“Faith in Midst of Storm”
June 23, 2024
Rev. Rebecca Migliore
Let’s just set the scene. I looked up the Sea of Galilee, and it really isn’t a sea, it’s a lake, a freshwater lake. It isn’t like one of the great lakes—it is only about 12 miles long, and at its widest, 8 miles across. You don’t ever lose sight of the shore, even when you are miles out, because the land around is much higher than water itself. Because Galilee is 240 feet below sea level, the lowest fresh water body of water in the world. Imagine a bowl—that is Galilee.
And because of this unusual geography, Galilee is known for its storms. Cold air coming across the plain, drops down into the bowl, filled with warmer air above the warm water. This creates turbulence, and storms that can easily capsize any vessel foolish enough to venture out in such “seas.” These stormy conditions can blow very quickly, making going out in a boat at nighttime a risky proposition.
But here we are with Jesus, on one side of the Sea of Galilee. He has been preaching about the kin(g)dom of God and the light has failed. The crowds have dispersed, or maybe the only way to get away from them is to climb into a boat, and head across the water to another shore. Jesus is so tired, so trusting, that he falls asleep as they are making this somewhat dangerous voyage. And wouldn’t you know it, a storm comes up. And this is a big storm, threatening to swamp the boat that Jesus is in, and the other boats that seem to be part of their party.
I can imagine the terror of the disciples. Many of them have made their living fishing, or they come from villages that are close by, and they have seen the deadly power of the waves firsthand. But even worse, the one they are coming to believe is the One of God, will go down with the boat! But do you wake a sleeping tiger? They risk it. And Jesus is able to quiet the waters with a quick command “peace, be still” and then he turns at them.
I imagine that his voice is low and his head is cocked as he looks at them quizzically. “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” No wonder they mutter to each other, “Who is this, really?”
What is this story about? Is it a reminder after all this lofty talk, these wonderful images of the kin(g)dom, that life does not come without storms? That just when we thought we had it all figured out, something, anything, can blow up and blow away all that we thought we knew? I’ve often been drawn to that quote (I had no idea it came from Louisa May Alcott) “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my boat.” I guess Louisa was not much of a sailor, because sailing your boat is risky if you do not have a healthy fear of storms on the water.
And what does faith have to do with this? Is it faithful to blissfully sleep when others are terrified? Is it faithful to sail off into dark stormy seas sure that God will protect you no matter what? Is the message that to be faithful one needs to believe that the one who sails with you will always be able to calm the storm for you, will bring peace to the waves and to your life? Does faith mean that nothing can harm you?
Now I’ve thrown out a lot of questions, and I’m not sure I have the answers. What I do know is that it is an unusual life that does not have a sudden storm appear. What I do know is that those times of fear, and danger, often poke at our deepest beliefs. What I do know is that this story, at least for the writer of the gospel of Mark, is trying to tell us something important.
I found it fascinating to read a commentary that pairs this story with the earliest incident of Jesus’ ministry—the healing of the unclean man found in Mark 1:23-27. It is just writ on a much larger scale. Jesus rebukes the wind and the waves (as he does the unclean spirit). Jesus tells the storm to “be still” (as he says be silent to the unclean spirit). And it provokes questions in those who are present-- “Who is this that the wind and waves obey him?” in our passage; in this earlier story, they ask: “What is this?...He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.”
What has started as an isolated personal healing has now morphed into something of cosmic proportions. And the answer to any of these questions—What is this? Who can command the unclean spirits? Who do the winds and the waves obey?—well, there is only one answer: God. But no one says that. It is the undercurrent. It is the secret that is worming its way into the hearts and minds of the followers—even though we readers have been told the truth from the beginning—that this is the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.
So that’s what this story is about, right? But if we go back and look at the story with this in mind, it changes things. If this is God asleep at the wheel (so to speak), what are the disciples doing shaking him awake, yelling at him “Don’t you care that we are about to drown?” Well, from a Jewish point of view, they were doing what faithful people have done down the ages—they were lamenting. They were shaking the heavens, trying to remind God of God’s promises to us, howling their fear and their feelings of abandonment at the One who was their all in all—the One they loved with everything they had. (There are so many Psalms of this tone that they can’t be listed here—but one such song, Psalm 22, Jesus used on the cross—“My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”). In this cosmic version of our lesson, we are the disciples, confronted with a storm of life, lamenting as we have been taught to do by our ancestors, and God responds—calming the seas, stilling the storm.
Maybe faith is the ability to know that storms will arise, and to be willing to set out in the boat anyway? Isn’t that what the leaders of the Civil Rights Movement did? Their message of racial equality rocked the societal boat and stirred up turbulence, but they calmly and steadfastly continued across the sea. Isn’t that that what the leaders of the Suffrage Movement did? Their message of women’s equal rights rocked the societal boat and stirred up turbulence, but they calmly and persistently continued across the sea. Isn’t that what the leaders of the movement for Gay Rights did?
Their message of it being alright to be queer rocked the societal boat and stirred up turbulence, but they calmly and proudly continued across the sea. In this “rights” version of our lesson, we are empowered to follow in Jesus’ footsteps, not allowing the storms that may come to get in the way of where it is we have to go.
Now we’ve widened the lens, let’s collapse it a bit. For this isn’t just a story about Jesus and the disciples; it isn’t just secret code about who Jesus is; it isn’t just about how we shouldn’t fear facing the storms in our world; it is also about us. How could we read this story without thinking about our particular lives, about the crazy, out of the blue experiences we have had that turn our lives upside down.
What this story says to me, is that it is okay to rail at God if a storm shows up in your life—God can take it (as our lament psalms show from millenia ago). It is okay to have that experience of terror on the sea when you think the next minute you are going down with the boat. And although I can’t promise that God will be able to fix everything that goes wrong with our bodies, or our relationships, or our finances, or anything else, what we can say is that Jesus is in the boat with us. Yes, he may be asleep in the stern. Yes, he may not be paying attention to our frantic bailing of the water coming over the sides of our boat. But he is there. And in the apocryphal (the end times, in the end) version of this lesson—we will be alright (in the final analysis) because Jesus will still all storms, Jesus will calm all our fears, for Jesus is God, and God is God—the One who even the unclean spirits listen to, the One who even the wind and waves obey.
Faith isn’t about size—in a gospel (not Mark) we are told that if we have faith even the size of a mustard seed (very small) we can do impossible things. Faith isn’t about putting on rosy glasses and trying to pretend that we live in the kin(g)dom already. Faith isn’t about not having an honest conversation with God about our feelings and our fears.
Faith isn’t about expecting God to clean up all our messes. Faith isn’t a promise that everything will always go right in our lives.
No, faith is the ability to see that Jesus is in our boat. Faith is the courage to turn and face the storm clouds head on when that is what is needed. Faith is the trust that we can call out to God in any situation. Faith is holding onto the stories of those long ago, and those close by, of times when the storms raged and they feared it was the end, and then came that voice. The voice that was in the beginning, who called forth, “Let there be light!” The voice that spoke into the ears of the prophets. The voice that gave utterance to so many women from Hagar to Hannah to Mary (the mother) to Mary Magdelene. The voice that exorcized unclean spirits, the voice that stilled the waters, the voice that even raised some from the dead.
The voice that whispers to us in the middle of the night. The voice that roars against injustice and poverty and oppression. The voice that calls all the stars by name.
Faith is listening for that voice in our lives—be it in the midst of the storm or in the glorious calm. Faith is believing that voice, that One, always choses to be with us, in our small boat, on a stormy sea. We don’t have to be sure every single minute of every single hour of every single day of every single year of our lives (although some have been given that gift). No, faith is catching a glimpse, seeing it slide by in our peripheral vision, holding onto a moment in our hearts. “Peace, Be Still.” May we have ears to hear, Alleluia, Amen.