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Mark 4:35–41
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable
in your sight, O Lord our strength and our Redeemer.
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In 1986 the hull of a fishing boat that dated from the time of Jesus was
excavated from the bottom of the Sea of Galilee. Twenty–seven
feet long and seven and a half feet wide, the boat would have held
fifteen people, four of them rowing. At both the bow and the stern
there was decking, and under that decking, in the stern, there was just
enough room for a man to stretch out on a pallet. In just such a
fishing boat Jesus and his twelve disciples set sail one night from the
west side of the Sea towards the eastern shore, several miles away.
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At least four of those disciples were experienced fishermen, no
strangers to storms that come up suddenly. Though the surface of
the Sea of Galilee lies 680 feet below sea level, it is rimmed by hills
and cliffs, some of them 2,000 feet high. And in the deep rift
that lies between those hills flows the Jordan River, creating tricky
currents. That combination makes for big storms. When the
cool winds rush down those slopes to the sun–warmed surface of
the water, the energy released can cause violent storms.
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But Mark says there was more than the physics of wind and water, warm
and cool, going on that night. It was, he says, a windstorm so
violent the waves were breaking over the sides of the boat, threatening
to capsize it. In fact, the word he uses for
“windstorm” is actually the same word used in the Book of
Job for “whirlwind” – when the Lord answered Job out
of the whirlwind. So clearly, this was no ordinary storm.
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By the time the disciples awaken Jesus, asleep on his pallet in the
stern, they are convinced they are about to capsize. So they cry
out to him, “Lord, don’t you care we’re about to
perish?” In other words, “How can you sleep when
we’re about to go under?” And here again,
Mark’s description of what happened next hints that there was
more going on there than just wind and waves. For Jesus
doesn’t just calm the storm. Mark tells us he
“rebukes” the storm – just as he rebukes demons when
people come to him for healing. And when he does that
”immediately the violent wind ceases” and suddenly the sea is
dead calm.
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What Mark is hinting at here is not just a storm of wind and waves, but
a conflict between the power of God on the one hand and the powers that
oppose God on the other. For what Jesus is doing as he crosses the
Sea to the other side is taking his ministry from the Jews on the
western side of the Sea of Galilee to the Gentiles on the eastern
shore. Little by little he means to bridge that gap, to mend the
torn fabric between Jew and Gentile, clean and unclean, familiar and
foreign. In Hebrew that process is called
‘tikkun olam’ – the mending of the world.
Finally, you see, Jesus means to reconcile the whole world to God.
And the demonic forces don’t like it one bit. They
don’t want that shalom, that wholeness, that
reconciliation. So in the next few weeks, every time we see Jesus
traveling into Gentile territory we’ll see a storm.
We’ll see opposition. We’ll find a fight.
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But in the midst of those storms – every time – we’ll
find Jesus as we found him today – calm, serene – asleep on
a cushion in the back of the boat, if you will. He knows what
this struggle is all about. And he knows the One who controls
the outcome. So he’s not focused on the wind and the
waves. Instead, he is trusting in the One who brought him
here. And in that trust he has found the peace that passes all
understanding.
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That degree of trust reminds me of a documentary I saw years
ago – I believe it was on PBS. The film was
called “Lion in the House,” and it followed the progress
of five small children who had been diagnosed with cancer. During
the storms they went through, the scary, fierce, painful storms they
weathered, their parents became their strength and stay – in a
way I’ve never forgotten.
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One little girl named Alex had a special bond with her father, who
loved her dearly. With her mother he stayed by her side all the
way through her illness – protecting her, holding her up,
encouraging her. And one afternoon, to celebrate the end of a
long and grueling course of chemotherapy, Alex’s dad encourages
her to leave her bed and take a walk with him. They make an odd
procession down the hospital hallway – Alex’s dad pushing
an IV pole ahead of hm as Alex, on thin, unsteady legs, follows
behind him, holding her dad’s big hand with both of her small
ones as he tells her how well she is doing. As they progress down
the hall, other parents come out of their children’s rooms and
add their encouragement. It’s simply a graphic and moving
picture of trust.
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The dark storm still rages around this child. But because her
father loves her and leads her on, she’s not focused on the
storm. She’s focused on her father and his
encouragement. And it’s enough. It’s enough.
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Now I don’t know what storms are swirling around you right now,
but I know we all have them. Even as we emerge from the shadows
of this pandemic, having done our best to help our neighbors around us,
new challenges are rising up, confronting us – political
challenges, racial challenges, disparities between rich and
poor. And just as Jesus knew that the mending of the world,
tikkun olam, was something he was to do, so we Christians
today know that the mending of the world, the mending of the social
fabric is what we’re called to do too. And we know it
won’t be easy. In fact, Christians are especially susceptible.
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Think of the Christians in Mark’s story today. Those
disciples didn’t run into a fierce storm because they had
disobeyed. They ran into that storm because they had obeyed
Jesus when he said, “Let’s get into the boat and go to
the other side. Let’s begin to work for wholeness in
our world.” That’s when the storm broke out around
them. That’s when their trouble began. For despite
what the television evangelists will tell you, faith is not always
a success story. Faith is a story that says, “I know there
will be a cost. I realize there will be conflicts. But I
take this challenge up as my way of life.”
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And right there, I think, is where we are, as well. As we work
today for wholeness in ourselves and our families, as we work for
peace and justice in our communities, we shouldn’t be surprised
to find the wind and waves rising up around us.
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It’s in those moments we want to remember whose child we
are. And reach out for His hand.
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Amen.
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