they were perishing after all.  He still does. 

Sometimes, it might feel like he’s sleeping through the storms of our time.  It might have felt that way for that little five year old girl in Emanuel AME Zion Church.  It might feel that way when the unspeakable happens, when hatred we thought was ancient history bubbles up from just under that falsely-smooth surface and the waves crash, the storm rages, and we perish. 

“Do you not care?” we plead.  And Jesus answers, not always to us directly, but he definitely answers the storm.

“Peace, be still!” he demands, and the storm obeys.  In recent days, in our recent storm, he’s said this in so many ways:

-In the teenage children of Sharonda Singleton, who was murdered in that prayer service, who instead of meeting hatred with hatred, publicly uttered the three most powerful words to their mother’s killer, words that stop storms in their tracks:  “We forgive you.”

-In the people who gathered at Emanuel AME Zion Church Thursday night to pray, proclaiming that, though it had been the scene of an unspeakable tragedy, that church was still, and would always be, a house of prayer.

-In the courage of Debbie Dills, who tailed the suspected murderer for 30 miles until police could apprehend him, saying it was God who heard the prayers of the people of Charleston and used her to answer.

-In parents who teach their children to love, not hate, and in everyday efforts to bring racial reconciliation and an end to the sin of weaponized racism.

We have many questions for Jesus in these days.  I know I do.  But asking questions of Jesus, instead of answering on behalf of him in the midst of storms, is a much wiser path.  It takes faith to ask questions.  It takes even more to trust that, if he doesn’t answer us, he will answer the storm itself, bringing a sort of peace we will never understand fully. 

Faith means asking those questions.  Faith also means knowing that, even in the storm of hate that raged in Emanuel church, Jesus never let go of the saints gathered there.  He never removed his arms from under them, supporting them, even in their last moments on this earth.  And he will never stop commanding storms of hatred, prejudice and fear to be still, until they listen. Will we join him?  Amen.