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From June 25, 2006 "Let us go across to the other side," Jesus says at the end of a long day. By "other side" he means the eastern side of the Sea of Galilee, the other side where those other people, the Gentiles, the pagans live. The other side--that's where Jesus intends to go. Leave it to Jesus to want to move on. He's rarely interested in staying put. Read the gospels and you'll see just how he operates; he's forever saying his good-byes and heading out for the next adventure. And when he goes, he almost always takes his disciples along. How does Jesus decide where to go next? Does he flip a coin-heads we go north, tails we go south? Or does he look for recommendations in the travel section of the Palestine Times-Courier? Does he have a secret time table? No, no, no, and most definitely no. Although scripture does not disclose how Jesus charted his itinerary, I believe he went where he did and when he did because he was guided by an inner rudder. His life was his vessel and that rudder (which I would call the Spirit at work in him) that rudder consistently pointed him where he needed to go. And Jesus was trusting enough, open and willing enough to go where that rudder took him. So after a long day of preaching and teaching along the western shore of the Sea of Galilee, I have to think that it was the distinctive tug of the rudder that had Jesus know that it was time to move on. "We're going east" Jesus said repeating what he sensed inwardly. And then he climbed aboard, stretched out in the stern, and promptly fell into the deepest of sleep. Maybe the gentle bobbing of the boat induced drowsiness in the others, I don't know. Maybe they too nodded off after a demanding day. All I know is that smooth sailing turned into choppy going. Gentle waters foamed into a churning, turbulent sea and before long the disciples were certain they were going down, down, down into a watery grave. Just where was their savior when they needed him most, the disciples wanted to know as they tossed this way and that. Where? I'll tell you where he was. Jesus was exactly where he was when the boat disembarked. He was still in the stern and snoozing peacefully. Who knows if it was outrage or confusion that inspired the most obvious question in the world: "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" Just what kind of savior is this who snoozes while others prepare to die? I don't think there's a person here who can't identify with the panicked disciples. You pick up the phone expecting nothing at all and before you know it you're slamming down the receiver and are racing out the door to the emergency room. Why this, why now, how will we manage-you ask a thousand times on your way to the hospital. Or you turn on the television one beautiful September morning expecting Katie and Matt's familiar banter only to hear them describing a scene from hell, planes crashing into skyscrapers and chaos unleashed. A carousel of questions spins out of control - why this, why now, why us? The more you ask, the smaller you feel. Or. Or. Or. You each have stories to tell-harrowing ones, too - about how what you thought would be a pleasure cruise turned into a sailor's nightmare. And how, in the midst of the storm, you found yourself (maybe for just a moment or perhaps for a season) like the disciples - wondering just where Jesus was and why he seemed not to care. This morning I know that plenty of preachers will turn to this text from Mark and find in Jesus' stilling of the storm words of assurance to share with those in their pews. Words tossed out like life vests, words to remind us that it is Christ to whom we must cling. That he alone has the power to anchor us when life's storms hit. That he alone is capable of transforming our wild fears into an abiding sense of peace. That he is the one who keeps us safe and who restores us to sanity no matter the crashing waves of circumstance. Another Sunday I will preach one of those sermons. But not today. Because my own spiritual rudder points me in another direction. Instead of speaking to you as individuals, I feel compelled to speak to you as a whole, as a congregation, and to explore together what connects today's scripture and our mustard seed-inspired conversation last week. Last Sunday I confessed my certainty that God is calling this small congregation to a significant, expansive future. A future that relates to and arises out of our calling to first be a church that extends an extravagant, life-changing welcome to all and then to offer people a safe, theologically-hospitable place to grow into an active, authentic faith, one that leaves plenty of room for earnest questions and serious doubts. We already know this to be our calling. And we are wonderfully true to it. Still, God is up to something here. God is inviting us to journey further than we have imagined. Because it is the Spirit's nature to do such things, we can expect the Spirit to move us in directions as wildly unexpected as the eastern shore of Galilee. Like Jesus and his disciples, I sense we are being called to cross over into territory we might not seek out on our own. And the Spirit is already preparing us for such a journey. How do I know this? Take a look around and tell me you don't see what I see. That even without much of a plan for reaching out into the community, the Spirit keeps sending us folks with wonderful gifts, gifts that are finding expression now as well as ones awaiting discovery and exploration. The Spirit is on the move here. No longer an idea, no more a "we oughta," the choir is quickly becoming a source of joy for singers and worshippers alike. A new adult class has recently come together-and on a week night, no less-to ask what perhaps no other class in Paducah is asking: how faith calls us beyond our private lives and into an unjust world. The Spirit is on the move at United Church. Ruth Richerson's fifteen year-old grandson Kevin boldly came forward several weeks ago to challenge us to stretch further with Heifer than we have before - to become the sponsors of a $5000 ark of critters. The Spirit is moving. Newer comers are stepping forward and taking initiative in ways no one anticipated and which is greatly appreciated. The church council is actively experimenting with a way of meeting and deliberating that is intentional about inviting in the Spirit. Our ministry teams (they're more than committees, after all) are finding renewed energy and enthusiasm. Quiet and generous sponsors keep stepping forward to help fund important but non-budgeted projects-again and again and again. The Spirit is here among us; it's at work and on the move. And it means to carry us along. But here's the rub. When the Spirit moves, when it's at work and inviting us to take the ride of our lives, there's no telling where it will take us. We may forever be located at 4600 Buckner Lane but I doubt the Spirit will let us stay put, stay unchanged. Just as Jesus was compelled to cross over to the eastern side of Galilee's shores, so the Spirit is inclined to direct us to destinations of the heart that we have not considered, places that feel less familiar and more "other" than what we are used to. At first, we may not mind. Our sailing may feel smooth and inviting and exhilarating-just like it does right now--a heady delight after a time of sitting in the boat waiting for the wind to catch our sails. But just as we're settling in for what we think is a pleasure cruise, a few swells may come along. Changes. Maybe we explore restructuring the Council. Or maybe the ratio of newer to more established members begins to shift enough to leave us feeling slightly uneasy. Somewhere along the line, somewhere between the western shore and the new shore to the east, things may begin to be different enough that our sailing doesn't feel smooth anymore. We may even feel so tossed by change that we start believing our congregational boat is going to capsize. Change and adventure often do that; they can convince us we're too far out, that we are on the verge of being overtaken by the wildness of wind and waves. I tell you this not to frighten you. I tell you this not because there's a storm brewing out there and I can hardly wait for us to steer straight for it. I tell you this so that we can have a moment similar to those we have when we're traveling not by sea but by air, when everyone's seated and the plane pushes back from the concourse. What happens? The flight attendant helps us remember what we'll do in case things get scary. But instead of pointing to the exits or telling you to put your oxygen mask on before you help someone else with theirs, I want to remind us of something that is true no matter whether we hit a scary patch or whether our sailing is smooth. Remember this: we will not perish. Remember also: Christ is not unaware of what we are experiencing. In fact, he's with us even if it looks otherwise. Even if it seems like he's asleep on the job and never coming to our rescue. The Christ who is here with us is more powerful than any storm. And he's more trustworthy than our worst fears. We don't need to wait until things get hairy to call on him. In fact, right now while the sailing is smooth and the ride is a pleasure, right now is the perfect time to practice anchoring ourselves in Christ. That way no matter where the Spirit may send us, no matter the weather or the waves, we are awake to the reality of Christ's presence and the great gift of his peace. If we hold fast to him, the one who did not die will see that we don't either, no matter the sailing ahead. Amen. © Rev. Karen Winkel |
"Never place a period where God has placed a comma." - Gracie Allen
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