There’s something sacred about the sea. There’s something sacred about the faith and the trust of fishermen who draw their livelihood from her waters; something holy about the bounty of the ocean; something of the power of God in the mighty waves and in the potent hope of fisherman and their families who face the perils of the deep and trust in God to provide fish for the market, food for the table, and the safe return of loved ones.
There must have been many times when Heber Martin and John Adams braved the storms off Newfoundland’s coast and by God’s grace made their way back home. Many times when their wives Elfrada and Lillian looked out their kitchen windows at the storm clouds and offered prayers for the safe return of their husbands. Many times when Fred and Maud and the other children of the outports paused in their play and wondered if they’d ever see their fathers again.
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm has bound the restless wave;
Who bade the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep:
O hear us when we cry to thee
For those in peril on the sea.
It is perhaps in the face of peril that we have our closest encounters with God. Maybe that’s the lesson of today’s Gospel reading. Fishermen not unlike Heber Martin and John Adams are caught in a storm on the Sea of Galilee. Perhaps it’s been a good night, and they’ve caught lots of fish. That’s the good news. The bad news is that all those fish are weighing down the boat. Not a problem on a calm sea. But in this darkest hour before the approaching dawn, a storm is coming up. And the swells have not risen all that much before they’re already starting to spill over the gunwales. And still the storm is growing in intensity. These are seasoned fishermen. It takes more than a little storm to frighten them. But they’re starting to get concerned. The waves rise higher and the rain is pouring down, and these would be fishers of men are beginning to fear for their lives. Terror grips everyone in the boat; everyone except Jesus. He’s asleep in the stern. Exhausted from yet another day of preaching and healing and being pursued by people demanding his attention, he’s taking advantage of a rare moment when he can relax and rest. He knows this sea. He knows and trusts his fishermen disciples. He’s not concerned, until their shouts of terror awake him. And then he’s not concerned about the storm so much as he’s concerned about them; about their lack of faith: in God, in the sea, in themselves. “Peace! Be still!” he says. And the crisis passes.
A storm was calmed that night, that’s for sure. But maybe it was as much the storm of fear within the disciples as it was the storm on the sea that Jesus calmed. Here’s how one poet tells the story:
They sailed into the sea at dusk,
the sea called Galilee.
The wind grew strong as they skipped along,
on the sea called Galilee.
But strong still the wind did blow,
and higher tossed the waves.
‘Til the boat shipped water and began to sink,
and they turned to the One who saves.
He arose and spoke to the sea that night,
to the sea called Galilee.
Though the sea was dark; no help in sight,
on the sea called Galilee.
But his voice was hushed and the crew grew calm
and the boat turned into the waves.
Then the sea grew calm as he knew it would
and the crew pulled hard as they knew they could.
“Where is your faith in the sea,” said he,
in the sea called Galilee.
“And why do you fear the sea tonight,”
the sea called Galilee.
Awestruck they were as they looked down
at the sea called Galilee.
But onward they rowed from crest to crest,
and they looked again at the waves.
They rowed, and they pondered their fear that night,
and looked at the face of the One who saves.
It is perhaps in the face of peril that we have our closest encounters with God. And then we find that God was with us all the time. In the terror of the storm, God is with us. In the depths of despair, God is with us. When the fish disappear, or we’re suddenly unemployed, or we find ourselves on the street, and we know not where our next meal will come from, God is with us.
It’s not that God solves the problem for us. On the contrary, God gives us the resources to solve it ourselves. But sometimes it takes those crisis moments to discover that we have those resources, deep within us. A year ago last spring, when I was hiking on the Appalachian Trail, I discovered that I had all sorts of resources, all sorts of problem-solving skills, that I never dreamed I had. You don’t discover those resources and those skills until you’re in a bind, and there’s no one there to rescue you. When I was running out of propane for my little stove, I had to teach myself how to build a fire. When I lost the trail, I had to use my map and my powers of observation to find it again. When I was confronted with a fast-moving, rain-swollen stream, I had to figure out some way to get across it. And I got through these crises, not because of any special abilities that I have, but because God has placed within each of us the abilities that we need to get through the crises that we face.
The trick is to not get lost in your fear. The trick is to not allow your fear to overwhelm you. The disciples were in deep trouble as long as they were panicking. But when the voice of Jesus calmed the storm within them, they could think more clearly and act more effectively and then they got themselves out of the mess. That’s why Jesus said to them, “Why are you afraid?” Those words appear over and over again, throughout the Bible. “Fear not.” “Don’t be afraid.” “Be ye not anxious.” “Don’t worry.” Because, you see, when you get anxious, you focus on the problem, not on the solution. When you get anxious, you see the waves, and not the shore that’s not that far away. When you get anxious, you see yourself as an unemployed loser, rather than a child of God with all sorts of creative potential. As my friend Phil Palin puts it, “Don’t be anxious, be attentive.” Pay attention to your surroundings, and to the resources – both within you and around you – which can be useful in that context.
The good news is that God has equipped you to face whatever life throws at you. The bad news is that sometimes things have to get really bad before you can figure out how to use that equipment; before you discover that you even have that equipment. A Newfoundland fisherman doesn’t figure out how to navigate his way through a storm until he’s in one. He may know in theory how to do it, but you have to be in a storm before you know that you can do it. And maybe that storm has to get real bad before you get it together and figure it out.
The pit of despair is often the birthplace of hope. It’s when you give up and let go and figure that you have nothing to lose that you get creative and solve the problem.
But remember, as resourceful as you are, you’re not alone. It’s not only your own God-given resources that you can draw on, it’s also the collective resources of the community of faith. The disciples were working together as a team to get through that storm. And fisherman in Atlantic Canada often go out as a crew. They’re not alone in their boats. And we’re not alone in this boat which is the church. The boat is an early symbol of the church, and it remains an apt symbol today. “We are not alone,” our creed says. “We are called to be the Church.” And when we act together as the Church – when we act together as the community of faith – we are more likely to trust the Christ who is found in the midst of the Church; the Christ who is found in the midst of the community. Because as we each put our own gifts to good use, and as we trust the gifts of others in the community, and we work together to turn the boat into the waves and to pull hard on the oars, it is the Spirit of Christ who is working through us. If you get through enough storms with that kind of teamwork, you learn to trust the power of Christ working in our midst to get us through whatever afflictions and hardships and calamities we might face.
And even if it seems like we are alone, we’re really not. I can’t help but think of that teenage girl – the only survivor of last week’s plane crash – clinging for 13 hours to a piece of wreckage until she was rescued. She wasn’t alone. There were maybe grandparents and great-grandparents who’ve departed this world surrounding her. There were angels helping to keep her afloat. She was surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, upholding her and silently encouraging her. She might not have been aware of their presence. And maybe we aren’t aware of their presence in our times of trial. But scripture assures us that those saints and angels are always there (see Hebrews 12:1).
Remember these things the next time that the storm clouds of life are gathering around you. First of all, you have reason to hope that the resources you need are within you. Secondly, you can trust the resources of the community of faith, which is to say that you can trust in the power of the Risen Christ. And, finally, you can know by faith that the saints are surrounding you; that John and Lillian, Heber and Elfrada, and now Fred and all the other members of that sacred circle are upholding you and encouraging you. Heading into the waves and pulling hard on the oars, we will together reach a safe harbour. Because we can do all things through the Christ who strengthens us. Amen.
Reflections on Faith, Hope and Trust
Honouring the Fathers of Fred and Maud Martin
Text: Mark 4:35-41
Preached by Bruce D. Ervin
5 July 2009
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