Jason Mraz, the Stated Clerk, and the Gospel of Mark

or

Thirteen Jews Get into a Boat...

This is a message I gave for our youth-led service on September 30, 2012. (“Youth service” often means “Lynnea preaches.” I don’t know how that happens.) It’s a few months old, granted, but I thought I would post it here anyway. It might make some later posts make more sense. The accompanying scripture texts are Isaiah 9:1-7 and Mark 4:35-41. I reference happenings in Covenant Pres. and the PC(USA) specifically, but I feel that our concerns are also the concerns of the Church Universal since we are all members of the Body of Christ.

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I want you to think of a time when you were scared. And I mean really scared. Not just “Wow, this roller coaster is really scary!” or “Holy smokes, that firework was close!” but a time when you were truly, deeply terrified. A time when you were afraid for your life. When you sincerely thought that you would die, here, now, in this situation. If you’re really lucky, you can’t think of anything. If you’re not so lucky, you’ll have more than one. I have two, actually, but there’s a statute of limitations on what you can and cannot tell your parents and it isn't up on the more recent one, so you’re going to hear about the storm when I was eight.

Lake Erie is the smallest of the Great Lakes, although it’s the best, but I might be biased. My mother’s parents live on the west side of Cleveland, Ohio, and when I was a kid they had a sailboat at one of the local yacht clubs. A small, 34-foot sloop rig which was mostly for day sails, but could comfortably accommodate a short out-of-pocket cruise if you were so inclined. The yacht club my grandparents belonged to hosted a sail camp every summer. Six weeks on the water learning how to sail. It was awesome. There were different classes of boats based on age and skill level and the top class belonged to the Lasers. You had to be at least fifteen to sail a Laser, a 15-foot one-person boat, and it took skill. You had to be able to simultaneously maneuver sails, lines, wind, and waves, while steering. In a race. I never got there, but several of my older cousins did. The best part of sail camp was the annual Laser Races at the end of the summer when the oldest kids got to show off their sailing prowess.

This particular night my grandfather took all of us—my cousins Devin, John, and Sarah; my grandmother; and my self—out on his boat to watch the races. My oldest cousin Michael was participating, crewing his blue-hulled, rainbow-sailed vessel with skill and accuracy.

The night was going well, perfect weather, when suddenly—and I mean suddenly, from nowhere—a storm came up. I can completely relate to the story in Mark’s Gospel, because this storm came out of nowhere. The sky went black. The water turned to a rolling boil. The winds went to gale force in a matter of minutes if not seconds. Water spouts erupted 200 yards from the bow. Thunder crashed around us and lightning lit the sky to mid-day brightness. Now remember, Michael and 12 of his fellow Laser-class sailors are in the water at this time. Their boats capsized and turtled. Kids were thrown from their small cockpits. The mast on Michael’s boat snapped in two at the base ripping his rainbow-laden mail sail to pieces. My grandfather—who was 67 at the time—fished Michael from the waves by his life jacket along with several other kids. One Laser, tossed by the wind, flipped end over end until it smashed into the rocks of the break wall. I know this sounds like a Faulkner novel or a JJ Abrams plot line  but I promise you it’s true, I've got people to corroborate my story. My grandmother threw life jackets over our heads and shoved us down below.

We were scared. None of us had ever been in a storm like this, not on land, not on water, not anywhere. Waves crashed over the side of the boat and water seeped in through the portholes. The closed portholes on top of the boat. Every bolt in the ship strained with the effort to stay together. Even my cousin Devin, who had earned himself the nickname “Crash” by the time he was eight for his propensity for fearless stunts, had tears streaming down his face. I was terrified. But it wasn't until I saw my grandfather—my brave grandfather who could stand up to anything or anyone, who successfully captained a PT boat in the South Pacific during World War Two, who had seen more of life and death by the time he was 20 than most people see in a lifetime—it wasn't until I looked up through the companionway to see my grandfather physically wrestling with the wheel of his boat to bring her safely home, and in the flash of the closest lightning bolt I ever wish to witness, I saw my grandfather’s eyes. And he was scared. He was scared for himself, and he was scared for his family, and he was scared that he may not be able to bring us safely home. In that moment, I knew I would die. There was not a doubt in my mind. Clearly, and thank God, I was wrong.

I don’t remember getting to port. I don’t remember the end of the storm. I don’t remember what happened to Michael’s boat. I do remember getting off on the dock and literally kissing the ground. I remember watching the weather report afterwards and the description of the storm that no one had seen the likes of in years. Even the weather men were impressed and appalled. I remember the reports from the Coast Guard that others had not been as lucky as my family and me. I remember all of that because I survived. I survived, and somehow the storm did not win.

We live in challenging and trying times, my friends. There are lots of scary things happening, lots of uncertainties. You might even say we are in the middle of a storm, and fairly mighty one at that. And when I say “we” I mean we, us, here in the pews. Covenant has had a lot of turnover in leadership, we have been confronted with sickness and even death. We are in flux and we are tired and we scared. The denomination is there, too. There are lots of fearful things that are staring us down that we have to face and we feel we are not ready. We have to confront policy, we have to confront procedure, we have to confront divestment in the Middle East, we have to confront our response to terrorism, we have to confront theology, and funding, and where we’re headed as a church family. And we certainly have to confront that huge elephant in the room that everyone’s praying I won’t mention, but friends we have no choice. One of the things we have to confront is homosexuality. There, I said it, from the pulpit. It’s here, and it will not go away. It’s not new, it’s been around for as long as people have been around, just like all the other storms we’re in. We have to struggle with where our faith meets our world. That is not new either. Where does our faith in the saving grace of Christ meet our knowledge that we are in a storm and it appears that God doesn't care if we drown? Where do the values we hold so dear meet the world we have to live in? What are these values? How do we live them? And the most terrifying thought is that maybe these values are different from what we originally thought.

Now, friends, hear me clearly. When I say we have to confront these things, I mean confront them as we confront the storm. I mean we have to face them, we have to talk about them, we have to admit that they are problems and we cannot stick our heads in the sand. Now, I don’t mean that we have to confront all of them all at the same time, but we must be aware that these are the storms on the horizon. And I certainly do not mean, nor do I in any way mean to imply, that we must confront on another. Just the opposite. We have to stand together and confront things as the family we are. We in no way have to agree 100% on everything—in fact, we probably shouldn't. If we agreed 100% on everything then someone either isn't thinking or doesn't care—but we do have to be willing to talk about and be fearful with one another. Just as Devin held me in his arms with tears streaming down his cheeks in the middle of that storm whispering, “We will not die. We will not die. We will not die.” so, too, we must stay together. We are family. We must be vulnerable.

The words from Isaiah are ones that we usually only hear once a year at Christmas. It’s the story of a promise, and ancient promise that we know now has come true. But the story doesn't stop at Christmas and it didn't stop at Easter. These words live on because Jesus lives on. They are words for everyday, just as much as Christmas. Isaiah tells us right here in verse one that in the past God humbled the Jewish lands of Zebulun and Naphtali but that in the future he will humble the land of the Gentiles. The Gentiles, people! This is not what the Jews want to hear. The Jews are God’s own people, they are his chosen, they don’t want to hear that he will save the literally God-forsaken Gentiles. But God didn't ask their opinion. And guess what? We are the God-forsaken Gentiles, except we are God-forsaken no more. God is here with us, that’s what Isaiah goes on to say; for to us a child is born, to us a son is given, to all of us, everywhere, and his government will have no end, not ever, no way, no how. He is here. And he is here to stay.

As Sherrolyn, the pastor, said last week, God saw something in us that was worth saving. And not just once, that’s the really crazy thing. God keeps saving his people over and over and over again. He saved Noah from the flood, he saved Isaac from the knife, he saved Moses from Pharaoh and lead the people out of Egypt, he saved Joshua and the people from all the –ites in Canaan, he saved David from his own adulterous stupidity, and he saved all of us through his son Jesus Christ. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know what he sees in us that’s so worth saving. But he didn't ask my opinion. We are just like the disciples: hopelessly obtuse, challenged in our faith, and often even our best efforts fall abysmally short of the mark. But Jesus keeps saving us.

He saves us from the storm. Yes, we are in the boat. Yes, we are headed across the lake. And, certainly yes, there is a storm. But you have options. There are other boats here out on the water with us. You can jump ship, join with another vessel. Look for one that’s sturdier, that’s bigger, that’s crewed by more than a rag-tag bunch of fishermen, tax collectors, lawyers, and half-wit carpenter who doesn't even have the sense enough to stay awake in a typhoon. It makes a lot of sense to want to get the heck out of dodge and no one will blame you. So you can jump ship to another boat. You can even jump ship and swim for shore. Both are viable options in this scenario, but here’s the kicker: you are still in the same storm. Every boat that’s around you, every person you can see is in the same storm as you, and we’re all scared.

Fear is not unnatural, it’s not even wrong. It keeps us in check, it—in most cases—keeps us from doing extremely stupid things. It’s a defense mechanism and a survival tool. Fear is not inherently bad, but when fear becomes debilitating, that’s when it becomes evil. When we are so immobilized by that which scares us that we can’t move, that’s when we fall prey to the storm. But there is good news. The disciples were afraid. They knew they were going to drown and in their desperation they did the only thing that they could think of. They woke the half-wit carpenter asleep in the stern and said, “Don’t you care if we drown?!” And notice what Jesus does. He doesn't say, “Of course I care!” He doesn't grumble, he doesn't fight them. He stands up and yells at the weather. “Quiet! Be still!” He takes action. Jesus was fully human as much as he was fully God; you’re gonna tell me that his humanity wasn't even a little bit nervous with the furious squall? But none the less, he takes shows courage and takes action. Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is action in the face of fear. If you are never afraid, then you never have a chance to be brave.

What follows is, I believe, the most interesting part of the story. Up to this point we can only infer that the disciples were scared. After all, what person in their right mind wouldn't be scared when caught in a violent storm while out on the water with literally nothing between you and the elements? They really thought they were going to drown, and I call that excellent basis for being petrified with fear. But it never actually says they are afraid. We only get the word “terrified” once in these six verses, right at the end, only after Jesus has calmed the wind and the waves. Look at it. There is no mention of fear or terror or any other synonym until the very last verse, verse 41. I asked the kids this question when we were preparing for the service: if the storm is over, then what are they terrified of? My friends, they are terrified of Jesus. What he has just done is so far outside their realm of experience, so far beyond their understanding, that the disciples are more scared of him than of the storm.

Jesus is scary! What Jesus does is scary and what Jesus asks us to do is especially scary. There is room here for fear. But there is room, too, for Jesus. Get in the boat. Go across the lake. There will be a storm. You will not die. I admit, I stole that quote from the Stated Clerk of the PC(USA), but I had permission, and the man’s got a point. You will not die! God sees us as worth saving, again and again and again. You will not die! To us a child is born and to us a son is given. You will not die! A furious squall will come up and you will be stuck in a boat. You will not die!

God is here. He has always been here. He always will be here. He will not give up. He will not give up on our fear, he will not give up on our questions, he will not give up on our stresses or worries, he will not give up on our disbelief or our unbelief or our mistakes or our screw-ups or our doubt. He will not give up! He will not give up on us. God is bigger than all of that. God is bigger than policy and procedure. God is bigger than changes in leadership. God is bigger than the Middle East and homosexuality. God is bigger than our mistakes and our screw-ups and our unbelief. God is bigger than the storm. You will not die. God will not give up.