Tuesday, July 18, 2017

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night...

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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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