1 Samuel 17:32-49
Mark 4:35-41

Is there anyone "out there" who cares about us? Or, in time of pain, are we mostly left to our own devices?  When we pray, "Deliver us from evil," do we really expect God to hear, to care, to act? Or, are we only talking to ourselves? Do we really want a God who, from time to time, steps in, reaches out, and cares for us?

Both of our readings today are about frightening obstacles, giants and storms.  Both suggest the odds are against us.  Let’s focus our attention on Mark’s gospel. It is a story about Jesus in a boat on the sea with his people. It's therefore a story about us because, in a sense, we are also in the boat with Jesus, on a journey. The central space of a church is still called a "nave," from the Latin navis which means "ship." The navis, is one of the earliest and most persistent symbols of the church.  It's a fitting image. Every time we come to church we sit in a boat and prepare to cope with storms that are raging in our lives or will rage in our lives.  And sometimes, when it gets dark, it can be scary to be with these people, and this God, in this boat.  Four times in Mark’s gospel Jesus is in the boat with his disciples. The boat in the middle of a killer storm reminds us of that primal boat, the ark that braved the great flood and preserved humanity and the animals. One early church father said that the church was just like Noah's ark: if it weren't for the storm outside, we wouldn't stand the stench inside. 

Jesus' disciples cry out, "Teacher! Don't you care that we're sinking?" Jesus wakes up (he's been sound asleep on a cushion in the stern, unconcerned about all the tumult), rebukes the wind and waves, "Quiet! Be still!" And a miraculous calm settles on the sea.
And Jesus, having spoken to the sea, then speaks to his people. "Why are you afraid? Don't you have faith?"

And Mark says "and they feared a great fear." Do you find it curious, at the end of the storm, that the disciples are still "fearing a great fear"? Jesus doesn't say, as we might expect, "Why were you afraid?" He asks, "Why are you afraid? I've stilled the storm, calmed the waves. Why are you, even yet, afraid?"

And then the disciples ask one another, "Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him?"

Who is this? That's the question on the table every time we get in the boat with Jesus.  Who are these disciples who are still afraid, even after Jesus' great miracle? That's my question today.
           
Sailing with Jesus is no placid journey. No sooner have they launched out, than there is a great storm. The waves rage; the boat is threatened. And Jesus? He is asleep! There, see him curled up in the fetal position, sleeping like a baby when everyone else is terrorized by the storm. The contrast between the peacefully sleeping Jesus and the terrified disciples is sharply sketched.
           
Their question is ours: Do you not care that we perish? Jesus doesn't care about the storm. But does he care about us who are caught in a storm? William Willimon says at this time of year he often thinks of a divinity student whom he taught. The young man felt called by God to serve as pastor to rural churches. Amazingly, he found a woman who felt called by God to marry him and go with him into a lifetime of service in out-of-the-way places. They went in June on a honeymoon, traveling by bicycle in the mountains and camping, the only honeymoon they could afford. First day out, on the road, there was an accident. She was hit by a car, crushed, and died a painful, terrible death.
           
Can you imagine that young man crying out, "You called me into the ministry. You put me in this boat, placed her here with me. Do you not care that we perish?"
           
On this beautiful June day, it is easy to sit here in this air-conditioned sanctuary and think good thoughts about the world. But we know life. There can be darker, more difficult days than this. In June, walking by Lake Michigan or hiking in the park, the world seems benevolent and benign. Because we have devised so many means of protecting ourselves from nature, we tend to be nature romantics.
           
But this story of Jesus and his disciples in a boat renders another world, a world where storms rise up out of nowhere and nature puts us in peril. If you have ever suffered from cancer, you know that world. In cancer, the normal reproductive processes, the "natural" workings of cells, somehow go out of control, reproduce with astonishing speed, oblivious to the checks and balances of the body. The once placid lake that has been our body on most days becomes an angry, raging sea.
           
This is what this story is about.  Perhaps you thought that there would be smooth sailing with Jesus. You thought that with Jesus in the boat, there would be no storm, no waves, no fear. No! Almost every page of Mark's Gospel proclaims that Jesus is the center of a storm. When Jesus is near, the wind picks up, the waves bang against the side of the boat, and there is trouble.  Wherever Jesus is there seems to be trouble, storms.
           
If you are enjoying smooth sailing right now, if this Sunday in June is pleasant and peaceful, then perhaps you have nothing to learn from this story. However, be assured, life being what it is, discipleship with Jesus being what it is, there will be storms. As comedian George Carlin says, "We're all precancerous."  Listen to this story and learn from it.  There will be storms in our lives and all odds will be against us.
           
When the physician comes in to report after your yearly physical, and you can read it on her face even before she speaks that something is seriously wrong; when you are startled in the night by the late telephone call and the voice on the other end says, "I have some bad news"; then the waves begin to beat, and the boat begins to sink and you cry out, "Teacher, don't you care that we are about to die?"
           
Even to cry out is to assume that there may be a God who cares and who not only cares, but acts. The Deists assumed that God created the world, set certain processes in motion, then absconded, leaving us to our own devices. Storm at sea? Sorry, there are certain natural laws that have been established, certain climatic processes, and when they converge, there are storms. Nothing is to be done about it. Jesus, who is unconcerned about the storm, the wind, the waves and the raging sea, is concerned about his disciples, the ones who have ventured forth with him in the boat. At their cry, he rouses himself, rebukes the waves and the wind, and there is calm. God cares, delivers and in caring provides a way out, enabling us to see a way through the storm and this sense God delivers.
           
In the storm, when the illness is at its worst, when the clouds turn dark and the wind howls, when all seems lost, there is strong voice, "Quiet! Be still!"
           
The story does not explain how, it only asserts - in the storm, God cares, empowering us to be delivered. Here is good news in the middle of the storm.
           
And yet, the story begins in fear, in terror, in an anguished cry, "Teacher, don't you care that we are about to die?" But curiously, the story also ends in terror. What was the disciples' reaction to Jesus' strong, intrusive intervention? Terror. Mark says that if Jesus' disciples were grateful, or thankful, or pleased, any of those emotions were overcome by the emotion called terror. The calming of the wind and the waves anything but calmed those in the boat. They shook with terror, asking one another, "Who is this man? Even the wind and the waves obey him!"
           
Do you find that odd or do you find it perfectly understandable? The story begins with the disciples terrorized by the wind and the waves. The story ends with the disciples terrorized by the intervention of Jesus.  
           
A pastor told about visiting a woman who was in therapy for her cancer. Things had been going well with her treatment, still she complained, lamented her fate. A relative of hers and the pastor listened at her bedside to her tale of woe, a tale which seemed odd, considering that the doctors said they were quite pleased with her progress.
           
On the way out of the hospital, the relative said to the pastor, "If she ever got well, it would kill her."
           
What did she mean by that?  You know tragedy. Bad things happen to good people all the time. Life is often terribly unfair. In fact, sometimes it seems as if the worst tragedies happen to the best of people. You know that.  And we have various means of dealing with tragedy - adjustment, cynicism, despair, wishful thinking, denial.
           
But what if our God also has the means of dealing with tragedy – surprising intervention, strong words, rebuke of injustice, a calming voice amid the storm? What if it all is not left up to us? What if there always exists the possibility that our anguished cries for help may be heard? Well, then things are more open-ended than we thought. There is always hope, always a way even when there seems no way.  In the wisdom of Yogi Berra, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”
We say we want a God who hears, who cares, and who delivers. But do we?
           
A pastor was visiting an older woman (well past ninety, she was) in a nursing home. She had lost her sight, most of her hearing. Now her days were spent mostly sitting there, waiting for someone to pay her a visit, which few did.
           
Before the minister left, she asked her, "Would you like for me to have a prayer with you before I leave?"
           
She responded, "No. If you want to pray, that's fine with me. But I've already had plenty of time to say everything to God I wanted to say. Besides, I best not bother God at this point."
           
"Oh, you are never too old to bother God," the pastor reassured her. "God is always eager to hear from you."
           
"It's not that," she said. "I just don't know whether or not I want to hear from God. God has asked me to do so many difficult things over the years, demanded so much of me. I think I best leave God alone for now."
           
Isn't that great? Here was a woman who knew well an active, demanding, living God who does not mind bothering us. In today's gospel, Jesus invites his disciples into a boat, thereby putting them at some peril in the storm. He was there; true, to calm the storm, to save them in their distress. But not before he called them out to risk, to serve, to adventure with him.
           
There's a reason why, as the gospels tell it, the dominate emotion on the first Easter wasn't joy. It was fear. Mark's gospel ends, about a dozen chapters after this one that contains our text, saying that when the women went out to the cemetery, the angel announced, "He is risen from the dead! Go, tell!" and the women "don't tell anyone because they were afraid."
Afraid of what? Afraid that Easter might just be, afraid that we just might be raised to new life.   It isn't over until it's over! God makes a way, empowering us when there is no way!"
           
And it scares the wits out of us.  Most of us have a better theology for Good Friday than for Easter. We expect, predict, and accommodate death but what about life? Jesus rises, awakes, rebukes the wind and the waves, the sun rises . . . and it scares the wits out of us. Who is he supposed to be? Who are we supposed to be against such odds, against all odds. We are easily scared to death.  Who are we supposed to be in life, in life that scares the wits out of us?  We are to be scared to life! We are to be people who in the midst of storms are empowered to find our way through the storm.  We are to be people scared to life even when the odds, all odds are against us.