"Enough to Go Around" given July 29

The "Feeding of the Multitudes" is one of the most widely known and beloved of Jesus' miracles. It's the only miracle story found in all four Gospels. That fact, it seems to me, tells us in no uncertain terms that it is God’s Will that the hungry be fed.

Mark tells us the story in order to point to Jesus' deep compassion. John is telling us the story in order to point to Jesus himself. John calls the story "A Sign". It is for him, a mighty act of God that points to Jesus' true identity, as the Holy One who comes among us from the God of Israel.

But if we stop and think about it, the “Feeding of the Multitudes” is not only a "Sign", not only an example of Divine compassion, not only a miracle story. It is also a tale of faith-- and a paradigm for our times.

Jesus and the disciples and the women had gone out into the wilderness for some time apart-- a retreat. Instead, they found themselves surrounded by a huge crowd. Jesus guts had been twisted with compassion and instead of resting he' d spent the day teaching them, preaching to them, healing the sick they brought to Him. And, then at the end of the day, yet another issue arose. Jesus brought it up himself-- to test them, John tells us.

"So, guys, anybody got any ideas where around here we can go to buy enough bread for all these people?"

The whole day had been after all, a spontaneous happening. There'd been no Planning Committee, no Arrangements Committee, to plan and set up a buffet. There was no United Methodist Women's circle around to throw a potluck. There were no handy caterers nearby, or apparently had any street vendors followed them into the wilderness with pushcarts peddling hot dogs and Pepsis.

"How are we going to feed them?" Jesus asks-- with his tongue planted in cheek. Philip, who apparently has a bit of bean counter in him, answers

"With all due respect Master, I'm afraid you're putting the cart before the horse here. We don't have enough money to buy bread for all these people."

Probably Philip was getting ready to suggest that they pass the hat around in order to scrounge up enough money to buy food. (Philip apparently even hadn't gotten around to figuring out where they were going to buy food out there in the wilderness.)

But Andrew had an idea. He turned around to the crowd and yelled out,

"Hey! Anybody out there got any food?" And suddenly that huge, noisy crowd-- all those thousands of men, women and children-- must have gotten very, very quiet. They must have all looked around at one another in nervous silence. Nobody had the nerve

It would seem to me that there would have had to be some food out there in such a large crowd. Some of them must have had enough foresight to bring a picnic basket along. But nobody ranted to admit it. No one wanted to start sharing what he or she had, because they all knew. There would not be enough to go around.

Nobody was willing to be the first one to admit that they even had a crust of bread or a scrap of meat. They were afraid, because they were sure that even if everyone who had some food contributed, there still wouldn't be enough to go around. All those hungry people would eat the food they'd brought for themselves, and they'd end up with nothing-- or at best, not enough.

It's at this point that the hero of the story shows up. No, it's not Jesus, nor Andrew, nor Philip, nor any one of the Disciples. The hero is not one of the women either. The real hero of the day was just a young boy. He'd been watching Jesus all along-probably just standing there with his mouth open. Maybe he had a front tooth or two missing, a runny nose, dirty face, bare feet, and was dressed in a hand-me-down patched tunic.

When he heard Andrew’s request, the kid must have felt under his tunic and found the lunch his mom had packed for him that day that he’d likely forgotten to eat. And finding it, the boy didn’t hesitate.

“Hey mister! Over here. I got somethin’.” And he held out five barley tortillas and a couple of sardines. And the people nearby who saw him probably smiled. Likely even the disciples found it amusing. But Jesus didn’t laugh at the unhesitating generosity of a child. He took that small boy and his willingness to share with ultimate seriousness.

“Bring them over here, son.”

And Jesus took the bread and the fish, and had the disciples tell everybody to sit down on the ground. Finally everybody was sitting down except for Jesus. And of course that one small boy-standing there beside him—his eyes full of wonder and his hand still outstretched, offering Jesus his lunch of bread and fish.

John tells us that Jesus took the five loaves and the two little fish and blessed them. Then he handed them to the Twelve and told them,

“Divide these among the people.” Knowing there wouldn’t be enough to go around, the Disciples probably looked at Jesus wondering if he’d gone crazy.

“Divide what? What are five barley loaves and two small fish among so many people?” But Jesus told them to just go ahead and do it.

So they started tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread in two, and tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread, and tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread, and tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread, and tearing apart the fish, and breaking the bread, and tearing apart the fish…until, until somehow or other, there was enough to go around! Everybody got to eat their fill, and there was still food left!

There was in fact so much food that after lunch, the disciples went around and collected the left-overs. John tells us there were twelve baskets full. And I’m sure, given who Jesus was, the kid who was willing to share his lunch got at least a couple of baskets of those left-overs to take home to his mom.

So what happened? Maybe that small boy’s open-handed generosity shamed those adults who were hoarding some food of their own to step up to the plate and share. Maybe on the other hand, Jesus actually made more bread and fish materialize. Or maybe both those things happened together. Maybe the people started sharing, and in response the bread and the fish were multiplied—the human and the Divine working in concert to feed God’s hungry sons and daughters. (Personally, I kind of like that last possibly best, myself.)

But I want to suggest that it doesn’t really matter which of those three explanations you choose to believe. If you and I try to dwell on, or try too hard to explain what happened, we’ll miss the sheer extravagance. We’ll miss the overflowing, unexpected, unmerited, wondrous grace that the story conveys.

Five thousand fed. Not just a dab of fish paste on a cracker like you’d get as a sample at Jewel’s. Not just a flimsy cardboard box from the caterer containing an ounce of cream cheese, half a bagel, and an apple. But five thousand full meals. Five thousand people fed and satisfied—everybody’s belly filled and still twelve baskets filled with left-overs. Give the reality of human nature, whatever happened was still a genuine, dyed in the wool, honest to goodness miracle!

I don’t want to ignore John’s original intent in telling this story as one of the signs of Christ’s divinity. That’s a crucial theological understanding. But in our day and age, in this world of ours, there’s another crucial lesson in the story—and in it’s own way, it’s just as serious a lesson as the theological one.

I hardly need to tell you that you and I are living in a world of diminishing resources and rising expectations. We have famines today in countries you and I never heard of a few years ago—countries that didn’t even exist a few years ago.

And since the last Great Depression, our nation’s government—under Republicans and Democrats alike, has been paying some farmers not to farm some of their fields. And for some reason or the other, proposed legislation that would address that is irrevocably tied to legislation that would cut the funds for our Food Stamp program.

And of course, the deadly irony is that we have now—and have had for decades—the agricultural technology and expertise to produce enough food so that no one in this country—or in any country in the world—needs to starve. The capabilities are there. Only one thing stands in the way of the whole world being fed—politics.

We live in a world where hunger has become a political tool. There are countries where international food aid is withheld or distributed by local governments in order to enhance their control over their own population. There are food producing countries—such as our own—that shamefully use food aid as a political lever, distributing it to other lands solely on the basis of their government’s cooperation with the political aims of our own.

In the ancient and medieval world, it was considered acceptable to conquer castles and walled cities by “laying siege” to them—which is to say “starving them out.” Today, we live in a world where hunger has become more than simply a weapon. In a very real sense hunger has become the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.

There are countries where famine is actually created by warring factions as a tool of war waged on civilian populations. There are countries where famine is purposefully being used as a tool of “ethnic cleansing”—which is just another way of just saying genocide.

I’m not sure I can think of a greater evil than to callously use human hunger in that way. It’s certainly a horrible sin that calls out for a strong and strident witness by Christians. The time has come for those of us who call ourselves by His name what the Jesus who commanded “Feed my sheep” would do. The time has come for us to take a stand.

The time has come for Christians to pressure our leaders of both parties to change this sinful situation. The time has come for us to make hunger an election issue. The time has come for us to ask candidates questions around the politics of world hunger when they come before us seeking our votes. The time has come for us to inform ourselves, and write letters, and support organizations that attempt to address the problem of hunger—both immediate and long-term. The time has come for believers to look once more to the compassionate One who fed 5,000 in a single afternoon.

In Jesus’ time, hunger—need—resulted from scarcity. There truly was not enough bread, not enough resources, not enough energy production, not enough wealth to go around. In much of the world today that would still seem to be the case. But overall—for most of the world it isn’t shortage, it’s surplus—it’s waste, it’s human greed. We convince ourselves that there’s not enough to go around , we look at those measly five barley tortillas and two sardines and say to ourselves,

“What are they among so many?” We don’t really believe in the extravagance of our God. If there’s gonna be only five slices of bread we figure we might as well have them. If there’s gonna be only so many barrels of oil, we should get it. If there’s gonna be limited resources, we’ll be the ones to use them.

We see a need or a possibility that will bring benefit, but will require resources. We know we ought to do something. We can actually visualize something that might make a difference. But then, Philip the bean counter kicks in.

“How are we gonna balance the budget if we do that?” We don’t really believe—or we don’t want to believe in the extravagant grace of God. I see that attitude on the floor of Annual Conference every year. I’ve seen that attitude in every one of the churches I’ve pastured. I’ve known that attitude in my own heart, in my own home. “Tighten our belts. Don’t spend money we don’t have. What’s the bottom line? What are so few among so many?”

Don’t mistake me. I know that budgets are crucial. Families need budgets, businesses need budgets, churches need budgets. And every single time I’ve heard some faithful believer say “Don’t worry. The Lord will provide” a little tiny voice in the back of my mind has replied “Yeah, but the Lord helps those who help themselves.”

Because sometimes we, as individual believers are called to set our own fears and hesitations aside. Sometimes we’re called to stop saying the Lord helps those who help themselves. Rather, we’re invited at times that those who are willing to help themselves to hope, to risk, to reach out in compassion, to give without worrying about bottom lines, to share without having to stop and consult the budget or count the cost, all in His name—will indeed find that their Lord will help them. They will discover the benefits of giving—both spiritual and material benefits will far out weigh the costs.

To their astonishment they will find that there will indeed be enough to go around—in surprising ways and yielding joyous possibilities the bottom line could never imagined. And sometimes the people of God are just called to set the bottom line aside and leap forward in faith, doing their best as they discern it, to accomplish what they’ve been called to do, and trust that there will be enough to go around, that the God whose compassionate hand opens and provides for the planet will provide. Sometimes a congregation is called to believe that God will not allow a congregation whose heart and hands are genuinely engaged in mission to die.

Jesus told us that those who give in faith will receive back in abundance.

That’s awfully hard for many of us to believe—much less live out. But all around us are the cries of need. Every day it seems, you and I are challenged to believe and share. But we fear that we’ll lose in the giving, that at some point they’ll be nothing left to give, nothing left for us because there isn’t enough to go around.

We don’t really believe—or we don’t want to believe in the extravagant grace of God. At such moments we would do well to remember a small boy who was unhesitatingly willing to share his lunch with thousands—without checking a budget or looking at the bottom line or wondering if there’d be enough to go around. That boy had no reason to believe he’d end up with anything to eat that day—and yet he still gave. And instead, he went home with so much more than he’d had in the first place. Given to him because he’d been willing to offer all he had.

"Sabbath Time" given July 22

    A lady opened her refrigerator and saw a rabbit sitting on one of the shelves. "What are you doing in there?"  she asked.  The rabbit replied:  "This refrigerator is a Westinghouse, isn't it?" To which the lady replied "Yes."  "Well," the rabbit said, "I'm westing." 
      I guess everybody needs a westinghouse. Everyone needs a quiet spot--a place that they can get away to recharge the batteries, to re-nourish the spirit. 
 In the Northern Hemisphere it's summer: a time of vacation, rest, and renewal, a timto find a westing-house—a resting place. But not necessarily for all of us. The word is out. We Americans take less time off and enjoy fewer days of vacation than just about any  industrialized nation in the West. Americans average just over two weeks of summer vacation. That makes us vacation misers when compared with say, the Germans (whom we once thought of as such hard workers), who enjoy an average of six weeks of summer vacation, or the French, who have over five weeks of vacation. Just try to find a native wandering the streets of Paris this time of the year.
 Americans are working more and producing more, to be sure, but they are working longer in order to do it. Surprisingly, the average productivity of the Germans or the French is not much less than that of Americans, considering how many more hours Americans work. And the French and the Germans have lots of holidays throughout the year on top of all this summer vacation!
 Which brings us, as you knew it eventually would, to this Sunday's gospel. Jesus and his disciples have been busy. When his disciples gather to report on "all that they had done and taught" (Mk 6:30) Jesus must really be impressed. He says to them, 
 "Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while" (6:31). Mark says that Jesus proposed this vacation because, "many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat" (6:31). So "they went away in the boat to a deserted place by themselves" (6:32).
 Alas, when they get there, it is anything but deserted and Jesus and his disciples are forced to go into action. Later, when they cross over to the other side of the lake (perhaps in one more attempt to get away from the crowds), the "people at once recognized him," (6:54) so that Jesus and his disciples had to go into action again.
 I see in these little vignettes more than accounts of spoiled vacations. I see here evangelical permission for sincere, earnest followers of Jesus to take a vacation - to take time off. 
 Now maybe you're thinking, "I've certainly heard more demanding commands from Jesus before. This is easy!"  Maybe not. Often it is the sincere, dedicated, earnest disciples who are the worst about this matter of Sabbath. We don't mean to, I'm sure, but our busyness, our ceaseless activity sometimes gives the impression that we believe that it's up to us to do good or good won't be done. It's up to us to set the world right or the world is lost. 
 Behind our busyness is the blasphemous belief that we are saviors of the world and that we are the solution to what ails the world. No, to stand and say in the Creed, "I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth," is to say that we believe that it is not up to us to make the world come out right. God not only created, but is yet creating and creative. Our God is not dead, not inactive, or ineffective.
 Thus, we can take off. We can relish times of inactivity, reflection, and the good grace of doing nothing. Sunday worship gives us a taste of this. Here, while we do much activity - praying, singing, listening, meditating - little of it is useful, productive, or essential, as the world defines these matters. We are here relaxing, resting, simply enjoying being with one another and with God. Christians believe that these Sunday mornings are a foretaste of eternity when we shall have nothing better to do but to rest from our labors, to relax and to enjoy being in the presence of God, not just one day a week on Sunday, but always. Our destiny, in God's hands, is rest - Sabbath rest forever. 

That rest is a great tribute to God. Our ultimate destiny is not in our hands. It is not the result of our vigorous, hard work, or even our good work. The significance of our lives is in what God is doing, not in what we do.

I know that this flies in the face of what many of you think to be the purpose of church. “Church is where we come to find out where we’ve done wrong and to get motivated to do right,” says a man of my acquaintance. And sometimes, that is the purpose of our Sunday gatherings.

“I come to church to get motivated for more committed service in the world,” says a woman. And there is truth in that. “Church is a spiritual filling startion. I come to get filled so that I can go,” said someone else. And that's part of what I'm driving at here as well.

But will you understand me when I say that church is also where we come to rest? We come here to celebrate, not what we have done, or to repent of what we ought not to have done, but rather to glorify what God in Jesus Christ has done.

Many clergy take great pride that they have never, in 10, 20, 30 even years of ministry taken all of their vacation time. Year after year their vacation days accumulate but they never went on vacation. They consider their lack of time away from their church to be a great virtue. Vacations? Those are for wimps who don’t enjoy their work and who are always whining about how tired they are; not for good, sturdy stock like me!

I’m afraid that in reality, failure to take vacations is a vice rather than a virtue. They thereby show little life outside the congregation, telling themselves that their church’s entire fortune restw solely on their sturdy, restless shoulders. It's not that they are so strong, so committed to their minstry that they do not need vacations. Rather, it 's that they are vain, full of self-righteous pride, and self-absorbed. And in the end their health, their marriages, their families, and especially their ministries-- their churches suffer.

Thus I take as my text Mark 6. Jesus’ disciples report to him all the good things that they have accomplished as his disciples. Then he invites them, permits them, commands them to rest and to get away from the press of the crowd to rejuvenate, renovate, and be restored.

We stress other commands of Jesus to love the poor, to feed the hungry, to bind up one another’s wounds, and to bear one another’s burdens. Why not equally stress this command? Jesus commands us to take a vacation!

Thank the Lord, the world is not in our hands; the future is not ours to determine. We can do God’s work as it is entrusted to us. We can work and pray and do our best to be light and salt to the world. And then we can take Sabbath, resting secure in the faith that the most important work is God’s.

 So, if you have not yet taken a vacation, gotten away from it all, experienced a change of scenery, or wandered into the wilderness, I hope that you will do so soon. After all, Jesus permits, invites, commands you to rest!
 “Come away with me and rest for a while.” Jesus told them. Even more than simply resting and relaxing, I can see here an invitation—to take that rest time with Jesus—to make it holy time—Sabbath time.
.   “Rememeber the Sabbath and keep it holy!” The commandment about the Sabbath is the longest of the commandments, which takes nearly a third of that entire holy discourse.
  The Sabbath is the only one of God’s creations called holy.  Everything else is called “good.” Only the Sabbath is called “holy.” The sanctification of time, preceded the sanctification of persons. The people weren’t sanctified until they became the chosen people. Places were not sanctified until the tabernacle. The Sabbath was the first and truest medium of God’s presence and holiness.

The Sabbath is the first and truest medium of God’s presence in creation. Observing the Sabbath has always kept God’s people from being absorbed by the alien cultures where they resided. The Sabbath commandment came long before the rest of the commandments. Even as slaves in Egypt, they observed Sabbath.

For six days of the week, they belonged to Pharaoh, but on the Sabbath, they were free men and women who belonged only to God. The Sabbath was not a day simply for recovering their strength. It was not free time. It was freedom time. It was time to recover their identity, time to remember who and whose they were.

Later, there were 234 specific tasks prohibited on the Sabbath. The basic idea was to cease and desist from all acts of creation, to stop competing with God, to stop helping God, so that we might remember that the world was created by God totally without us. The world would be preserved, at least until Monday, without us.

The Sabbath was a mandated gift, a gift we were commanded to enjoy.

We don’t like this. We like to control our own time. Even though God created us for the freedom of this day, we voluntarily become slaves once again.

To be fair, Jesus said, “The Sabbath is made for us, and not for God.” Works of mercy can be possible on the Sabbath. He liberated us from Sabbath regulations that took all joy from the day.

But did we misunderstand him? Did Jesus free us from the Sabbath, or for the Sabbath? Did he mean for us to turn the Sabbath into just another ordinary day? Or did he mean for us to turn all our ordinary days into Sabbaths?

Sabbath time is not useless time. It is time we use. It is time we stop in order to remember. That’s all that Sabbath first meant in Hebrew, to stop. And yet, we get caught up with the acts of subduing the earth and having dominion over it. Sabbath reminds us that we are creatures and not the Creator.

This is particularly stressful for those of us who have so much internal and external encouragement to play God. After all, if we don't do it, who will? As a wise colleague reminded me when I was a hyper-active baby pastor , the cemetaries are full of people who couldn't be replaced.

The proper word for this refusal to stop is idolatry, the refusal not to be God. We even sin against Sunday, turning it into just another day of ceaseless activity.

One preacher suggests that we find some way of specifically signaling withdrawal, when we go on Sabbath. We ought to dress differently, change ouir accustomed locations, take the phone off the hook for the day, something specific which signals to us, and to the world, even to God, that we are on Sabbath.

Hindu India developed a magnificent image to describe God’s relationship with creation. God “dances” creation. God is the dancer, creation is God's dance. The dance is different from the dancer, yet it has no existence apart from the One who dances. You cannot take it home in a box. The moment the dancer stops, the dance ceases to be.

In our quest for God, we work too much. think too much, reflect too much, talk too much. Even when we look at the dance we call creation, we are all the time thinking, talking (to ourselves and other), reflecting, analyzing, philosophizing. Words. Noise.

Be silent and contemplate the dance. Just look. A star, a flower, a fading leaf, a bird, a stone – any fragment of the dance will do. And, hopefully, it won’t be long before you see the Dancer

Simon & Garfunkel - The Sound of Silence (from The Concert in Central Park)

"Dancing and Risking" given July 15

In our Gospel readings lately we’ve been reading Mark’s narrative of the early days of our Lord Jesus’ earthly ministry. And that narrative will go on. But sandwiched in-between in the Gospel, we get this story, this seemingly out-of-place, possibly even suggestive, certainly bloodthirsty account of how King Herod Antipas, after he had blown out the candles on his birthday cake, snuffed out the life of John the Baptizer. John had confronted the king because he’d violated the laws of Moses— by taking his brother’s wife as his own. Herod responded by imprisoning this loud-mouthed meddling prophet.

But Herod has not executed John. He apparently fears, or at least respects the Baptizer. He visits him, to talk, to listen. But on the basis of a drunken promise, he will callously sacrifice John.

John’s life ends up taken because Herod was enchanted by the dance of his new stepdaughter. We’ve all heard the story many times. But there’s a lot that we aren’t told. What was the girl's name? What kind of dance did she do? We may think we know the answers—but we don’t

Neither Mark, nor the parallels in Matthew and Luke, mentions the name Salome. None of them refer to a seductive so-called “dance of the seven veils." Some of those images have come down to us from the Jewish historian Josephus, some from the imaginations of composers and artists down the years.

What the Gospels leave us with, in the end, is a macho fool too obsessed with his own image to risk humiliating himself before his guests. The text paints Herodias as the scheming villain, much as Genesis paints Eve. Whether that's fact or bias, it is still Herod who comes off in the least flattering light. Rather than the story of a dance of seven veils, what we’re left with here is the story of a dance of deception and manipulation — a dance of death.

The story is powerfully subversive of all those in power. Kings and Governors and Politicians like Herod don’t get a very sympathetic portrait in the New Testament. From the beginning, they are major adversaries to Jesus and the message he’s come to proclaim. They pipe the tune of greed and pride and human power. They dance the dance of death.

In contrast, in our Old Testament Reading we see David, who has at last been made King of both Judah and Israel dancing a different kind of dance before the sacred Ark of the Covenant as it is brought to Jerusalem—the new capital of his newly united kingdom. This is not just a politically important moment for David. It’s also religiously important. It’s in fact, ultimately important.

The Ark is not just another piece of liturgical furniture, like candelabra or even an altar. The physical presence of the Ark actually reflects of the Living Presence of Yahweh, the God of Israel, among God’s people. Once the Ark is in Jerusalem, it will show to all God’s blessing and continuing Sovereignty over this new nation. Although David has been crowned king— God is still in charge. It is still God who ultimately rules, and it is only from God that David’s authority flows.

The moving of the Ark is so significant that it must be done with utter liturgical scrupulosity. The Ark must be transported correctly, carefully, and reverently. Anything else reduces the Ark to nothing but a man-made symbol.

Anything else demeans God’s ultimate authority and asserts human authority.

Anything else is a dance of death.

So David dances before the Ark—a dance of joy, and of belief, and of awe. David poured his whole being into the music, into being present with God, into dancing before his God a dance of life. David dances in praise before his God, dancing a dance of faithfulness and commitment.

That’s the same dance and praise you and I are invited to join in, as well. Jesus didn’t come, after all, urging us to think about him, or feel deeply about him, or make intellectual and theological assertions about him. The Lord of the Dance isn’t looking for our disembodied individual spirits. Jesus didn’t come asking people to give their hearts and souls. Jesus came, calling us to join him in becoming citizens of a country he called the “Kingdom of God.”

The Lord of the Dance wants you and me body and soul, mind and heart— all that we are. After all, a human being requires feet in order to dance. And we need a voice to praise, hands to reach out, a heart to care, and a mind to understand the tune. You and I will need to bring all of ourselves if we’re going to join in Jesus’ dance of the Realm of God.

When we see Jesus dancing in the Gospels-- casting out demons, and healing the broken ones, and feeding the hungry, we’re invited to see that, as He says again and again, “The Kingdom of God has come near to you.”

Mark tells us that Jesus began to speak in this way right after the authorities seized the Baptizer.

“Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, ‘The time is fulfilled, and the Kingdom of God has come near. So repent, and believe the good news.’”

Mark makes a direct connection between John’s arrest, and the inauguration of Jesus’ Kingdom. And that Kingdom was going to be the source of conflict. John gets arrested, and despite the better judgement of Herod Antipas, he is killed by the powers of this world. The same thing, Mark is warning us, is going to happen to Jesus. Despite the hesitations of this same Herod, the Lord of the Dance will end up nailed to a cross by the authorities and executed as a revolutionary. The Gospels say he was crucified between “two thieves”, but the same Greek word could just as easily have been translated as “revolutionaries”.

Crucifixion was a method of execution the Roman Empire reserved as a deterrent. It was a horrible, painful, degrading way to die-- intended to serve as a brutal example of the fate of those who defied its power, who had tried to upset the established political order—escaped slaves, outlaws, rebels, and agitators.

Mark is warning us that when disciples go out to do the work of the holy realm, when God’s people begin to truly dance the dance of faithfulness and new life, when the church rises up to be the church, that the world rises up to be the world. So, the disciples go out to preach the gospel. But John preached the Kingdom, too, and the world snuffed him out. So, the disciples go out to cast out demons and to heal. But the Baptizer sought to confront and heal the demons that raged in King Herod’s life, and it cost him his life. Mark’s right. When the people of God begin to dance the dance of new life, when the church rises up to be the church, the world rises up to be the world.

Now this may sound a bit strange to us, because this is not our usual experience. It looks to us like when we do the work of the church-- the world rises up to call us blessed. When we preach the gospel, the world invites us to join the Kiwanis. When we reach out to heal, the world puts us on the hospital board.

Mark would have understood that problem. According to Mark, at first Herod did not want to harm John; he just wanted to domesticate him. Herod was threatened by John. But as long as he could keep him in chains, Herod heard John gladly.

But then when push came to shove, Herod was just as sorry as he could be, but John had to go. When believers refuse to dance the dance of fear and subservience any longer, when the church rises up to be the church, the world inevitably rises up to be the world.

But Mark wants us to know something else as well. If Mark wants us to learn the hard truth that when the church rises up to be the church, the world rises up to be the world, he also wants us to know that, when the world rises up to be the world, Jesus Christ rises from the dead.

In fact, Mark tells us that, when Herod found out about the church being the church, he slapped his forehead and exclaimed something like, "I thought I had that nailed down that Jesus. Somebody's been raised up from the dead!"

The dance still goes on. And it’s a dance of life—new life.

To be a part of Jesus’ earthly reign was—and still is risky. To give yourself to the dance of new life is to make some pretty radical affirmations. To be part of any kingdom is to acknowledge who is in charge-- whose will it is that ultimately counts in this world. To join Christ’s Kingdom means we consciously stop dancing the dance of this world— the dance of power and authority and violence and death-- and instead join in the dance of new life, the dance of the new world Christ is calling into being.

Any kingdom has citizens and non-citizens. When you and I begin to pray the prayer our Lord Jesus taught us— “Our Father” there is a kind of inclusivity implied. God, we’re asserting, is Father—Heavenly Parent of all. But then we go on in the prayer to add, “Your Kingdom come,” and we’re suddenly in the realm of exclusivity—we’re talking about God’s earthly reign—not Caesar’s kingdom or Satan’s kingdom, or even an American people’s kingdom.

Any kingdom has borders. There’s a gap between this sad and sorry world and that Holy Realm Jesus was talking about. It’s obvious to anyone who cares to look. The people who first encountered Jesus face to face understood this—like him or loathe him, no one could deny that this. The Lord of the Dance was fundamentally different. He was talking about and living out and dancing a new way of life—a holy realm fundamentally different than anyone or anything anyone had ever encountered or even imagined before.

That Kingdom he was talking about—God’s Holy Realm enables us—indeed requires us-- to stand in opposition to the artificial borders established by the world and it’s kingdoms. The world’s borders are inevitably established on the basis of differences between people—such as their sexualities, or class, or race, or economics, or tongue, or age, or even their accents. The kingdoms of this world will set up geographic boundaries and defend them with murderous intent.

But the Kingdom Jesus kept preaching about has most powerful boundary in history-- because it has the power to obliterate all of the parochial, provincial, false demarcations between people that the world can dream up. His is a Kingdom open to all— an earthly reign with no consideration given for the world’s borders or boundaries. Paul wrote in Galatians 3:

“As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourself with Christ. There is now no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer woman or man, for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

Baptism, the Rite of our Christian initiation, is our call to become citizens of the new Israel. It is our invitation to become part of God’s unusual, unique, unexpected way of saving the world. It is our invitation to join in dancing the dance of new life.

When you join Kiwanis, they give you a handshake and a lapel pin and a membership card. When you join Christ’s Holy Realm, we splash some water on you, hand you a Bible, and tell you that you’ve just been born again. And then we push you out the church door and tell you to listen for the music, to pick up your feet and start dancing.

Barbara Langdon tells of waiting at a bus stop in Nairobi, on her way to the center of the city to go to church. As she sat waiting, she heard some music off in the distance. She asked the person on the bench beside her what it was.

"It is from the people running to church," he said.

"Running?"

"They run together in a rhythm. And they sing all the way there and all the way back. It is five miles they run and sing every Sunday."

Then she saw them, fifty or so people running down the road, singing as they went. Ten miles of singing each Sabbath.

Langdon wondered what would people in this country think of Christians if we were to begin to truly run and dance and praise and sing the Gospel?

The Baptizer danced and died as a prophet of God, because he understood his call to speak the truth to those in power. The Lord of the Dance calls you and me to become his disciples, to live our lives after his example, to speak words of healing and truth—just as He spoke. The story of David invites us to offer our praise with whatever gifts we have been given. The Gospel reminds us that part of following is to become a prophet when necessary—to speak the truth to those in power—and to speak words of comfort and hope to the powerless, the oppressed, and the needy. And to dance and praise.

Jesus invites us to go out this day and be His church. He says we needn't take two coats, a bag of money, an insurance policy, or anything else we think may protect you as we do God's work in the world. Nothing can spare us from the evil intent of the Herods of this world. We need take only the gospel and our confident faith that, when all is said and done, all the Herods in the world will say, "Somebody has been raised from the dead. The power we thought was nailed down is loose again in the world." The dance goes on.

"Hometown Boy" given July 7

He’d left Nazareth, just another small town boy heading off into the world to accomplish something. He’d been acclaimed throughout the rest of the countryside. He’d been doing miracles and mighty works elsewhere—making a name for himself as a new prophet of Israel. Jesus, the hometown boy was in the process of making it big.

Stories about him had no doubt been circulating all over Galilee, and back in Nazareth, the local folks must have been following them with great interest. Hometown boys who go away and make it big are always a topic of much pride and interest back home. So it would have caused something of a minor stir when it became known that Jesus was back in town for a long weekend with his family.

Somebody invited him to come to the local synagogue and preach. A real busman’s holiday—but he had graciously accepted. So on Friday night he showed up at the old synagogue where he’d no doubt spent so many hours of his youth, learning his people’s history and traditions and becoming literate in Hebrew. Who knows how many Sabbath services and funerals and weddings he’d sat through there as a boy and young man?

The home congregation must have looked at him with expectation when he stood up and took the scroll, rolled it out and began to read. Mark’s Gospel doesn’t record his text or message on that occasion. But Luke does— in 4:16-30.

God’s Spirit is on me,

The Almighty has called me to preach the Message of good news to the poor.

God has sent me to announce pardon to prisoners,

and recovering of sight to the blind,

to set the burdened and battered free

to announce,

‘This is the acceptable year of God’s favor—

this is moment when God will act.’

Then he shut the book, handed it back to the attendant, and resumed his seat. Every eye in the synagogue was fixed on him as he began to tell them,

‘This very day this scripture has come true, right before your very eyes, just as you have been listening to it.’

The congregation didn’t really know what to make of that. They couldn’t believe that a man who had grown up among them, who’d gone to school with their children, lived with them, walked their streets, eaten and drank in their homes could be so different. They couldn’t conceive of the possibility that a hometown boy could have anything of spiritual value to teach them.

And of course, that’s the flipside of the attitude of hometown folks toward the local boy or girl who makes good. Despite the pride, despite the desire to brag, to bask in reflected glory, we also remember when Mr. Bigshot was just another snot-nosed brat running around the neighborhood raising the dickens, just like we did and our own kids did. And we often take positive delight in recounting those stories as well. That’s just human nature—we’ve all seen it. We all have a little of that attitude inside us as well.

“That’s just the carpenter’s kid. Where does he come off talking that way?

Why I remember when he was just another kid playing in the street. He’s got

a lot of gosh-darned gall standing up there and spouting off at us.”

Most likely, they hadn’t expected Jesus to really say anything at all. Just make some polite, pious noises, mix in some appreciative reminisces, tell a funny story or two and sit down.

Both Luke and Mark mention that they were surprised by Jesus. They were impressed with his skill as a preacher. They liked the way Jesus put words together—but they didn’t like what he had to say. In point of fact, they were angered by what Jesus said.

They’d come there after all, expecting something completely different. They’d come together to They’d come together for mutual comfort and consolation. They’d come together to use and enjoy the old symbols and models – to pray the traditional prayers, to venerate the sacred texts, to sing the old familiar songs, to hear the old beloved stories.

They’d come together to escape, to reaffirm the rightness of the way they lived their lives, of the conventional wisdom, of their shared dream. They’d come together, as one commentator puts it, to lie in the lap of God like a cat in the lap of its mistress.

All they’d really wanted was for Jesus to play their tune— but maybe a bit nicer. But he’d spoiled it all by choosing to preach on a text that spoke about the world as it ought to be. He spoiled it by being as wise guy, an upstart young punk of a self-ordained rabbi who didn’t have the manners to act appreciatively when the home congregation was honoring him.

He’d spoiled it by pointing to the flaws and shortcomings in their society, their traditions, and their own lives. He’d spoiled it by reminding them of the plight of the poor and the oppressed and the good news crying out to be announced.

Those hometown folks knew perfectly well what Jesus was implying as they sat there listening to him in their same old comfortable pews, in their same old comfortable places, in their same old comfortable sanctuary. They had a pretty good idea of what this good news he was talking about would mean in their own lives— call, change, effort, movement into the larger world.

Jesus had come back to the old home town and instead of telling them how much he’d missed them and how good it was to be back, instead of supporting the old way of life they’d chosen, he’d spoken about the victims of the world, the broken ones, the losers. He’d called for a fundamental change in the way things are—a radical turning around of the way they lived their lives. This local kid grown up had spoken as a prophet, rather than like a hometown boy.

And many of them probably knew, deep inside that he was right. But they couldn’t face the implications of that. So they attacked, they questioned, they categorized—not the teaching, but the teacher. They didn’t question his insights or his interpretation of the scriptures or his understanding of the life. They didn’t question his wisdom. They questioned his authority right to raise these uncomfortable issues before them.

“O that’s just the carpenter’s son—Mary’s boy. We remember him. We know his sisters and brothers. Remember how when he first started preaching his family thought he was crazy and went out and tried to bring him home?”

To name something, to categorize it is, to some extent, to bring it under our power. That’s actually more true now in our so-called “scientific age”, than it was in Jesus’ so-called “superstitious” age. We observe something we can’t understand— so we give it a name. It’s as if in the naming, we are explaining it, understanding it, saying that it’s nothing special—happens all the time.

If somebody seems to have knowledge of the motives and thoughts of another, we call it ESP—then it’s categorized, safe. If a healing takes place that the doctor can’t explain, we call it “spontaneous remission.”—again, safe and categorized. If a mysterious craft crashes in the desert that seems to be of extra-terrestrial origin— some guys in black suits tell us it was a weather balloon—or imply it was a top-secret experimental aircraft. On the other hand, if somebody can’t believe the Scripture account that says Elijah went up into heaven, then there are those who will tell us it wasn’t a chariot of fire—it was a flying saucer. If someone wonders, or even dares question the justice or wisdom of a certain policy—that’s “just playing politics”

If a prophet speaks words we don’t want to hear, then that’s just the old hometown boy--- we all know him. “He has no authority— no wisdom.” And the net result is always the same. To name a thing takes the power out of it—and the sting. To name a thing can also take the mystery and beauty out of it. A child’s eyes, so full of wonder, will soon dim with commonplace categories. So a piece of light miraculously floating in the clear air of a summer evening becomes, “just an old firefly”.

How often do we do that—ignore the relevance of the message by defaming or trivializing the messenger? Just over 228 years ago, King George and his advisors received a clear message. No taxation without representation

And a shipload of tea dumped in Boston Harbor. But then, after their initial astonishment passed, they cried:

“Oh, that’s some street gang dressed up like Indians, financed by a smuggler and egged on by some radical intellectual.” We of course remember them as the “Sons of Liberty”, financed by John Hancock, and organized by Sam Adams.

When loyal subjects presented their legitimate grievances for redress, they became that common printer Franklin; that planter who married money, Washington; that dilettante inventor Jefferson; and that transported debtor and professional revolutionary, Tom Paine.

Nearly eighty years later, many in this nation tried their best to dismiss the message of a gang of bleeding heart Yankee preachers. Yet the message of the Abolitionists had to be heard, and eventually prevailed-- through the efforts of a hick politician named Lincoln and a washed-up drunk named Grant.

How many times in our day and age have we seen the message denied, using the messenger as an excuse? When our God comes among us—holiness hidden and concealed in the commonplace, we may for a moment be astonished. But all too quickly we too categorize and proclaim—

“That’s just a bunch of tree-huggers, yelling about the environment. That’s just a bunch of cowards questioning the war. That’s just a bunch of bleeding hearts marching against the death penalty. That’s just a bunch of crazy feminists working for equal rights for women.

That’s just my lazy brother-in-law hitting me up for a touch.

That neighbor of mine is nothing but a bum, asking me to help him out. What does mother expect? That I should visit her every weekend? I’ve got

my own life to lead. She’s just being her old selfish self.

You kids are always crying about something.

That’s just some commies, or ex-hippies, or misguided dupes, or trouble

makers.”

“That’s only the carpenter— Mary’s son.”

Something about Jesus, something in his teaching or in his person, turned away more people than he attracted. Jesus, it appears, was quite willing to suffer rejection, was quite content to be misunderstood for the sake of the good news. Jesus preached away more people than he won. Jesus understood— it’s more important to be true to yourself and to your message than to be popular, or accepted, or even liked.

Friends, the truth is that it’s very easy to ignore the challenging parts of Jesus’ ministry in favor of the comforting parts. We’d much rather pray to that cute little baby lying in the manger, than to the man, dying by inches, hanging naked and deserted on a cross.

We find it easy enough to accept Jesus our loving Savior-- who intercedes for us with God, who, who atoned for our sins with his sacrifice. But we find it a lot more difficult to accept and follow Jesus the prophet-- who calls us into the world along side him— challenging us to live lives of integrity and self-giving, bringing hope and healing to all people-- calling us to join him in ministering to the broken ones, binding up the wounded, comforting the mourning, freeing the captives and proclaiming the acceptable year of God’s favor.

Those people in Nazareth didn’t reject Jesus because he was some stranger spouting off about something he knew nothing about. No, the reason they rejected their hometown boy was precisely because Jesus knew them, and they knew him, and because they knew that he was speaking the truth. It was precisely because he was making them feel uncomfortable with themselves.

It was because Jesus was calling them to do more than they wanted to do, to be more than they wanted to be. It was because Jesus was challenging them to recognize the Call of God in the eyes of the suffering, to see the Will of God in the needs of their sisters and brothers, to listen clearly and hear the Word of God in the unpopular words of even the most unlikely prophet, and respond.

Jesus is calling us as well, my friends. He calls us as prophet as well as Savior. He promises us strength as well as support. In His service, He promises us challenge, as well as comfort. He does not necessarily promise us success in life, or recognition, or an easy time of it. What Jesus does promise, to those who respond to his call into the world, is his presence among us, and his peace in our hearts and the hope of his saving power in our world.

Let us pray,

Lord God, teach us the grace to look less at ourselves, and more at you. Give us the ability to feel less of our own aches and pains, and more of the suffering of others. Teach us to take ourselves less seriously, and you and your will for us more seriously. Amen.

"Distractions" given July 1

Jesus had already put in a pretty full day by the time our Gospel reading begins. According to Mark, he had been teaching on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Then the crowd had gotten so heavy that Jesus had been forced to preach standing in the bow of somebody s fishing boat, floating a few feet out from shore.

By evening, Jesus was no doubt exhausted, feeling he had nothing left to give for the moment. He must have known that he needed to rest. So he invited the disciples to cast off the boat. Let s cross to the other side. He said.

The Sea of Galilee isn't really much of a Sea. It's actually a small lake-- vaguely heart shaped-- surrounded by bluffs-- only about five miles by seven. At least four of the disciples were professional fishermen-- men whose livelihood-- and sometimes whose very lives-- were directly related to their skill in small boat handling and in reading the signs of weather.

Peter and Andrew and James and John would have been all too familiar with the way in which the surrounding hills could funnel a gust down onto the lake. They must have known how even the gentlest breeze could pick up speed and turn into a tempest in a matter of minutes.

It was already evening when they d taken Jesus on board and set off-- not withstanding the dark sky, the menacing clouds, the gusts beginning to blow. All the subtle clues of wind and wave must have told them clearly that a squall was coming. Hard-won experience must have told them very clearly that this was not necessarily a good night for sailing.

But after all, they were with Jesus. They had seen him do incredible things-- exorcise devils, perform healings, feed multitudes. They knew him to be a holy man-- favored of God. Surely, they thought, they would be safe in his company. The Almighty wouldn't be interested in taking the life of one of God s own prophets. Surely God would hold back the wind, hold back the rain.

So they cast off. Jesus must have been very tired, because he immediately lay down in the stern of the boat, using someone s rolled up cloak as a cushion for his head, and went to sleep. He must have been exhausted, because the thunder of the approaching storm didn't awake him. Even the rain falling on them didn't wake him. looking at him resting, as comfortably as if he were back in his own bed in Nazareth, the disciples must have taken heart.

They'd been anxious about the storm. They'd half-hoped it wouldn't come. But seeing Jesus sleeping so peacefully, they must have felt safe from the storm, lucky, protected by an umbrella of blessing they assumed holy men and prophets enjoyed. They were with Jesus, and he was better than any good luck charm or rabbit's foot.

Nothing bad would happen to them-- they were with Jesus. The disciples understood that Jesus was with them on their journey. They didn't have to go it alone. It was His presence in fact, that gave them the courage to set out-- just as you and I need not go it alone-- just as the Presence of our Lo rd with us, can give us courage to face the storms of life.

They didn't understand that having Jesus with us does not mean we'll always have smooth sailing. Sailing with Jesus doesn't guarantee us immunity from the storms of life. In fact, at times there may well be storms we will have to enter if we would travel with Him.

The whole journey out into the night, onto the sea was Jesus idea after all-- not theirs. Some of our greatest adventures with Jesus will take place in the face of raging storms, in the dead of night, when it is dark, when we are lost

Even when the waves surged against the sides of their boat, Jesus slept on. It was only when the water began to wash in over the gunnels that the disciples began to feel uneasy. Didn't God realize Jesus was with them? And as the waves began to fill the bottom of the boat with more and more water, they realized all of a sudden that they were in serious danger of being swamped.

At that point they decided it was time to rub their magic charm. So they called to Jesus, possibly even shook him awake. They addressed him respectfully-- but there was a petulant tone to their request.

"Master, wake up! The boats sinking! Don't you care if we drown? We're about to go down! Do something, Jesus! Help us! Don't you care about us? Jesus woke up and looked around. You can almost picture him rubbing the sleep from his eyes, reaching down to grasp the sides of the boat, the wind and water slapping at his face. When he finally spoke, it was the wind, not the disciples that Jesus addressed.

"Cut that out! Muzzle yourself. Be still." And Mark tells us the wind ceased. He was gentler with the sea. “Hush! Be still." And the waves calmed. Then, gentler still, Jesus turned and faced the disciples.

"Why did you panic? Why did you fear? What kind of faith do you call that? You ask me if I care about you? Have you no faith in my love for you?"

But despite His gentle tone-- despite the fact that they knew Him, had been following Him for quite a while-- despite the fact that they'd seen Him perform wondrous deeds in the past-- despite the fact that they had expected God to spare the m-- despite all that He had taught them-- despite the fact that it was they themselves, who had awakened Him, asking that Jesus work a miracle for their personal benefit-- despite all that-- they were awestruck.

The fear they'd had of the storm was nothing in comparison to the fear they suddenly felt of their beloved Master and Teacher. They'd asked Jesus to show them His love, His care for them. And when He did, they couldn't handle the sheer scope of His love. Their fear of the storm had turned into a kind of reverential fear-- awe. Their attitude toward Him had suddenly been transformed.

They still loved and honored Him of course. He was still their beloved Master. But never again would they be able to see Jesus as just their friend and teacher-- a holy man or prophet-- a man who enjoyed God's favor. Never again would they ask Him to whip up a miracle to order. Never again would they be able to think of Him in quite the same way.

Mark makes it very clear however, that they still had not figured out exactly who Jesus was, where He'd come from, or what His mission was all about. They wouldn't even begin to understand that until after Good Friday. But now, they knew--Jesus was different-- different from anyone they d ever known or imagined.

Mark tells us that they didn't even dare to defend themselves from Jesus rebuke. Rather, they turned to one another, sharing their amazement, pooling their awe.

Who can this be? How can this be? The wind and the waves obey him. Did you see it, too? What can this mean?

But the Gospel tells us that there was no answer given-- at least not an answer in words. Maybe Mark realized that the answer had already been given to them-- given in the vision and experiences itself, in the middle of the storm. Then they would have had to take up their oars. Because He hadn’t left them with even the tiniest breeze-- and rowed the boat across the lake to the other side. And presumably Jesus, went back to the stern, laid his head back down on that r olled up cloak, and went back to sleep.

That awe, that sense of differentness about Jesus never left them, for all the remaining time that He was with them. Maybe they remembered-- maybe they tried to forget that time on the boat. No doubt they tried to forget how they had doubted His love and rebuked Him. No doubt they tried as best they could to forget His gentle reply.

We modern disciples ask that question of Him as well. Sometimes we too, fear being swamped with our troubles and overwhelmed with the storms of life. Sometimes we too, feel abandoned. Sometimes too, we even wonder if God really notices us--if Jesus really cares.

Why me, God? "What did I do to deserve this?" How have I sinned? How could you let this happen to me? I m a good church-goer. Why does Jesus keep testing me? How can a good God allow such a thing to happen? How long, O Lord? How long?

And once we've asked those questions, if we can manage to stop and hush and listen, we too can hear the same reply.

You ask me if I care. You ask me if I love you. You have been with me. You know me. Don t you have faith in me, and in my love for you?

I was born into poverty, raised a refugee and a peasant. I worked with my hands to make a living. I gave up all that I had-- home and family and friends. I lived as a homeless traveling preacher in order to teach and heal and proclaim the Good News of God s love for all humanity.

It was for your sake that I went to the cross. For your sake, I conquered the very bounds of death. For your sake I sent my Spirit to heal and strengthen and empower and encourage you in all the trials of life.

And you ask me, do I care? And you ask me, do I love you? What is it that you want? How can I further prove my love for you? Do you want me to do miracles for you all the time?

Shall I do magic for your convenience? Shall I spare you the pain of disease, the trials of life, the unanswerable questions that haunt you in the middle of the night? Shall I keep you from bumping your toe in the dark? Shall I help you find your car keys when they re lost? Shall I put all the doctors and all the hospitals and the UN and all the charitable groups out of work? Shall I release my church from my call to feed my sheep, and do it myself?

I could do all that and more. Believe me; I am tempted to do that. It would certainly be easier for you and for me. But I cannot do that. I will not do that. To do that would be to rob you of your freedom, your very humanity. It would make you into unthinking robots offering your worship out of awe and fear and duty, rather than offering your honest love out of free choice. To do that would be t o rob you of your potential for growth, for hope, for joy.

You were not made that way. You were made in God s Divine image. You were intended for freedom and love. I came to you from God, and freely took upon myself your human image-- your suffering, your tears, your laughter, your struggles, your triumphs. I am always with you-- I am beside you in all the circumstances of life.

I came to you from God to show you God s will for your own lives and for the world. I came to you from God to offer you the ultimate gift of grace-- joy and peace and unity with the Divine. And you ask if I care. And you ask if I love you. Don t you have faith in me and in my love?

Mark's Gospel does not of course, record those exact words. But sisters and brothers, when Jesus replied to the disciples rebuking question he was saying those things. Not when He stilled the storm-- but when He gently replied: "Don't you have faith? He was answering their question-- and ours.

Because to believe those things, and to freely offer Him your love in return-- with your heart and your head and your being and your life-- to set out with Him into the darkest night on the journey of faith, just because he invites us-- to understand and to believe and to live out those things-- is precisely what it means to have faith in His and Him love.

Let us pray,

Lord Jesus, give us faith in you and your love for us. Help us to recognize you, standing beside us in our tears and in our laughter. Help us to strive to become true people of faith and to boldly proclaim that faith to all the world. Help us to love you more. Amen.

"Don't You Care?" given June 24

Jesus had already put in a pretty full day by the time our Gospel reading begins. According to Mark, he had been teaching on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Then the crowd had gotten so heavy that Jesus had been forced to preach standing in the bow of somebody s fishing boat, floating a few feet out from shore.

By evening, Jesus was no doubt exhausted, feeling he had nothing left to give for the moment. He must have known that he needed to rest. So he invited the disciples to cast off the boat. Let s cross to the other side. He said.

The Sea of Galilee isn't really much of a Sea. It's actually a small lake-- vaguely heart shaped-- surrounded by bluffs-- only about five miles by seven. At least four of the disciples were professional fishermen-- men whose livelihood-- and sometimes whose very lives-- were directly related to their skill in small boat handling and in reading the signs of weather.

Peter and Andrew and James and John would have been all too familiar with the way in which the surrounding hills could funnel a gust down onto the lake. They must have known how even the gentlest breeze could pick up speed and turn into a tempest in a matter of minutes.

It was already evening when they d taken Jesus on board and set off-- not withstanding the dark sky, the menacing clouds, the gusts beginning to blow. All the subtle clues of wind and wave must have told them clearly that a squall was coming. Hard-won experience must have told them very clearly that this was not necessarily a good night for sailing.

But after all, they were with Jesus. They had seen him do incredible things-- exorcise devils, perform healings, feed multitudes. They knew him to be a holy man-- favored of God. Surely, they thought, they would be safe in his company. The Almighty wouldn't be interested in taking the life of one of God s own prophets. Surely God would hold back the wind, hold back the rain.

So they cast off. Jesus must have been very tired, because he immediately lay down in the stern of the boat, using someone s rolled up cloak as a cushion for his head, and went to sleep. He must have been exhausted, because the thunder of the approaching storm didn't awake him. Even the rain falling on them didn't wake him. looking at him resting, as comfortably as if he were back in his own bed in Nazareth, the disciples must have taken heart.

They'd been anxious about the storm. They'd half-hoped it wouldn't come. But seeing Jesus sleeping so peacefully, they must have felt safe from the storm, lucky, protected by an umbrella of blessing they assumed holy men and prophets enjoyed. They were with Jesus, and he was better than any good luck charm or rabbit's foot.

Nothing bad would happen to them-- they were with Jesus. The disciples understood that Jesus was with them on their journey. They didn't have to go it alone. It was His presence in fact, that gave them the courage to set out-- just as you and I need not go it alone-- just as the Presence of our Lo rd with us, can give us courage to face the storms of life.

They didn't understand that having Jesus with us does not mean we'll always have smooth sailing. Sailing with Jesus doesn't guarantee us immunity from the storms of life. In fact, at times there may well be storms we will have to enter if we would travel with Him.

The whole journey out into the night, onto the sea was Jesus idea after all-- not theirs. Some of our greatest adventures with Jesus will take place in the face of raging storms, in the dead of night, when it is dark, when we are lost

Even when the waves surged against the sides of their boat, Jesus slept on. It was only when the water began to wash in over the gunnels that the disciples began to feel uneasy. Didn't God realize Jesus was with them? And as the waves began to fill the bottom of the boat with more and more water, they realized all of a sudden that they were in serious danger of being swamped.

At that point they decided it was time to rub their magic charm. So they called to Jesus, possibly even shook him awake. They addressed him respectfully-- but there was a petulant tone to their request.

"Master, wake up! The boats sinking! Don't you care if we drown? We're about to go down! Do something, Jesus! Help us! Don't you care about us? Jesus woke up and looked around. You can almost picture him rubbing the sleep from his eyes, reaching down to grasp the sides of the boat, the wind and water slapping at his face. When he finally spoke, it was the wind, not the disciples that Jesus addressed.

"Cut that out! Muzzle yourself. Be still." And Mark tells us the wind ceased. He was gentler with the sea. “Hush! Be still." And the waves calmed. Then, gentler still, Jesus turned and faced the disciples.

"Why did you panic? Why did you fear? What kind of faith do you call that? You ask me if I care about you? Have you no faith in my love for you?"

But despite His gentle tone-- despite the fact that they knew Him, had been following Him for quite a while-- despite the fact that they'd seen Him perform wondrous deeds in the past-- despite the fact that they had expected God to spare the m-- despite all that He had taught them-- despite the fact that it was they themselves, who had awakened Him, asking that Jesus work a miracle for their personal benefit-- despite all that-- they were awestruck.

The fear they'd had of the storm was nothing in comparison to the fear they suddenly felt of their beloved Master and Teacher. They'd asked Jesus to show them His love, His care for them. And when He did, they couldn't handle the sheer scope of His love. Their fear of the storm had turned into a kind of reverential fear-- awe. Their attitude toward Him had suddenly been transformed.

They still loved and honored Him of course. He was still their beloved Master. But never again would they be able to see Jesus as just their friend and teacher-- a holy man or prophet-- a man who enjoyed God's favor. Never again would they ask Him to whip up a miracle to order. Never again would they be able to think of Him in quite the same way.

Mark makes it very clear however, that they still had not figured out exactly who Jesus was, where He'd come from, or what His mission was all about. They wouldn't even begin to understand that until after Good Friday. But now, they knew--Jesus was different-- different from anyone they d ever known or imagined.

Mark tells us that they didn't even dare to defend themselves from Jesus rebuke. Rather, they turned to one another, sharing their amazement, pooling their awe.

Who can this be? How can this be? The wind and the waves obey him. Did you see it, too? What can this mean?

But the Gospel tells us that there was no answer given-- at least not an answer in words. Maybe Mark realized that the answer had already been given to them-- given in the vision and experiences itself, in the middle of the storm. Then they would have had to take up their oars. Because He hadn’t left them with even the tiniest breeze-- and rowed the boat across the lake to the other side. And presumably Jesus, went back to the stern, laid his head back down on that r olled up cloak, and went back to sleep.

That awe, that sense of differentness about Jesus never left them, for all the remaining time that He was with them. Maybe they remembered-- maybe they tried to forget that time on the boat. No doubt they tried to forget how they had doubted His love and rebuked Him. No doubt they tried as best they could to forget His gentle reply.

We modern disciples ask that question of Him as well. Sometimes we too, fear being swamped with our troubles and overwhelmed with the storms of life. Sometimes we too, feel abandoned. Sometimes too, we even wonder if God really notices us--if Jesus really cares.

Why me, God? "What did I do to deserve this?" How have I sinned? How could you let this happen to me? I m a good church-goer. Why does Jesus keep testing me? How can a good God allow such a thing to happen? How long, O Lord? How long?

And once we've asked those questions, if we can manage to stop and hush and listen, we too can hear the same reply.

You ask me if I care. You ask me if I love you. You have been with me. You know me. Don t you have faith in me, and in my love for you?

I was born into poverty, raised a refugee and a peasant. I worked with my hands to make a living. I gave up all that I had-- home and family and friends. I lived as a homeless traveling preacher in order to teach and heal and proclaim the Good News of God s love for all humanity.

It was for your sake that I went to the cross. For your sake, I conquered the very bounds of death. For your sake I sent my Spirit to heal and strengthen and empower and encourage you in all the trials of life.

And you ask me, do I care? And you ask me, do I love you? What is it that you want? How can I further prove my love for you? Do you want me to do miracles for you all the time?

Shall I do magic for your convenience? Shall I spare you the pain of disease, the trials of life, the unanswerable questions that haunt you in the middle of the night? Shall I keep you from bumping your toe in the dark? Shall I help you find your car keys when they re lost? Shall I put all the doctors and all the hospitals and the UN and all the charitable groups out of work? Shall I release my church from my call to feed my sheep, and do it myself?

I could do all that and more. Believe me; I am tempted to do that. It would certainly be easier for you and for me. But I cannot do that. I will not do that. To do that would be to rob you of your freedom, your very humanity. It would make you into unthinking robots offering your worship out of awe and fear and duty, rather than offering your honest love out of free choice. To do that would be t o rob you of your potential for growth, for hope, for joy.

You were not made that way. You were made in God s Divine image. You were intended for freedom and love. I came to you from God, and freely took upon myself your human image-- your suffering, your tears, your laughter, your struggles, your triumphs. I am always with you-- I am beside you in all the circumstances of life.

I came to you from God to show you God s will for your own lives and for the world. I came to you from God to offer you the ultimate gift of grace-- joy and peace and unity with the Divine. And you ask if I care. And you ask if I love you. Don t you have faith in me and in my love?

Mark s Gospel does not of course, record those exact words. But sisters and brothers, when Jesus replied to the disciples rebuking question he was saying those things. Not when He stilled the storm-- but when He gently replied: "Don't you have faith? He was answering their question-- and ours.

Because to believe those things, and to freely offer Him your love in return-- with your heart and your head and your being and your life-- to set out with Him into the darkest night on the journey of faith, just because he invites us-- to understand and to believe and to live out those things-- is precisely what it means to have faith in His and Him love.

Let us pray,

Lord Jesus, give us faith in you and your love for us. Help us to recognize you, standing beside us in our tears and in our laughter. Help us to strive to become true people of faith and to boldly proclaim that faith to all the world. Help us to love you more. Amen.