It
can’t really have surprised the experienced fishermen among Jesus’ disciples
when a storm blew up and started battering their boat on the way across the Sea
of Galilee - sudden and violent storms are normal if unpredictable on that
lake - but the terror they felt was appropriate and real.
Even
if you’re a strong swimmer, even if you’re close to shore, even it’s normal,
water is deadly when it churns and blows.
But
when the disciples wake Jesus up for help, they seem to be looking for comfort
and assurance more than rescue. Instead of calling "Lord, save
us," they ask "Teacher, don't you care?”
So
Jesus is exceeding expectations when he gets up - turns right into the face of
the storm - and says,“Sit! Stay!”
(Literally
translated, it’s “Silence! Be muzzled!”
— sharp, severe commmands.)
And
the storm obeys. The calm is sudden and paralyzing.
Until
he asks them about faith, and all their anxiety returns as awe and
wonder, and they shy away from the realization
of just how close they’ve been sitting to God’s power: the power to tame the
uncontrollable, turn the world upside down in an instant, and
make everything obey.
That
same unreasonable power is on display when David faces Goliath.
The
Philistine champion is genuinely unbeatable - stronger than any other man,
experienced, skilled and well-armed.
The
terror of Israel’s army was appropriate and real,
and
King Saul was quite right to try to protect the crazy young boy who volunteered
to fight the champion.
Saul
suits young David up in his very own armor - the best protection and weaponry
to be found - but David strips it all off. “I can’t walk in this,” he says, and
sets out to confront the impossible with one slingshot, five stones, and
theology.
In
the face of the champion’s deadly strength and skill, it's
not the slingshot, the weapon, that knocks down Goliath. It’s the theology.
It’s
the way that kid leaps without a net, takes a hopeless stance, because
he alone remembers the terrifying power of God,
and
is willing to shed all the assumptions and protections that stand between him
and that power, protections most of us are so used to we can’t function without
them.
While
Saul, and his army, and everyone else around them forgot the sheer
power of God;
the
power to tame the uncontrollable,
turn
the world upside down in an instant,
and
make everything stop and listen.
It’s
actually easy to forget how powerful God is.
Even
when we pray for miracles, even when we recite the Creed — full of
impossible things we declare that we believe — even when we talk and think
about God’s power, it can be easy to forget the raw
reality:
forget
that direct exposure to God’s power turns your bones to jelly and runs tingling
down all your nerves, the way you feel after a screechingly
narrow escape from a car accident,
but
more so.
So
it’s a lot more comfortable to forget;
to
live without a constant shiver in your bones and trembling in your soul. It’s
a lot more attractive to pray and discern God’s will, or try to follow Jesus’ moral
teachings, than to expose ourselves to that power
that’s impossible to resist or deny.
Most
of us don’t actually have to experience that power directly as we try to follow
Jesus or know God, but we get ourselves in trouble if we
forget it’s real.
I’ve
wondered this week if the people who gather regularly for Bible Study at Mother
Emanuel AME in Charleston had a lot of practice being stirred by God's raw
power. Their history suggests that like the
disciples boating on the Sea of Galilee, they knew that sudden, violent, even
deadly storms are a reality of life in the systems of race and class in this
country.
The
forces that stir those storms, of course, are different from wind and wave, but
they are as powerful, more dangerous, and often feel just as intractable.
But
welcoming the stranger is something you do as a disciple of Jesus, just like
crossing over the Sea of Galilee.
Most
of the time you don't drown,
most
of the time you don't get shot, or firebombed, or beaten.
But
sometimes those predictably unpredictable forces kick up, the
danger is real,
and
the faithful cry out, "Teacher, wake up, we're dying!"
I
watch this happen in the news, and I grieve and pray, but
I suspect that - like the disciples in the boat - I've forgotten to call on
God's power,
and
only remembered to call for comfort and assurance.
I
think I’ve gotten too used to grief and anxiety in the face of tragedy, and
that experience has made me more comfortable with the subtle, impersonal forces
of racism and violence that stir up the violent storms like Charleston and
Birmingham and the arson wave of the 90’s, and the Oak Creek, Wisconsin temple
shooting,
than
with the spine-tingling power of God that shakes and challenges me to my core.
But
that power is real,
and
it's still possible for Jesus to stand up among us today and command our messy,
dangerous, fragile, common life to heart-stopping calm.
I
suspect, though, that this story today requires the whole body of Christ, the
whole church together - black, white, brown, new, old, young, shy, evangelical,
traditional, conservative, liberal, diverse as can be - that only the whole
body of Christ can command this storm to still.
And
we won't do that if we're not constantly re-opening ourselves to the
nerve-wracking, sense-jumbling power of God.
Because
just like David standing in front of Goliath,
human
power can't make the difference.
We
have to strip away the armor of custom and expectation and safety, and
leave ourselves vulnerable to the power of God.
And
the armor we have to discard for that is any belief that these storms are
localized,
any
belief that the problem isn't ours,
or
that someone in charge can solve it.
I
doubt many of us consciously choose those beliefs - they are the armor given to
us by life - by Saul, by powerful leaders who want to protect us. And
good armor is complicated to remove. But like David we have to learn when that
protection actually gets in our way,
when
to choose to disarm,
so
that nothing stands between us and God's hair-raising power.
I've
got some pretty good armor of my own that says "you can't preach this one
as racism and an epidemic of guns because inflammatory words will keep people
from hearing the gospel. You can’t preach what will sound political."
And
I might be wrong about taking off that armor now.
(You’ll
let me know if I'm wrong.)
But
I can’t knock this giant down on my own, even with the best armor, and maybe
God can.
It's
not even a very big risk to put that shield aside for a few minutes – I’m not
dying, I’m not even taking down all the armor that protects me in talking about
race and violence - but it still makes my spine tingle a little, because
I love you and I don't want to hurt you by starting a fight,
and
because I am afraid of both racism and guns.
And
it's precisely the shiver in my spine I want to share with you today.
Will
you, this week, find something to raise your goosebumps or shake your nerves,
a
little, or a lot?
Stand
outside in a thunderstorm (we have an abundance of opportunities for that!),
say
something heartfelt but truly risky in conversation,
love
a neighbor you honestly don’t want in your neighborhood.
Do
something that lets go of your safety net just enough to feel it in your spine
and skin.
Not
because every adrenaline rush comes from God, but
because it's prayer.
Because
if we stay in our armor we forget to demand miracles and transformation from
God, we think we can do it ourselves, and limit what God can do with our
vulnerability.
It’s
a lot easier here and now to stand in a violent thunderstorm or preach a sermon
than to volunteer for single combat or to dissolve racism, fear, and violence
throughout our country.
None
of these are what we do for fun. But
I believe it’s worth it to try.
Because
right now people are calling out to the Body of Christ, “Wake up! We’re dying! Don’t
you care??”
So
it might be a good idea for you and me to get our nerves raw with God’s power, to
renew that connection:
to
remember that the fearful awe, the spine-tingling shaky reaction, is a reality
of faith.
Because we’ll need that awe to
be part of God’s great and life-saving miracles.
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