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1 Samuel 17:32-49; Mark 4:35-41
For a number of summers, my family would spend a couple of months in a cabin on the shore of Lake of the Woods in Northwestern Ontario, a beautiful place to be with the lake spanning out in front of you. Lake of the Woods is very large and even on the clearest of days we could not see to the other side. You realized right away that this was no stretch of water for a canoe. Except on the calmest of afternoons in which you could skirt the shoreline, keeping an eye on the weather, and being careful not to drift out into the main channel of water, you did not dare venture out on any craft without an adequate motor. The Sea of Galilee was not so large - only 13 miles from north to south and eight miles across at the widest point. But that is still too wide for a light boat, in which Galilean fishermen would typically set out. They did not need to be told about the volatility of the natural world, how a sudden storm can bring sudden death. All too many of us believe that the natural world can be tamed if only we have the right kind of equipment. I wonder which of us is more realistic and scientific?
One of the chief pieces of evidence of the humanity of Jesus is that he got tired. Physically tired to be sure, but it is apparent especially during his preaching tours that he got tired of people as well. They simply wore him out by their demands, their questions, their needs. Teaching to a large crowd takes a lot out of you, and if you are throwing in a bit of healing and intense personal attention to people, you are not going to have much energy left.
So on the evening of a long day of telling parables, Jesus' suggestion that they should go on over to the other side of the lake was loaded. They left a big crowd behind, probably clamouring as they are pushing off, "Where are you going? Are you leaving us? We want to hear you teach some more." Jesus had reached his limit: as recent generations have said, he needed space.
However, the narrative now switches direction. Jesus made the suggestion, but the disciples took him with them in the boat, and they took him "just as he was." Did they recognize a man barely able to keep going? They didn't wait for him to get on proper clothing or bring the appropriate supplies; they took him "just as he was" - exhausted, tired of people, utterly human.
They get out into the middle and a great windstorm rises up and starts swamping the boat. The disciples were out there because Jesus wanted to be, but now they could die. It's not hard to catch the edge in their voices as they see Jesus fast asleep in the stern. "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" It's one thing to have the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but doesn't it just gall you when the person for whom you ended up in that wrong place just doesn't care? He's sleeping through our death on behalf of him.
Mark wastes no words: Jesus wakes up, rebukes the wind and sea, "Peace! Be still!" The elements, as if human, obeyed. A dead calm.
There is no mention of the disciples being afraid; it is Jesus who names their affliction. "Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?" It is the "still" which gets to you. They had seen and heard all his healings and teaching, and had not yet gotten the point. Most of us still haven't, so it is alright.
Were they afraid of the dark forces of nature? Probably every one of the disciples had been literally in this boat before. Death in the water was not an unexperienced experience. Were they afraid of the unknown? Not when they had known such a thing all their life.
No, they were afraid of dying in a world which does not care, afraid that the one person who had given life and meaning to their lives, for whom they were now out on these tempestuous waters, not giving a care.
The opposite of fear is faith, Jesus is saying. That's not surprising, but exactly what kind of faith has always been difficult for us to grasp. Faith in God, faith that there is indeed a God in these dark moments is the answer ma ny people give. Yet that is not enough in the face of the dark storm of cancer or physical and sexual abuse or the cruel violence of a civil war. No, that is not enough, for even the atheists know that there is a God. Real faith requires knowing that there is a God who cares, and who does more than just care.
Paul Davies is an Australian physicist who has written a number of books on quantum mechanics, the Big Bang at the creation of the universe, as well as several books on the relationship between science and religion. He recently won the Templeton Prize for progress in religion. He sees no conflict between the two whatsoever.
Nevertheless, he has a word of admonition to Christians about their faith. If the Christian faith is to be credible to modern people, we have to get over the notion of an "interventionist God," that is, a God who hears, cares, and then acts for our good. That kind of God is an offense to reason, a contradictor of the laws of nature, and just plain in-credible to modern people . Do we really want a God who, from time to time, steps into what we are doing, reaches out, and acts?
Who then is going to care? Is Christian faith purely an intellectual statement of fact that there does exist a Divine Being, the Ground of All Being? For many of us, faith has come down to this solid fact which is comforting in its own right, for now there is no ambiguity. When it comes to crises here on earth, in this temporal life, it is all up to us. It is too confusing and disconcerting to allow for any ambiguity about who is going to care and do something right now. Why, it can even be dangerous, which is what I keep trying to tell you week after week. Our God is not safe.
William Willimon tells two stories about little old ladies who were dying. The first one was a woman in her 90's living in a nursing home. She was blind and lost most of her hearing, and few people visited her. He did one day and asked her before he left if she would like a prayer. "No," she said. "If you want to pray, t hat's OK. But I've already had plenty of time to say everything to God I wanted to say. Besides, I best not bother God at this point."
"Oh," Willimon said, "you're never too old to bother God. God is always eager to hear from you."
"That's not the problem," she answered. "I don't know whether or not I want to hear from God, for God has asked me to do so many difficult things over the years, demanded so much of me. I best leave God alone for now."
God is more than a fact to this woman. God bothers you, makes you risk, do things you never wanted to do or thought yourself capable of doing. God is good, but God is a Big Nuisance.
The second woman was dying in the hospital and a young pastor was visiting her. She did ask for a prayer, a prayer that God will make me well.
The young minister sighed and began, "Lord, if it be your will, we pray that this sick sister might be healed. On the other hand, if it not your will, we pray that she might be given a positive attitude, a willingness to accept her situation. Amen."
As soon as he finished, her eyes opened. She sat up in bed, threw her feet over the side, stood up, and said, "I'm well. I really think I'm well." She bounded out of the room, heading for the nurses' station, shouting, "Look at me! I'm well."
The young minister stumbled out of that room and as he was pulling out his key to open his car, he looked up and said, "Don't you ever do that to me again!"
Who is this that even the wind and the sea obey him? Intellectual facts do not care and only reason obeys them.
People do care, yet the kind of care which causes us to act does not come out of a universal human sentiment, but out of the depths of our relationship to a God who cares enough to risk being a human being.
This is not a Gospel of comfort, that in the midst of your storms God will always bring about peace and a dead calm.
It is the Gospel that God will send us out into the storm on God's behalf and on God's mission. Yet in a relationship of faith with the God Who Cares there will be no fear of the unknown, for God knows us and that is dangerous. And that is the Good News.
Preached by Robert Kitchen
Knox-Metropolitan United Church
Regina, Saskatchewan
June 25, 2000
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