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]
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