Community Church Sermons
Year B
June 24, 2012
Fourth Sunday after
Pentecost
Wake Up, Lord!
Mark 4:35-41
Rev. Rhonda
A. Blevins
Associate
Pastor
Do you know what this is? This is
called a newspaper. This is how people used to get the news before 24-hour
cable and the internet and smart phones. People used to actually read the news.
I know it’s crazy but it’s true.
Whether you read or heard or saw or absorbed
the news through osmosis this week, here’s some of what you observed: a high-profile coach convicted of 45 or 48
counts of child sexual abuse, 15,000 Syrian civilians now dead at the hands of
an oppressive regime, three more American soldiers dead in Afghanistan bringing
the total to 1,966—6,440 if you count Operation Iraqi Freedom, stocks went up
then down then back up—investors are operating in “fear” mode. Then there’s the
stuff that didn’t make the headlines here in our own community: a terminal
diagnosis, the loss of a friend, some addiction that just can’t be broken, a loved
one is suffering.
I don’t know about you, but I often
look around at the world—and I feel like the disciples must have felt in the boat
that night. The storm is raging all around—the boat is taking on more and more
water, and there’s Jesus in the stern, sound asleep. Wake
up, Lord! How can you—how dare you sleep at a time like this? “Don’t you care
if we drown?” Wake up, Lord! We’re all out here with our buckets frantically trying
to keep this boat afloat—and you’re sleeping like a fat man after an
all-you-can-eat buffet. Wake up, Lord! Do something!
This prayer—Wake up, Lord! Do something!—is the last prayer some people ever
pray. This is often the last prayer people pray before losing faith all
together. Wake up, Lord! Do something!
This was the prayer of Erin, a
20-year-old college student I had the privilege of knowing when I served as a
campus minister at the University of Georgia. Erin was a devout Christian—she
was a leader in our campus ministry committed to living how she believed God
wanted her to live. One day she sought me out to talk about something going on
with a friend in her residence hall. She had a friend on her hall, 19 or 20
years old, who made a big mistake and now carried an unwanted pregnancy. Erin’s
friend was terribly distraught, and confided to her close friends that she planned
to have an abortion. This upset my young friend, Erin, terribly. She and others
tried to talk their friend out of the abortion. Erin led some of them to pray
to God that God would stop their friend from terminating the pregnancy. Their
prayers were earnest and heart-felt. Their prayers, best Erin could understand,
were in line with God’s will. Wake up,
Lord! Do something! Her friend had the abortion despite the prayers and
their best efforts at talking her out of it. After Erin found out about her
friend’s action, she came to see me. “Where was God?” Erin pressed her
minister. “Why didn’t God answer this prayer? Is God asleep? Doesn’t God care?”
We could ask the same question of God
when we see evil and suffering. Doesn’t God care about the victims of child
sexual abuse? Doesn’t God care about the slaughter of innocents in Syria? Doesn’t
God care about this addiction? Doesn’t God care about this diagnosis? Wake up,
Lord! Do something!
If I had all-power, I would stop child
abuse. I would prevent the killing of innocents. I would heal people of their
addictions. I would cure cancer. Wouldn’t you? When we fashion God in our
image, God would do all the things we would do if we were God.
I wonder what the disciples had in
mind that night, the storm raging all around them, when they woke Jesus up.
What did they expect of Jesus? They wanted him to “do something,” don’t you
think? Wake up, Lord! How can you—how
dare you sleep at a time like this? Now I don’t know this for sure, but
I’ll bet that they expected Jesus to wake up, grab a bucket, and join them in
their frantic, but feeble, attempt to keep their boat afloat. I envision Simon
Peter—often quick to act and slow to think—I bet he might have even handed
Jesus a bucket.
When we make God in our own image (one
of my favorite pastimes), we assume that God should handle crises the way we
would—armed with tiny vision—a little bucket against the raging sea. Wake up, Lord! Grab a bucket. Do something!
What Jesus did that night on the Sea
of Galilee blew their little minds. Here’s how I envision it going down. The
boat is violently rocking; the men are yelling, frantically scooping out
buckets of water. Somehow, Jesus sleeps, unaffected by the raging storm. A
couple of men go to Jesus—Wake up, Lord!
Peter pushes a bucket into his hands. Through sleepy eyes, Jesus looks at the
bucket like a mother looks at a dandelion given by an adoring toddler. Though
the boat is tossed and the rain pounds, he gently sets the bucket down, moves
out of the stern, looks calmly out at the raging nighttime sea and says,
“Settle down out there.” And after the peace that passes all understanding falls
upon the boat and holds the disciples in loving stillness, Jesus looks at them
through the same sleepy eyes and asks, “Why are you afraid? Where’s your
faith?” He turns back to the stern, the boat now as still as Tellico Village
after 9 o’clock, and flops back down to finish out his slumber, leaving the
dumbfounded disciples to figure out what just happened. They look at the
buckets still in their hands, amused at their own feeble attempts at solving
their problem.
Notice, Jesus never once suggested
there was nothing to fear.[1]
The temptation for preachers like me is to use this text to tell you there’s
nothing to fear. There couldn’t be anything further from the truth. There is
plenty to fear.
A couple of weeks ago, I tucked my
5-year-old son into his cozy bed. I rubbed his back and made sure his
nightlight was on. I kissed his forehead and said the words I say every night
to usher into dreamland. Then I left his room, leaving the door cracked just a
little like we do every night. Within a couple of hours, I turned in myself and
made my way to never-never land. In the middle of the night, I heard him
calling, screaming out my name, “Mommy! Mommy!” I woke with a start and headed
to his room. I grabbed the little bundle of sweat and pulled him close to me,
and he told me about a bad dream in which monsters were after him. Offering my
best maternal comfort, I held him close and whispered, “Shhh. It’s OK. Mommy is
here. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
I realized instantly what a big, fat
lie I just told my son. “Nothing to be afraid of? Really?” No, there’s plenty
to be afraid of. I should have stopped with “Mommy is here.” But instead I had
to pretend like bad things won’t happen or can’t happen to him, when the truth
of the matter is that bad things can happen and will happen. “There’s plenty to
be afraid of, little one, but I am here with you. You are not alone. I will
hold you when monsters threaten. I will hold you through the storm. I will hold
you.”
No, Jesus never once suggested there was nothing to fear, but he
did suggest that they didn’t have to be afraid. Do you see the difference? College
students, there is plenty to fear, but you don’t have to be afraid. Church,
there is plenty to fear, but you don’t have to be afraid. Why? Because God is
with you. God will hold you through the darkest night, through the raging
storm, even through the valley of the shadow of death.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
“Where’s your faith?”
Jesus asked the disciples on the now stilled boat. “Do you still have no
faith?” It’s the question he asks us still, as we stand there looking
sheepishly at our pitiful little buckets. It’s the question he asks me.
And I realize in that
moment how weak my faith truly is. I set down my bucket, and for a moment, I
fall into his arms, and the peace that passes all understanding rests upon me
and holds me in loving stillness. And it doesn’t matter in that place of faith
whether the skies are blue with no clouds in sight, or if the storm threatens
to take my very life. Because I am right where I want to be—held in the arms of
love where nothing else matters.
When I emerge from the loving embrace
of God things look a little different. (Pick up newspaper, read fake
headlines). Ah. . .I didn’t see this earlier. “Church offers scholarships to
local students—students proceed to change the world!” “Friends gather around a
grieving wife—forge deep and lasting bonds.” “Grandchild is born—offers grandparents
renewed hope.” “Community Church finds God in unexpected places—grows in faith
and love.”
Amen.
[1] Michael L. Lindvall. “Mark 4:35-41: Pastoral Perspective.” Feasting on the Word: Year B, Volume 3. Edited by David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009.