Two Episodes, One Miracle

July 1, 2018 – The 6th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 8B

2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27; 2 Corinthians 8:7-15; Mark 5:21-43

© 2018 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

I wonder how it felt to be in the crowd that day and see the leader of the synagogue fall down at Jesus’ feet and beg for a miracle. Jairus was a man of wealth, respect, and dignity, but his daughter’s illness had brought him to the point of desperation. What did it feel like to see the man who was always so well put together, who was always impeccably dressed, down on the dusty ground, grabbing at Jesus feet, pleading for assistance? As a leader of the synagogue, Jairus was known to everyone in the community, and it must have made them uncomfortable to see this man of power brought literally to his knees.

After hearing his request, Jesus went with him toward his house, and the crowd pressed in to follow him. They wanted to see what would happen. They wanted to see what would come of Jairus and his daughter—whether the famous rabbi would be able to help. And I wonder what it felt like, in the middle of that urgent errand of mercy, to see Jesus stop in the midst of the crowd, spin around, and ask, “Who touched me?” It seemed like a silly, out-of-place question. Why was the rabbi asking who had touched him? And why was he stopping? He knew that there was little time, and that a child’s life was at stake. Why did he waste this precious time asking who it was who had bumped into him.

And then they saw who it was. Terrified, the woman whom no one had touched for a dozen years came forward. What must it have felt like to see that the woman with the hemorrhage was the one who had touched Jesus? Like Jairus, everyone recognized her, but, unlike the synagogue leader, she was known because of her shame. For twelve years, she had lived apart from normal society. Because of her menstrual discharge, she was ritually unclean. Anyone with whom she came into contact likewise would become unclean. Every night, she slept in a tent out behind her house. She wasn’t allowed to eat with her family. She certainly wasn’t allowed in the synagogue, and, as its leader, Jairus would have told the ushers to keep an eye out just in case she tried to come in.

What went through the minds of the crowd as they saw who it was that had touched Jesus? What would Jairus have been thinking? This had become a terrible tragedy. One could easily argue that Jesus himself had become unclean when the woman touched him. Normally, people might look the other way, but Jesus was headed to Jairus’ house, and Jairus was a religious icon in that community. He couldn’t afford to let Jesus come under his roof now that he had been ritually contaminated. He couldn’t let Jesus in to see his little girl, but the girl might die without his healing touch. What would happen? How would Jesus himself respond in this moment?

“Daughter,” he said to the woman, “your faith has made you well; your faith has saved you. Go in peace, and be healed of your disease.” Surely those were startling words. Jesus had every reason to dismiss the woman in the harshest imaginable way. She had defiled him and not only delayed his work but perhaps derailed it completely. Yet Jesus looked at the woman tenderly and called her “daughter,” bringing her back into the fold of Abraham. I wonder how it felt to be in that crowd and stand in that marketplace and watch that woman step forward and then hear Jesus speak words of deep healing to her. It must have been enough to make one’s head spin.

But, then, an anxious whisper started to move through the crowd. Someone had overheard the servants from the leader’s house when they approached their master and gave him the bad news. It was too late. His daughter was dead. “Why trouble the teacher any further?” Jesus was among those who heard what they had said to Jairus, and, speaking as much to the murmuring crowd as to the leader of the synagogue, he said, “Do not fear; only believe!” I wonder how the crowd reacted to Jesus’ confrontational words. Were they confused? Did they have hope? Did they wonder why Jesus would call for faith in that moment? Faith in what? Dead is dead. Were they angry at the hemorrhaging woman for interrupting Jesus on his way to Jairus’ house? Did they wonder whether he could have made it in time if she hadn’t touched him? Did they blame her for the child’s death?

When Jesus got to the leader’s house and found the mourners already gathered to offer their sympathies and to show their deference to the powerful man, Jesus called them out for the commotion they were making: “The child is not dead but merely sleeping.” At this, the mourners laughed at him—literally they “down-laughed” or “ridiculed” him. They probably wondered why Jesus would say such a terrible thing. It’s a crime against human decency to pretend that someone’s child has not actually died, giving them a false and cruel hope. But Jesus put them outside and took with him only the parents of the child and his three closest disciples—Peter, James, and John—as he entered the house.

I wonder how Jairus felt when he saw his lifeless daughter for the first time. I wonder how it felt to watch Jesus approach her body and take her by the hand and speak gently into her ear. And I wonder how it felt to see the breath return to her corpse, to watch her get out of bed, to see her familiar smile, and to hold the one they thought that they had lost. And I wonder what the mourners felt when they saw the dead daughter walking, talking, and eating. I wonder what the townsfolk felt when they got the news that Jairus’ daughter had not died after all, that the visiting rabbi had gotten there in time, that the twelve-year-old girl was going to be alright.

This gospel lesson isn’t two miracle stories but one. It is one story of God’s work in the world sandwiched together out of two deeply connected episodes. Jairus’ daughter and the hemorrhaging woman. One twelve-years-old and the other ostracized for twelve years. One on the cusp of becoming a woman and the other broken in the very thing that makes her a woman. Mark pulls them together to teach us something important about how God works and what God’s will for the world really is. He tells us this unified miraculous story to remind us how God’s love works.

How do we feel when it is our turn to be powerless? What’s it like when we are as desperate as Jairus or as desperate as the nameless woman? What’s it’s like to need a miracle so badly that we would throw ourselves at Jesus’ feet or risk everything to touch his cloak? And how does it feel when someone else steps in the way, intercepts our miracle, and pushes our need to the back of the line? How does it feel when the person who steals Jesus’ attention is known better for her moral failure than any kind of faithfulness? What’s it like when the miracle falls on the less-deserving, on the one who was only in trouble because she caused it for herself? How do we feel when our miracle gets delayed, when our prayers go unanswered, when we get news that it’s too late? And what does it feel like when we discover that it’s never too late, that Jesus hasn’t forgotten us, that God’s miraculous love has found us as well? In that moment, when we see that the light of salvation is shining on us, too, do we remember the woman? Do we remember how it felt when we thought that there was only so much of God’s love to go around and we blamed her for getting it first? Do we find room in our heart even for her?

People who believe in Jesus are people who believe that there is always enough of God’s love for everyone. And the people of this church have shown over and over again that they believe it—that they know deep down in their bones that God loves absolutely everyone and that there is no limit to God’s love. That’s what we stand for. That’s why we’re here. That’s why you called me to be your rector, and that’s why I said yes when you called. We know that God sees and responds to the needs of the world indiscriminately. We know that there are no distinctions or differentiations in God’s love. We know that; we believe that; but we still have work to do.

We know that God sees the world that way, but do we see it the way God sees it? Do we see that the needs of others are just as important as our own? Do we see that, no matter who they are or what they’ve done or where they come from or what they believe, they are as fully loved by God as we are? Jairus’ daughter and the hemorrhaging woman. One must wait until the other is healed so that both might see the truth. In Jesus Christ, we see that God loves everyone exactly the same, and in the gospel of Christ, we hear God beckoning us to love everyone exactly the same, too.

No Substitute For Love

June 27, 2018 - Sts. Peter and Paul (transferred)

Ezekiel 34:11-16; 2 Timothy 4:1-8; John 21:15-19

There are many synonyms for love, but there is no substitute. Affection. Romance. Devotion. Fondness. Enchantment. Fidelity. Infatuation. Ardor. Love.

After Jesus had been raised from the dead, after he had been crucified, after he had been deserted by his disciples and denied by Peter, Jesus met his disciples by the side of the sea. Early one morning, he showed himself to them and beckoned them to sit and eat breakfast with him. Then, as breakfast was ending, he took Peter aside and asked him, "Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?" And Peter replied, "Yes, Lord, you know that I love you." And Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs."

But that's not really what they said.

Jesus said to Peter, "Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?" and Peter replied, "Yes, Lord, you know that I am fond of you...have deep affection for you...love you like a friend." In the Greek New Testament, the word Jesus used was agape, but, in his reply, Peter used the word phileo. The former is the selfless, unconditional, never-failing love that God has for the world, but all Peter could muster was the love of a companion or friend. The love of a friend is a wonderful thing. One might even love his friends enough to lay down his life for them. But the love of friend and the love that God has for us is different. Jesus invited Peter to consider whether his love for his master was divine love, but Peter couldn't reciprocate or at least didn't think that he could.

And Jesus called him out on it.

Three times Jesus asked Peter about his love for him. The first time he asked, "Do you love me?" The second time he asked, "Do you love me?" But the third time he asked, "Simon, son of John, are you fond of me?" Jesus took Peter's word and gave it back to him. The biblical text struggles to convey the tone in this exchange, but to me it sounds like Jesus is asking incredulously, "Do you [really only] love me [like a friend]?" When Jesus used the word phileo to ask Peter about his love, it makes me wonder whether Jesus could see in Peter something Peter could not see within himself. It makes me wonder whether Peter was hurt not because Jesus asked about his love three times but because, on the third time, he switched from agape to phileo, bringing Peter to the edge of his own limitations.

What does it feel like to look the one whom you denied in the eye and hear him ask you, "Do you love me?" How piercing that stare must be! How wounding those words must feel! But Jesus does not speak to Peter to break him down or fill him with guilt but to free him from it. "Do you really think that the best you have for me is kindly affection? When I named you 'the rock on which my church will be built' and declared that 'not even the powers of hell would prevail against it,' do you think that the love of friend is what I saw in you?"

Feed my sheep. Tend my sheep. Feed my lambs. Do you love me? Feed my sheep. The work of tending the flock is fueled by our love for Jesus. And we cannot be the church of Christ if we do not love him as we have been loved--with the selfless, sacrificial, unconditional love that God has for us in Jesus. Jesus beckons us to come and feast with him. He pulls us aside and asks gently, "Do you love me? Do you know that you love me? Do you trust that you are capable of loving me?" Sometimes, when we have denied the love that God has for us, it is hard for us to imagine that Jesus could look at us and see within us the possibility of a love we have forgotten. But he does. He always does.

Hear Jesus asking you, "Do you love me?" And, in those words, hear him reassuring you that the answer is yes. Even when you cannot see it. Especially when you cannot see it. Jesus looks at you and sees the possibility of agape love. Why? Because that is the love that he has for you. And, once we have been loved like that, once we know that we are loved like that, we discover the freedom we need to love him and the world in the same way.

Two Very Different Characters

This coming Sunday, we will read Mark 5:21-43, which is the quintessential Marcan "sandwich" of two different encounters melded into one. At first, a leader of the synagogue named Jairus comes to Jesus and begs him to heal his very sick daughter. On the way to Jairus' house, a woman with a menstrual hemorrhage touches Jesus' cloak and is immeidately healed of her disease. After confronting the woman, confirming her healing, and sending her away in peace, Jesus continues to Jairus' house, where he acts to bring the now-dead daughter back to life.

Two stories sandwiched together. You can't really tell the story of Jairus' daughter without interrupting it in order to tell of the nameless woman. And you can't really read the story of the woman without grounding it in the middle of the encounter with Jairus and his daughter. There are other symbolic links like the girl being twelve years old and the woman having had her hemorrhage for twelve years. Mark doesn't want us to separate these two stories, and, this morning, I find myself pondering another reason.

Despite being united in Mark's telling of the gospel, these two objects of Jesus' healing could not be more different. Jairus is a leader of the synagogue. He's the Senior Warden. He's the biggest pledge in the congregation. He's the man to whom everyone turns when there's any concern about the direction the synagogue is headed. His daughter is born into privilege. She enjoys the status of an elite family. The other woman is shunned. She may have been a person of power and status at one point, but all of that is gone. She has spent all of her money trying to find a cure for her bleeding. That bleeding would make her both ritually impure and culturally uncouth. Here in the twenty-first century, men still squirm uncomfortably when the subject of periods or tampons comes up. Imagine, then, what it was like for a first-century woman whose entire life was defined by her never-ending period. She wasn't allowed to come near anyone else. She had to sleep in a tent in the backyard. Everyone knew. She was a lowly as a leper or a tax collector, but her ostracization was the result of a perversion of her womanhood.

And Mark, blessed Mark, has the Spirit-inspired bravery to link these two women together inseparably.

How will we hear their stories this Sunday? How does the ritually impure woman's access to the same healing change the way Jairus and his family perceive Jesus? Or the woman? How is the woman's status as outcast changed not only by the healing she receives but by her story's inclusion alongside that of Jairus' daughter? How will our relationship with Jesus change if he stops and visits an outcast before coming to our house? How will that change our relationship with the outcast?

These are the questions with which I am wrestling this week. It's my last time to preach at St. John's. I ask God to make me faithful to the biblical text, to the call to preach the gospel, and to the congregation that I have served for six and a half years.

Confidence in God

This may sound painfully obvious, but lately I've noticed how often the Bible tries to teach us the perils of putting our confidence in anything or anyone except God.

This week, for Vacation Bible School, we're studying Daniel, and, in last night's adult class, we read the story of the fiery furnace and Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego's refusal to bow down to the statue that King Nebuchadnezzar had erected. After reminding them that they would be executed, the king asked what he thought was a rhetorical question: "And who is the god who will deliver you out of my hands?" But the faithful Jewish men replied, "If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up." The point of Daniel seems to be to remind the readers--likely Jews under Roman or, perhaps, Greek occupation--that trusting in Israel's God is their only hope.

This Sunday, we will hear the story of Jesus and the disciples crossing the sea during a storm (Mark 4:35-41), and, as I've written about this week, the point of the episode seems to be to show the disciples (and the readers) that they are not in peril as long as they are with Jesus, who wields the same power as God himself.

In our congregation, which is using Track 1, we will hear the lesson that is the first option from 1 Samuel 17, which is the story of David and Goliath. Before we get to Sunday, I hope you'll take a minute to read all of 1 Samuel 17 because it includes some details that the lectionary reading skips over. In particular, I hope you'll notice what 17:24 shows us: "All the men of Israel, when they saw [Goliath], fled from him and were much afraid." And I hope you'll read David's response to his countrymen's fear in verse 26: "What shall be done for the man who kills this Philistine and takes away the reproach from Israel? For who is this uncircumcised Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the living God?" Notice that, for David, this encounter is not only with a giant warrior but a direct confrontation with Israel's fear. The soldiers are cowering on one side of the valley, but David has faith--not in himself but in the living God.

When he goes out to battle carrying only a sling and five smooth stones, he goes under the protection of Yahweh. Given that background, David's taunt of Goliath makes more sense to us: "You come to me with sword and spear and javelin; but I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. This very day the Lord will deliver you into my hand, and I will strike you down and cut off your head...so that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that the Lord does not save by sword and spear; for the battle is the Lord’s and he will give you into our hand." The very nature of this battle, therefore, is the battle between God and God's enemies--a battle that the army of Israel, hiding in fear, had forgotten.

That's what this Sunday is all about. And, as I hinted at in the opening of this post, that's what the story of salvation told in the pages of scripture is all about. It's about knowing that God is the one who saves us. It's about putting our confidence in him. If we believe in him, we will not be afraid. That's Jesus' message to the disciples: "Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?" And that's God's message to us: "Do not be afraid. Have faith Know that I am with you."

The Fear of Faith

On Sunday, we will read the familiar gospel story of Jesus and the disciples crossing the sea when a storm arises (Mark 4:35-41). At staff meeting yesterday, Seth pointed out that the Greek words for the disciples' reaction to Jesus' stilling of the storm (καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν φόβον μέγαν), which the NRSV translates as "were filled with great awe," literally means "were afraid with a great fear." In fact, in the preceding verse, when Jesus questions the disciples, the sentence translated for us as "Why are you afraid?" does not use the same word for "fear" but uses "δειλοί," which certainly connotes fear but has its root in a different word that means "dread." Does it matter? The difference actually makes a difference.

The word "δειλοί" is an adjective that Strong's Concordance defines as "cowardly, fearful." Strong's defines the other word "φόβον" as "panic flight, fear, the causing of fear, terror." Those don't sound that different until you dig a little deeper. Strong's also defines the latter as "reverence, respect." At first, I thought that was because of a difference in the origins of the words, but it turns out that "deos," the root for "deiloi" can also mean "reverence," but that particular connotation is apparently never used in the New Testament. Strong's notes that "deilós is always used negatively in the NT and stands in contrast to the positive fear which can be expressed by phóbos." In other words, although both words mean fear, "phóbos" is used in the NT to mean "reverence" while "deilós" is always used to mean "terror."

So, back to the boat, the disciples wake up Jesus and ask him, "Do you not care that we are perishing?" After Jesus stills the storm, he says to the disciples, "Why are you cowardly fearful?" And the disciples' reaction is to be filled with amazement and holy fear. Actually, the NRSV does a pretty good job of conveying that by using "awe" to describe the disciples' reaction. But, before we gather as a congregation to hear this lesson and the sermon that likely accompanies it, it's worth remembering the difference in the kinds of fear conveyed in this story.

Nowadays, we don't use the word "fear" to describe our reaction to God's presence very often, but I think it's still familiar enough to us for us to understand it. God isn't always cuddly. Yes, God is depicted in scripture as an intimate lover. Yes, God is described as one who speaks with Moses face to face. But most often prophets and kings are overwhelmed when they come close to the Almighty. "Woe is me!" Isaiah declares, "for I am a man of unclean lips amidst a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts." This is the natural response of a created being in the presence of the Uncreated One. The disciples holy fear is a sign that they are starting to understand who it is that they are accompanying on this journey.

Jesus is the one whom even the wind and the sea obey. In other words, Jesus is divine. Only God can control the wind and the waves. Jesus questions why they are cowardly, and the disciples, upon realizing what is happening, are filled with holy terror. Initially, their cowardice was a position of faithlessness. They did not believe that Jesus could save them from a storm. When they woke him up, they didn't say, "Save us!" but "Don't you care that we are perishing?" During that boat ride, they get a glimpse of the awesome power that is with them in the boat, and their response is fear. That's the fear of faith--the fear of acknowledging that they are in the presence of God.

Practicing Intimacy with God

June 19, 2018 - Tuesday in Proper 6

2 Kings 2:1, 6-14; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-18

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

In Matthew 6, Jesus says, “Beware of practicing your piety before others so that you may be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.” But, for goodness’ sake, keep practicing; just do it in secret.

These days, we do not talk a lot about piety. Even as a priest, I do not talk a lot about piety. Partly, that is because of our Protestant heritage, and partly it is because piety is a way of life as old-fashioned as the word itself. What is piety? Piety is the practice or the devotion of our faith. It is the stuff we do that both reflects our faith, our relationship with God, and that nourishes it. It is, in effect, the “date-night” we spend with our Beloved.

Occasionally, someone will come to me and acknowledge that he or she is struggling in his or her marriage. “We just don't have that spark anymore,” someone will admit to me, “and I don't feel much like reigniting it.” Actually, by the time most people come to see me about marital struggles, it is well past that point. The spark is long gone and has been replaced by the destructive flame of resentment. Looking back, it is usually difficult to see where the problem started because the cause is usually an amalgamation of little things: a busy season at work, children who demand our time and energy, volunteer opportunities that take all of our free time, unexpected expenses or a decrease in income that leaves us in financial pinch. And that leads to other little things: staying later at work, skipping the family dinner, having an extra drink at night, zoning out in front of the television, crawling into bed completely exhausted, and waking up to do it all over again. It may be hard to see where the problem started, but it is almost always easy to tell how things got so bad: no time together, no romance, no conversation, no mutuality. We may not see it as newlyweds, but time shows us that it always difficult to live with another human being—a demanding, self-centered, egotistical human being—unless love flourishes between them, and, in order for love to flourish, one must practice it.

More often, someone will come to me and acknowledge that he or she is struggling in his or her faith. “I just don't feel close to God anymore,” someone will admit to me, “and I don't know how to get that spark back.” Again, it is hard to see where the growing distance started because it is usually an amalgamation of the same sorts of things—things that occupy our time and our resources in ways that draw us further and further from our relationship with God. “Oh sure, I still believe in God…sort of,” we say to ourselves, “but it's as if God isn't real to me anymore.” Maybe we have even forgotten how real God was to us in the past, leaving us doubting whether that relationship was ever real in the first place. When I ask someone who is struggling what his or her prayer life looks like, I get a range of responses like, “Oh, I sort of chit-chat with God throughout my day,” or “It's pretty good…but I suppose it could be better,” but no one ever says to me, “My prayer life is vibrant: I pray for an hour every morning and an hour every night and make lots of time every day to spend with God.” God is faithful. God is present. God is with us. But it is awfully hard to remember that in our minds and in our hearts and in our souls when we are sending God a text message to tell him that we will be in touch soon instead of holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes, and letting a passion grow between us.

That is piety. Piety is how we become intimate with God. It is the way we live out our faith in order that our faith might be strengthened. Typically, you cannot hold hands with a stranger and suddenly fall madly in love with him or her. In other words, piety is not where a relationship with God begins, but it can be where a relationship with God either grows and flourishes or dwindles and dies. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus names three classic ways that people of faith can practice their piety: giving alms, saying prayers, and fasting. But notice what Jesus tells us: “Beware of practicing your piety in front of others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.” We do these things—we practice our intimacy with God—not because other people will be impressed nor because the preacher tells us we should but because the reward it provides is a deeper relationship with the One who created us and loves us.

When you say your prayers, when you come to church, when you put money in the offering plate, when you observe the religious feasts and fasts of the church year, are you doing those because they are what others expect of you, or are you doing them because you want to lose yourself in the love of God?

Sometimes, when a relationship falls off the tracks, it is hard to know how to get it going again. Sometimes it is painfully awkward—that first kiss, that first date, that first romantic encounter. And sometimes it feels that way with God. We do not really know how to pray anymore: "Dear God, I haven't done this in a while, and I don't really know what to say…" Does it help to remember that God is the one who always loves us, who never leaves us, whose tender care never wanes? It may feel strange at first, but do not be afraid to practice. Go into your room and shut the door where no one but God can see you. Start with a simple prayer, perhaps the one that Jesus taught us. Try giving something precious away to someone who needs it, and do not tell a soul about it. Give up a meal and instead spend that hour in your office or your breakfast room reading from the Book of Psalms. Practice your piety for God's sake and for your sake. Let the intimacy between you and the Almighty return, and let that flame be fueled each day for the rest of your life.

God Is With Us

In this coming Sunday's gospel lesson (Mark 4:35-41), there are two statements that to me feel out of place. First, when Jesus and the disciples were going across the sea and a great windstorm arose, threatening to swamp the boat, the disciples went to the stern, found Jesus asleep, and said, "Do you not care that we are perishing?" Then, after Jesus calmed the sea, he said to the disciples, "Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?" Both of these statements seem to have been emotionally connected from the circumstances into which they were uttered, and I think that exactly how it works when we pray to God in a crisis.

Do you not care that we are perishing? Think about those words for a minute. They are the kind of words one might say to a crazy driver allowing a car to drift into oncoming traffic without seeming to care for the consequences. It's what you say to the string quartet still playing on the deck of the Titanic. It's what you say to someone who is going down in flames and taking everyone else with them. But is that what we say to Jesus? Does it make sense to say those words to God?

We say them all the time. Don't you care that we are perishing? Aren't you able to get me out of this? Doesn't it matter to you that my life is falling apart? We say those words to God in the same way that the disciples say them to Jesus--genuinely confused and panicked that the one we thought would keep us out of trouble is watching (or sleeping) while we careen toward the edge of our life's steepest cliff. When we say those words to God, a part of us--maybe most of us--doesn't really know the answer. The disciples really did not know whether Jesus cared that they were all about to die. But, of course, he did care, and so does God.

Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith? Think about those words for a moment. They are the kind of words that the madman driver says to us after he snaps the car back into the right lane just as the tractor-trailer blows past, not really convincing us that he was always going to do it. Or they are the words that help us realize that, although reasonable, our response was an overreaction, that our faith had been tested and found lacking. Or they are the consoling words of a parent or shepherd or savior that are designed to help us see that we never really had any reason to fear all along. And that sounds like the words God says to us over and over and over.

I don't think "what ifs" are particularly helpful in life except to make one thankful for how everything worked out, but this story invites our hypothetical imagination. What if the boat had capsized? What if half of the disciples drowned? What if Jesus and all of his disciples were killed in the storm and never heard from again? What if? Most likely, Mark's point is to show us that Jesus has power over the wind and the waves--the kind of power that only God has. Or maybe Mark wants us to see the folly of seeing Jesus casting out demons, healing the sick, confronting the religious authorities, and battling the forces of evil only to worry that we might die in a boat on the sea. Or maybe Mark wants us to know that when our own boat feels like it is going under and we cry out to God, "Don't you care that I am perishing?" God's reply is always, "Have you still no faith?"

Even if the boat goes down and we go down with it, we are not alone. If God is with me--and I believe that God is--then whatever peril comes, even if it leads to my death, it is not something I suffer because God has forgotten me or because God does not care about me. Does God care? Yes, absolutely. Because of that, we are never alone, and our trouble is never a lostness or abandonment. It's silly to think that God would not care that we are struggle. Of course God cares. And, if we listen, we can hear his gentle response: have you still no faith? That's an invitation to those of us in the midst of a storm.