Thomas Kleinert
Some of you would rather be at the beach right now, wouldn’t you? Or perhaps you’re more of a lake person? Fontana Lake is great when it’s in the 90s down here. Or just imagine sitting in the shade by a creek, your feet dangling in the water, and all the mosquitoes are on vacation in Michigan.
Do you know anybody who doesn’t love being in the water, or on it, or at least by it? Splashing around in the pool, zipping down a water slide, doing a canon-ball from a rope swing, soaking in a tub, catching the mist from a waterfall, waiting for a fish to bite, or just listening to the sound of the waves rolling up on the beach – aren’t we all drawn to water like we were all otters once?
When the crowds who gathered to hear Jesus were getting larger, he asked his disciples to have a boat ready for him, just in case, so he could pull away from the shore and teach from the boat.[1] People heard his stories about the sower scattering seed on the ground and birds nesting in the shade of a shrub, they heard these parables of God’s reign with water in the background: the sound of little waves lapping up onto the pebbles and rocks. And they heard them with a view of the lake stretching to the horizon, under the wide canopy of the Galilean sky.
When I imagine that scene by the lake—all of us, young and old, locals and folks from far away, resting by the water’s edge and listening to Jesus telling stories about the kingdom of God—when I sit in that scene, it’s like I’m not just hearing the promise of a better, fuller life together, I’m already living it, body and soul. I hope you too know those moments in the presence of Jesus when you wouldn’t hesitate to declare that the kingdom is already here.
On that day, when evening came, Jesus said to the disciples, “Let us go across to the other side.” Leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat. Most of the people on the beach, I imagine, went home; they had things to do: there were animals to look after, meals to prepare, kids to get ready for bed. Perhaps some of them hung around a little longer, watching the boat go east. Why would he want to go over there?, some may have wondered. Only godless Gentiles over there, idol worshippers, hog farmers, those aren’t our people over there, what business does he have going to them?
Dark clouds were moving in, casting shadows over what had been such a lovely day by the lake. Meanwhile, in the boat, the disciples were enjoying the quiet and the evening breeze—until the wind started picking up, that is, and a storm broke loose. Waves were beating into the boat, and it was filling up fast. The raging wind was whipping the water into a churning frenzy of crashing waves—chaos had been unleashed.
Water is one of our most powerful symbols. It represents some of our deepest needs and comforts along with some of our greatest fears. Few of us are living with a sense that these are days for smooth sailing—too many fears and worries are rocking our little boat, too many unpredictable forces are pushing it every which way. Will we be able to reject the heresy of white supremacy dressed up in Christian symbols? Will we be able to slow the use of violence as a means of dealing with conflict? Will we stop treating our home planet like we had another one in the basement? Will we be able to talk with each other across the growing divide of world views and habits of thought? We can’t name all that has been unleashed and let loose among us, but the wind has picked up and the sea is rising and the waves are crashing against our little boat.
The church has taught us to sing, A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing, our present help amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing. I see a stronghold built on a mighty rock, surrounded by raging seas, waves battering the walls relentlessly, but to no avail: this fortress is a mighty one. And though this world with devils filled, should threaten to undo us—we will not fear. The powers of darkness grim, we tremble not for them; their rage we can endure, for lo, their doom is sure: One little word shall fell them.
One little word. It’s a lot easier to sing bravely against the raging storm from behind the walls of a fortress built high on a cliff than from inside a little boat tossed about by the wind and the waves. And the disciples aren’t singing. They’re looking at Jesus, curled up on a cushion in the stern, fast asleep—a picture of peace amid the chaos.
They wake him up, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” No, they don’t need him to take hold of the rudder or help bail out the boat. They are terrified, and it scares them that he clearly isn’t the least bit troubled. “Do you not care that this little boat is going down and all of us with it?” They are frantic, and the fact that he isn’t, only makes it worse.
Mark paints this scene with the ancient colors of the Creator subduing the forces of chaos. Waking up, Jesus rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Be silent! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. Jesus spoke, and the sea lay low. The scene echoes words and movements from Genesis 1 and several psalms. He made the storm be still, and the waves of the sea were hushed. He spoke and it came to be.[2] The disciples were filled with great fear and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”
There is a popular reading of this story where Jesus isn’t rebuking the wind and the waves, but rather the disciples for being afraid and for their lack of faith. According to that reading, we ought to always remember, no matter how high the waves or how violent the winds may be, that Jesus is in the boat with us—and we shouldn’t be afraid, and if we had faith, we wouldn’t be afraid. According to that reading, we ought to tie ourselves to the mast and laugh at the storm, “Bring it on! Is that all you got?” But we are afraid when chaos rages and the unknown threatens to overwhelm us, and feeling guilty for being afraid has never made anyone feel less afraid. So keep in mind: Jesus didn’t rebuke the disciples; he commanded the wind and the waves to be still.
Now is perhaps the moment to remember that the whole trip was his idea. “Let us go across to the other side,” he said. This was no evening cruise to a restaurant on the other side of the lake. He took them out to sea, away from the land and the life they knew, to Gentile lands. Why? Because sin and fear ruled on the other side, and Jesus crossed over to bring forgiveness, liberation, and healing. Idols and demons ruled on the other side, and Jesus invaded their territory to bring the kingdom of God. This was no pleasure cruise, this was D-day. And the storm wasn’t an episode of really bad weather. The storm was and is this very moment when the forces of chaos are doing their level worst to stop that little boat with waves raging and wind gusts blowing from every direction.
Jesus’ life and mission is one dangerous crossing after another. His presence, his words, his entire way of being in the world lead to constant confrontation with all the forces opposed to God’s dominion. The truth is, when Jesus is near, the storms aren’t far. But Jesus speaks the word that brought light and life into being. Jesus speaks, and we hear the One who prescribed bounds for the sea, saying, “Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stopped.”[3]
“Who then is this?” the disciples ask—and Mark wants us to know deep in our bones that Jesus speaks and acts with the power of God. Jesus has taken us into the boat with him. The whole trip is his idea. He is taking us with him to the other side in love’s invasion of the world.
We know God didn’t save him from drowning in the chaos of our lovelessness. Jesus did drown in the dark depth of death on a cross, but God raised him from the dead. Fear and sin are all-consuming, but the love that called light and life into being is greater.
We’re in the boat with him. The whole trip is his idea. He’s taking us to the other side, again and again, across all that divides us, in the name of love.
And when it’s all too much? When it’s just overwhelming like it so often is these days? Augustine of Hippo wrote sometime in the early fifth century, “If your faith is dormant in your heart, it is as though Christ were sleeping in your boat, because it is through faith that Christ dwells in you. When the sea begins to get choppy, awaken the sleeping Christ.”[4] I like Augustine’s take on this story. Don’t let anyone tell you that letting Jesus sleep in the stern somehow is an expression of fearless faith. When the sea begins to get choppy, awaken the sleeping Christ.
[1] Mark 3:9; 4:1
[2] Genesis 1:7ff.; Psalm 107:29; Psalm 33:9; see also Ps 65:7 You silence the roaring of the seas, the roaring of their waves, the tumult of the peoples. Ps 89:9-13 You rule the raging of the sea; when its waves rise, you still them…
[3] See Job 38:8-11
[4] Augustine, Expositions of the Psalms, ed. John E. Rotelle, Vol. 4, 342.