PROPER 7, YEAR B

St. Uriel's, Sea Girt, N.J.

Job 38:1-11

Psalm 107:1-3, 23-32

II Corinthians 6:1-13

Mark 4:35-41

Our Old Testament reading, Psalm, and Gospel presuppose a view of the sea or ocean as a terrifying place. The ancient Hebrews did not entertain a romantic view of the ocean. In their cosmology, it was a remnant of the primordial chaos that existed in the beginning before God began his work of creation, separating the waters from the waters, and making the sky and the dry land appear.

Some of God’s most spectacular exploits in the Old Testament take the form of divine victories over the waters. God makes the great flood recede in the story of Noah and the Ark, so that the earth once again becomes habitable and capable of being repopulated. God leads the children of Israel through the Red Sea on a path of dry land, with walls of water to their right and their left, during the Exodus from Egypt. God delivers the prophet Jonah from the belly of a great fish that has swallowed him during a storm at sea, causing it to vomit him out on the land so that he can continue with his mission of preaching repentance to the city of Nineveh. Today’s psalm (Psalm 107) describes the terror experienced by sailors during a storm at sea, and their rejoicing and praise of the Lord who calms the waves in response to their cries and brings them safely to harbor. 

In all these biblical passages, God stands forth as the Creator who demonstrates his superiority to the waters of death and destruction. In today’s Old Testament reading, from the whirlwind God firmly reminds Job of how he brought order out of chaos in the beginning: “Who prescribed bounds for [the sea] … and said, ‘Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stayed.’”

This background makes clear the significance of today’s Gospel. Although it’s a just a large inland lake, the Sea of Galilee is prone to sudden violent squalls whipped up by winds funneled in through the surrounding high hills. And when from the storm-tossed boat Jesus rebukes the wind and commands the sea to be still, he’s exercising a power that properly belongs to God alone. The disciples are filled with awe—the Greek text says literally that “they feared a great fear”—and they say to one another, “Who then is this, that even wind and sea obey him?” If they were afraid before, they’re even more afraid now. But whereas their previous fear was a bad fear, arising from lack of faith, their new fear is a good fear, the fear of the Lord, because the only possible answer to their question is that the one standing in their midst is none other than God incarnate.

The detail of his sleeping on the cushion in the stern reminds us of his two natures as true God and true man. He’s one Person, fully human and fully divine. In his humanity, he shares with us the same physical needs we all have, to eat, drink, rest, and sleep. So, according to the dictates of his human nature he falls asleep after a long, hard day of preaching to the multitudes on the shore. But after he awakens, it’s by the power and authority of his divine nature that he commands the wind and the waves to be still, and they obey him.

Now, at this point, the standard homiletical move would be for the preacher to draw an allegory, perhaps likening the boat to the Church or the individual Christian making a way over the storm-tossed sea of life, so that just when we feel overwhelmed by our troubles and about to go under, Jesus steps up and commands, “Peace, be still!” Then, even if our problems don’t go away, they’ll at least become navigable. I suspect that we’ve all heard that sermon on multiple occasions; I’ve given it a few times myself. And it’s a perfectly legitimate application of today’s Gospel.

But I’d like instead to to go in a slightly different direction and quote from a sermon of Saint Augustine of Hippo, who lived in North Africa in the late fourth and early fifth century. Augustine takes a more psychological approach, likening the wind and waves to our temptations and sins. Augustine writes this:

When you have to listen to abuse, that means that you are being buffeted by the wind. When your anger is roused, you are being tossed by the waves. So when the winds blow and the waves mount high, the boat is in danger, your heart is imperiled, your heart is taking a battering. On hearing yourself insulted, you long to retaliate; but the joy of revenge brings with it another kind of misfortune—shipwreck. Why is this? Because Christ is asleep in you. What do I mean? I mean that you have forgotten his presence. Rouse him, then; remember him, let him keep watch within you, pay heed to him … A temptation arises: it is the wind. It disturbs you: it is the surging of the sea. This is the moment to awaken Christ and let him remind you of those words: “Who can this be? Even the winds and the sea obey him.”

Isn’t that wonderful? If Christ is asleep in you, this is the moment to awaken him! Or, as Saint Paul puts it in today’s reading from Second Corinthians: “Behold, now is the acceptable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”

As the disciples awaken Jesus, they cry out, “Teacher, do you not care if we perish?” I could be wrong, but my guess is that all they expect from him in that moment is to help them strike the sail and bail the water so that the boat won’t go under. Hence their amazement and awe when instead he stills the storm simply by his word. They’d merely wanted him to join all hands on deck, but he does almost infinitely more than they’ve asked of him. 

Therein lies a message of hope and encouragement for us all. Perhaps, as Saint Augustine suggests, we’ve let Christ fall asleep within us. Then, if we call on him in moments of crisis, he’ll indeed awaken and come to our aid. But it will be on his terms rather than ours. He’ll insist on doing more for us than it even occurred to us to ask, and he’ll expect far more from us in return. 

This episode of the stilling of the storm takes place early in Mark’s Gospel, not long after the initial calling of the Twelve. For the disciples, the adventure is just beginning, and it will take them places they’ve never imagined they’ll go: not just across the Sea of Galilee but ultimately across real seas and real oceans to begin the Church’s mission of preaching the Gospel to all nations. Similarly, when we awaken Jesus within us, the adventure of the Christian life begins: an adventure that I wouldn’t exchange for anything else in the world. So, happy Father’s Day – and happy sailing!