Sunday, June 21, 2015

"Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?"

Many of you know that I am from Mobile AL on the Gulf Coast.  That was where Laura and I called home for the first 20 or so years of life.  It’s the center of gravity that pulls us back to see family once or twice a year.  Like monsoon season here, the summer brings to the Gulf Coast its own character and rhythm.  Nearly every afternoon in the summer, a rainstorm rolls in from the gulf—so much so that the Gulf Coast, around Mobile Bay, averages between 100 and 110 days per year with thunder reported. 

Now, Laura and I were once in a boat on Mobile Bay when a storm was rolling in.  It is true what they say about the calm before the storm, we completely lost the wind, and I was worried about being in a 12 foot sailboat, with a metal mast, reaching for the bolts of lightning wrapped in dark grey clouds that were approaching.  Eventually the wind picked up and we were able to steer ourselves back to shore, tie-off the boat, and race back inside the house with the rain following three feet behind us in a torrential downpour. 

And you know what?  I’ve used that illustration to talk about this passage before. I could turn that story into some sort of morality tale about how I know storms—the disciples should have had faith but they didn’t—so let’s learn our lesson from their disbelief and be better. It is so easy to skip to that lesson:  Have faith no matter the storm, with a side of calling the disciples silly for doubting.

But that rings so hollow for me this week. 

That’s not what I’m here to say this morning.

Taking the Gospel lesson seriously means reading it as it is:  which is to say that a boatful of experienced fishermen and sailors were at the limit of the abilities, and they were going to die.  This was not a situation of nervousness; this was existential panic.  And I think it is disingenuous to treat the disciples' words as the silly expressions of those who don't really trust in Jesus' love.[1] I think if we want to grasp this situation in a modern context, perhaps we ought to imagine ourselves in an airplane that has lost its engines.  I think if we want to grasp the storms we’ve seen this week, we can imagine gunshots ringing out in our sanctuary and bullets ripping through flesh.

Now, let us explore panic and piety together.

The disciples, at their limits, cry out, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”  This is no mere intercession to God. This is a cry of anguish, is it not?  It is a cry that carries resonance.  It is a cry replete through calamity, exile, and genocide in our sacred scripture.  It is on the lips of Christ’s own disciples at what could have been the hour of their death.  It has been the cry of the forgotten throughout history—the cry of many who receive a terminal diagnosis—the cry of communities facing violence at the hands of religious extremists—the cry of communities in our own country who bear the brunt of a racist society under the watchful eyes of a majority who more often than not think mere civility can cancel out centuries of pain.  In our interior lives, in our relationships, in our communities, in our global states of affairs, we can look and see so many storms forming, so many heading our way, so many storms on top of us.

"Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” 

For me the disciples are those with whom I can totally relate.  We are all finite.  In the face of the power of nature, they met their limit.  So have many others before them and since who have been swept away by the awesome power of nature. So many before and since have found themselves swept away by the desire of more-powerful others to possess what is not their own, and exert control for the benefit of a few at the expense of many.  So many of us have weathered storms with all that we could muster. So many of us have watched the storms of our lives take down others.  We watch, we warn, we do what we can to steer ourselves from trouble.  Anything we can do to avoid those storms that send us into a panic.  Yet it seems to find us. 

And there are times when I have wondered what would be worse:  if God did not exist, or if God exists and does not care.

"Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” 

Hope in the gospel passage comes in the form of Jesus waking up in midst of it all and calming the storm.  And I think it is important to note that Jesus was with them all along, and bringing the disciples along on a journey that would ask so much of them all.  In that sense, may we be comforted by that presence of God even when the reality of the presence seems muted.  Even when we think God must have fallen asleep at the rudder.

But that does not seem like enough.  And worse still, following the example of the disciples has its place, but a comparison that tells us how we should act at the expense of the disciples remains at a surface level and leaves God as a reality wholly outside of ourselves that we hope we may conjure by our faith.  However, the reality of the Christian faith and relationship we are offered in Christ is much more audacious.

So I’d like to suggest that while it is a more common interpretation to see ourselves as the disciples in this story, it is also the case that we must see ourselves in Jesus.  The ability to enter into the storms of our lives and in the world and say, “peace! Be still!” is always a possibility.  It may even be our responsibility.

You see, I relate to the disciples. I see my own humanity in theirs.  But there is a deeper reality than the bond of humanity and we only follow the disciples insofar as they show us by example what it means to live like Christ.  Beloved, we carry with us the spark of the Divine, the image of God that not only forms a basis for our common humanity but our connection to all creation, and the light of Christ which connects us to each other in ways that led Christians to be known of Christ’s own body in the world.  As St. Paul wrote, we can do all things through Christ who strengthens us.[2]

By the Holy Spirit, we are the continuation of Christ’s incarnation in the world and so are keepers of a vision of God’s holy reign.  Through the same Spirit, we have access to reservoirs of mercy, of grace, of love, of patience, of hope, of encouragement.  These are things we can find by asking God; these are things we share with others; and these are things we can ask of each other when we think ourselves empty and at our end.

What would it mean to see ourselves as the one who would say in the storms of our lives, “peace! Be still!”?  What would it mean to see ourselves as the emissary of the one who hears the question “do you not care that we are perishing,” and answers “I care, and I can act.” Might these questions illuminate a vision worth pursuing?  If we were to say ‘yes,’ what do we know, and what promises do we have in our work?

We know the fragility of life; and the myriad of ways life may end or change forever. 
But we carry Christ within us, who has ultimately defeated death; knows the power of resurrection; and promises us that our view is fixed much further than the horizon of mortality.  And when we find in our moments of panic, of doubt, of uncertainty, that the person who needs to hear words of stillness and peace are our very selves, may we listen for Christ within us and hear the same encouragement from others.  May we share this stillness and peace with others broken on the wheels of living. 

We know state of the world we live in and that it is not as God would have it.  The events of this week, including the attack in Charleston, show a world in which fear, hatred, division and lust for control find violent expression.  But we carry Christ within us, and we are beckoned to speak in love the possibilities of a world in which goodness and mercy reign.  Entering into the stormy confrontations the world shows us is a frightful proposition.  To utter words of God’s peace and stillness can be a comfort to those who are broken on the wheels of living, or it can be a chastening word to those who prefer a disordered status quo to a peace which passes all understanding.  Take heart.  We are to go forth with a promise in trust and prayer that Christ goes with us, even to the end of the ages.[3]

So, let us seek Christ within; and let us pray that we be delivered from the presumption of seeking Christ for solace only, and not for strength.  Let us seek prayer that will stir our hearts to the courage and tasks God sets before us.  Let us seek the Spirit who can inspire within us a word of stillness in the midst of our storms, whatever they look like.  For God did not give us a Spirit of fear, but of power and love and discipline and wisdom.[4] And we, beloved, are invited to live into the glory and work and purpose of the One who does indeed care that we are perishing.



[1] I owe this thought to D. Mark Davis ("Piety and Panic." Left Behind and Loving It. June 15, 2015).
[2] Philippians 4:13.
[3] Matt 28:20
[4] 1 Tim 1:7