July 30, 2006
(Eighth Sunday after Pentecost; Proper 12)

2 Kings 2:1-15  •  Psalm 114  •  Ephesians 4:1-7,11-16  •  Mark 6:45-52
(From The Lectionary Page)

What? Me Worry?

  by The Rev. Canon Linda Yeager, Canon Deacon

I thought this might be a good Sunday to begin my sermon with a joke, so here goes. Today’s gospel story involves the miracle of Jesus walking on the water. I asked myself if Episcopalians really believe in miracles. Then I decided that they occasionally do believe in miracles and sometimes even expect them, particularly when electing bishops, hiring priests or recruiting Sunday school teachers. I’m afraid that’s as good as it gets. I’m afraid I’d better stay away from jokes.

What are you afraid of? Certainly, all of us spend time in fear of something. Fear goes by many names: worry, concern, apprehension, dread, panic, terror, distress, anguish, and on and on. We have so many words for fear that surely it is a prevalent emotion. Think about your list of fears: personal ones, such as fear of poor health, lack of success, not being accepted, not being appreciated, loneliness, financial loss, aging, loss of loved ones, illness, death. Then there are the fears we have for our nation and the world: global warming, war, disease, riots, terrorism, natural disasters, despotism. Well, you get the idea.

I recently read a book by a Jesuit priest, Anthony de Mello, in which he claims that there are only two things in this world we inhabit: love and fear. He goes on to say that there is only one evil in the world: fear. “The person who is truly nonviolent,” he says, “who is incapable of violence, is the person who is fearless. It’s only when you’re afraid that you become angry. Think of the last time you were angry,” he urges. “Go ahead. Think of the last time you were angry and search for the fear behind it. What were you afraid of losing? What were you afraid would be taken from you?” (Anthony de Mello, Awareness: The Perils and Opportunities of Reality, p. 62) I can clearly remember the last time that I was angry, and, on reflection, I also know of what I was afraid.

Jesus’ disciples encounter fear in today’s gospel passage. Jesus, hoping for a quiet time to pray, told his disciples to get into their boat and go ahead to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Perhaps Jesus could look down from where he was praying and see the disciples in the boat straining at the oars against an “adverse wind.” The gospel doesn’t say that there was a huge storm or that the boat was in distress, but the disciples were struggling against a heavy wind. So, Jesus went to them, walking on the sea. Now, let’s make this clear: no matter how this passage is translated, it does not come out that Jesus was walking by the sea or beside the sea. Jesus was walking on the sea. This is a miracle. We could spend a few hours or weeks discussing miracles, but for now, let’s accept the fact that Jesus was walking on the water, something that neither you nor I can do naturally. He knew that his disciples were struggling, so he went to them. Interestingly enough, Jesus intended to pass by, perhaps thinking that his mere presence was enough. But this image of Jesus was so terrifying to them that Jesus spoke to them and got into the boat with them—and the wind ceased.

What were the disciples afraid of losing? Their lives? Their boat? If there really are only two things in the world, love and fear, then Jesus’ love allayed their fears and gave them peace. So, what are we to draw from this experience? Of what value is the story of a group of Jesus’ followers half a world away and two thousand years ago? Let’s look at this incident again. Jesus was in prayer. But when he looked out from his place on the hill and saw his friends in trouble, his own problems were set aside; the moment for prayer was past; the time for action had come. He forgot himself and went to the help of his friends. That response is the very essence of Jesus. The cry of human need to him surpassed all other claims. His friends needed him; he had to go. The story is wrapped in mystery which defies explanation. What we do know, though, is that he came to them and their storm became calm. With him beside them, their fear dissipated.

When St. Augustine was writing about this incident, he said, “He came treading the waves; and so he puts all the swelling tumults of life under his feet. Christians—why afraid?” It is the simple and ultimate fact of life, a fact which has been proved by countless thousands of men and women in every generation, that when Christ is there, the storm becomes a calm, the tumult becomes a peace, what cannot be done is done, the unbearable becomes bearable, and people past the breaking point do not break. To walk with Christ will be for us also the conquest of the storm, the loss of fear, the acceptance of love.

Of course it is not news to us that Christ is with us, that he is in our boat in the storm. But too often, at least for me, we don’t want to give up the oars. We are reluctant to truly give up control of the boat and let Jesus calm the sea for us. You notice that this story does not promise that there will not be other storms ahead for the disciples. It doesn’t say that this was the last storm they would ever face. But the promise inherent in this story is that Jesus is always with us and never too busy to be with us in our distress, in our need. His presence is always available if we will only seek it.

The lesson for me is that, while Jesus knew the importance of retreating for solitude, for refreshment, for re-creation, people were of utmost importance. For those of us who seek to live in imitation of Christ, reaching out to others is how we can best serve our Lord. Whatever interferes in our lives, service to others ought to be our major concern. First comes the assurance that we are never alone; next comes the desire to live our faith, to reach out and comfort those who need to feel the presence of Christ, the presence of love that takes away fear. Once we have accepted the love in the storms of our lives, we are freed to offer that love to others. This is the Christian message.

This is my last Sunday to stand in this pulpit, to stand at the altar, to offer the chalice, to hug you on the way out of church, to share in your joys and sorrows. As I sit here on Sunday mornings and look out at each of you, I am overwhelmed with emotion. I see the stories, the struggles, the triumphs, the hopes and, yes, the fears that you have lived and that you have shared with me. I have been privileged beyond measure; you have allowed me to share a space in your boat, and we have encountered Jesus together. We have laughed and cried together; and we have loved one another with joy. My heart is overflowing with thanksgiving for each of you, for your desire to live your lives the best way that you can, to accept the love that is offered, and to offer your gifts to one another and to the church.

I know that we will all go forward, continuing to walk in God’s love. We will have more storms and we will be afraid; but we live in the knowledge that no matter what happens, Jesus is in our storms with us. May you weather every storm you encounter, knowing that you are never alone, that you are always wrapped in love.

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Facing Our Chariots

by The Rev. Bruce Hall, Deacon

Today’s we hear once more of Elisha’s response to approaching loss of Elijah. As Elijah makes the final rounds within the communities of prophets, Elisha is confronted again and again with the reality that God will shortly take his teacher away. Repeatedly he resists Elijah’s requests to remain behind and stubbornly insists on being with his master to the end. The chorus of the prophets is of no comfort whatsoever, nagging Elisha at every stop that at any moment Elijah could be taken. His reply “Yes, I know; be silent” may not convey the profound irritation that I would have after such gentle reminders of the unpleasant, but his call for silence is clear. “Yeah, guys, I get it and I’m not talking about this.” At some point, most of us also have had to say goodbye to someone outside our family who has come into our lives and profoundly influenced its course. It may have been a trusted schoolteacher who saw our potential and encouraged us to realize what was within. A neighbor may have befriended our family with a love that time and separation have not eroded. For others it may have been a college teacher, a talented boss or supervisor, a mentor, or for the teachers among us—a student who helped us see something wonderful we had missed. Sometimes that person is one who touches us spiritually in ways that continually reassert themselves in how we respond to life’s suffering. Not long ago, many here were reading Tony Hendra’s Father Joe, the author’s account of how a mild and unassuming monk on channel island changed his life in unexpected and enduring ways.

In all such relationships part of the price of admission to deeper levels of friendship and intimacy is that we become attached, connected to one another in more than a passing manner. We know that in living with someone, we will come know them differently than had we only seen them occasionally on the block mowing a lawn or getting their mail. When we have closely worked and ministered with someone, as Elisha did, a bond lasting lifetimes is forged. The powerful nature of such relationships makes their inevitable loss all the more painful, with the intellectual awareness of its unavoidably no more consolation than the nattering prophets who surrounded Elisha.

When it came time for Elijah to be taken up, Elisha, in a very human manner, clung to him as long as possible, even asking for a double portion of Elijah spirit. Elijah responds by describing the request as a “hard thing” but grants it provided Elisha keep to the letter of his recent vows. Elisha must face directly the pain of their imminent separation. To describe such an eyewitness experience as being a “hard thing” is an understatement. In the terror and fright of Elijah’s leaving Elisha calls out “Father, father! The chariots of Israel and it horsemen!” When Elijah is gone, Elisha tears his clothes in two. Then, picking up Elijah’s mantel, returns to his community to continue the ministry that has become his inheritance. Elisha’s response to the loss of his master was not exclusively one of mourning and torn clothing, it was also one of returning to the ministry and gifts God had given through the ministry of Elijah.

The call to respond to loss and separation through ministry is echoed in Paul’s letter as well. Written from the perspective of Paul’s imprisonment, the letter exhorts persecuted Christians to persevere in their faith. Calling across the barriers of distance and oppression, our brothers and sisters were reminded that while separated from one another, they were at the same time bound together as “one body and one spirit” through God’s call to us and each had a ministry. As the first Christian communities struggled to remain connected to each other and faithful to the gospel of Christ, they were encouraged to be mindful of the gifts and ministry that each had been given and to use them. We too, ought to take this charge seriously, particularly in those times when we are most inclined to settle tearing our clothes. When we reach out to help others even as we face our own disappointments, suffering, and loss, we may find ourselves kindred spirits with Elisha and Paul. Each carried on in faith even in when separated from those who meant so much. Responding in this way can transform our suffering into a clearer awareness of where our true strength resides. It resides in nothing less then God, the Divine Ground, source of all creation.

It is easy to say this from the air-conditioned comfort of our cathedral in July but it is asking a “hard thing” for us to face this truth when things are rough. Yet, if we can look upon our losses honestly and as people bound to one another and God, our suffering will not be without purpose or consolation. We may not always understand what is happening and pat answers will be more frustrating than anything else, but if we can face our inevitable losses honestly, despite our fears and sadness, there can be meaning, healing, and, eventually, peace. If we can share our sorrow, as we remain faithful to the ministries to which we are called, we can grow into the deeper, more mature faith of which Paul writes. We are asked to minister in the midst of life with all its unpredictability, tempests, impermanence, and hardships. The Church is here to remind us that the ultimate source of our peace is Christ and that by reaching out in ministry we draw nearer to Christ. In the meal we are about to share, remember that we, like Elisha, are asked to do a hard thing, to face life squarely with Christ and the Church surrounding us. It may be frightening and our losses beyond counting. But healing, and in time peace, peace that passes all understanding, will come as you and I find the courage to be eyewitnesses to our suffering, watching with faithfulness as chariot after chariot, carries away those we love.