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July 16, 2017
Mark 4:35-41
35 On that day, when evening had come, Jesus said to his
disciples, “Let us go across to the other side.” 36 And
leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was.
Other boats were with him. 37 A great windstorm arose, and the
waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. 38 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?” 39 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. 40 He said to them,
“Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” 41 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?”
Sermon: “It Was a Dark and Stormy Night”
It was a secret I hoped never to tell. But it’s hard to keep secrets
when it’s a dark and stormy night, and you’re terrified. My name is Andrew, and
it means “manly” of all things. You perhaps know me as a disciple of Jesus the
Christ, but before that, I was a fisherman. But my deepest, darkest secret is
this: I have always been afraid of the sea. I know, I know, it sounds
ridiculous. Like a circus performer afraid of elephants; like a chef afraid of
tomatoes; like a musician afraid of pianos. It’s absurd. But I couldn’t help
it: even though fishing was the family business, and I was raised by my dad to
swim almost as soon as I could walk, I was afraid that, someday, the sea would
claim me. My older brother, Simon, didn’t seem to be trapped in such fears. He
threw himself fully into everything he did. But not me. I was cautious, timid,
and every single time I went into a boat, I was afraid. I never meant to tell
anyone my secret. But a dark and stormy night told it for me.
Life changed dramatically for me when I met a wayfaring stranger named
Jesus. Leaving my nets to follow him was liberation for me in a way I suspect
only he and I knew. I thought my boating days were over. How little I understood
then.
One day, after Jesus had been teaching parables and had talked himself
hoarse, he said to us disciples, “Let’s go across to the other side of the
sea.” We got into a boat, and my secret, all-too-familiar fear crept up, until
my stomach churned as much as those wild waters. The wind rose, the waves
crashed, and suddenly I realized my worst nightmare was about to happen. This
was it. This was the way I would die. All of my calm, collected fisherman’s
facade washed away with those waves, and I shouted in a panic to wake up our
slumbering savior, “TEACHER! Do you not care that we are perishing?” He
woke up, with an exhausted look, but did not respond to me. Instead, he turned
to the waves and the wind, as odd as that was. “PEACE.” he shouted. And the
wind stopped, and the waves died. I did not, much to my delight.
Ever since that day, I’ve been haunted by the question I asked Jesus in
my panic. “Do you not care?” It’s
perhaps the most human question there is to ask of God, or whoever we talk to
in the middle of the night. You’ve asked it, to. I can see that.You’ve asked
him if he cares when you hear that terrible word ‘cancer’ from a stone-faced
doctor who’s worked one too many shifts for empathy.
You’ve asked her if she cares when your loved one doesn’t remember who
you are. You’ve asked him if he cares when change comes like waves brutally
bashing against the battle-worn boat of your life.
You’ve asked her if she cares when your soul feels as empty as a bottle,
forgotten and tossed about in a sea of stress and isolation. That question
haunts us all: does God care?
But I’ve not just been haunted by that question; I’ve also been haunted
by the look on Jesus’ face that day, because that look revealed that I wasn’t
the only one keeping a deep, dark secret. Jesus’ deep secret was that he was
completely and totally exhausted. Burned out. Soul weary. Bone tired enough to
sleep through a sinking boat, more desperate for rest than even breath. You
know this feeling, too, don’t you?
Often we like to think of God as an “Andrew” a manly, strong one. A God
who is unmoved, resilient, ever powerful. But Jesus did not show us that
sort of God. Jesus showed us a God who was exhausted. Exhausted by the
suffering of the marginalized and forgotten. Exhausted by the sickness of our
bodies, minds, political systems, and inward-looking faith communities.
Exhausted by the dark and stormy state of our souls, who pretend to be a calm,
placid sea on the outside, and are anything but. Exhausted by all of us who
walk around all day as if we’re fine, all the while burying our deep, dark
secret stories within us, afraid to let anyone see that we are actually human,
made in the image of a God who chose radical vulnerability.
We might not expect such a sensitive, raw God. But that is the God we
have in Jesus. And so, when he speaks “peace,” it’s not just to the external
storms we can see. It’s also to the internal storms we can’t, speaking peace
even into his very own storm of exhaustion within.
I know this, because that day Jesus calmed the storm within and without,
something changed for me. I stopped being afraid to tell my story, my deep,
dark secret. I let my fellow travelers know that I didn’t love boats, okay
that in fact I hated them, and because I did that, they could actually be Christians
to me. They did not judge me, but understood. Each time we were on a boat after
that, they surrounded me, so that, should the waves beat against the boat, I
would feel more protected. If church is anything, it is that: the place where
we’re brave enough to tell our stories to each other, and treat these as holy
things to be celebrated and protected.
So, I’m going to give you a moment to do just that: to tell your deep
fear to a person near you. If you’re not ready for that sort of vulnerability,
I invite you to just sit in silence and offer that fear to God. We can’t help
each other if we’re not honest with each other. We can’t experience the peace
Christ has for us if we pretend we’re fine all the time. So, share your story,
your fear, with each other for a few minutes.
(story sharing time)
Allow me, Andrew, to leave you with a final thought. After that day with
Jesus on that sinking boat, I actually do believe it’s possible to be a
fisherman and be afraid of water. I believe it’s possible to be a circus
performer and be afraid of elephants. I believe it’s possible to be a
musician and be afraid of pianos. I even believe it’s possible to be a
chef and be afraid of tomatoes. But here’s what I don’t believe: I don’t
believe it’s possible to be a Christian and be afraid of telling your story. Be
brave enough to show you’re not as brave as people might think.
For, we have a Savior who speaks peace with a hoarse, exhausted voice,
calming his own storms and ours. We have a God who chose to identify not with
the put-together and the powerful, but with the most vulnerable, judged, and
underestimated. And we have a Spirit who never stops hovering over and within
whatever chaotic waters we find ourselves in, weaving our stories into one
beautiful, messy, gospel of life.
Thanks be to God! Amen.
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