A Deep Sleeper [Proper 7B - Mark 4:35-41]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Mark 4:35-41

 

A Deep Sleeper

 

Waking someone up from a nap is tricky thing – especially when you know they are really tired and they just look so peaceful.  In today’s Gospel, Jesus seems really tired.  Picture it with me, if you will: The water is falling from the sky in a quantity not seen since the days of Noah; and there, like a baby rocked to sleep in his mother’s arms, lies Jesus, his angelic face, just absolutely drenched by the deluge, his sacred head being tossed back and forth violently by the tumultuous waves, his precious body resting on an extremely saturated cushion.  The disciples must have, at least momentarily, wondered if he was dead.  The sleeping conditions were, one might say, not optimal.

 

Jesus was clearly tired from working the crowds, and delivering his parables, and casting out demons.  But I do believe this, this life-threatening storm, would qualify as an emergency – one significant enough to justify the disciples’ attempt to wake the sleeping Jesus – which, by the way, must have been nearly impossible.  The guy was obviously a deep sleeper. 

 

The disciples, some of whom had spent most of their lives on this very lake, were convinced they were about to die in this storm.  This was no run-of-the-mill storm.  The boat, we are told, was being swamped.  The waves were beating the vessel to a pulp.  The wind was apocalyptic.  It was the storm to end all storms.  More importantly, for those passengers aboard that tiny ship, it appeared that it was the storm that would end them.

 

And Jesus is sleeping through it.  Now, I used to imagine that Jesus was below deck, sleeping in a dry, comfortable bed – sheltered from the storm, in a quiet cocoon of cedar.  But that is because 1) I knew pretty much nothing about boats, and so that text says “asleep in the stern” meant nothing to me; and 2) I had not yet seen the 1^st century Palestinian fishing boat that was discovered in this lake a few decades ago. 

 

During a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in 2008, I was able to see with my own eyes that ancient fishing boat that had been pulled from the Sea of Galilee.  Now, it might not be the exact boat Jesus and his disciples took out on the lake that day, but most archeologists are convinced that it was in use during that time and in that body of water. Standing just a few feet away from that relatively small ship really changed the way I picture this Gospel.   

 

Jesus was not asleep below deck; there was no below deck.  The boat is like a long row boat, now missing the sail that likely was an original feature.  And with 13 guys packed into that 27-ft long boat it was a pretty tight fit – especially with Jesus all sprawled out.  This wasn’t a pontoon boat; there was no shelter from the rain.  And it wasn’t a luxury yacht or a cruise ship; the passengers would have felt the waves.  The disciples recognized their vulnerability; they feared for their lives; they were afraid.  And Jesus is still asleep – which probably should be counted as one of his many miracles.

 

Jesus’ groggy eyes opened on quite a scene.  Twelve panicked disciples squeezed in around him – staring at him while he slept, which always feels a little weird.  The waves are mountains outside the boat; the wind impossibly threatening.  Oh, and the boat is sinking.  And the first words Jesus hears from his disciples are: “Do you not care that we are perishing?  Do you not care that we are dying?”  Do you not care? 

 

I wonder how many times Jesus has been asked that very question throughout the centuries.  The Gospel writer does not name this question a test, as he does other questions elsewhere in the Gospel, but it is.  It is a test.  It’s a test every time the desperate words are muttered, every time they are prayed.  Those who dare ask Jesus this question need an answer; they need the answer to “Yes. Yes, I care.”

 

Jesus’ response is to rise and rebuke.  But he doesn’t rebuke the ones who dared ask the question.  He rebukes the wind.  He silences the sea.  He uses the language of exorcism – the same language he uses against the power of evil, when bad forces are disturbing God’s good world.  And it gives us a clue about what is really happening here.  The disciples are right to be concerned, to be alarmed.  This isn’t a meteorological event; this is a cosmological event.  The world is falling apart all around them.

 

Which is very much what it felt like for Mark’s original audience.  This Gospel emerged around the time the Second Temple was destroyed.  It was composed as the leaders of the early Church – Peter, Paul, and many others – were facing the violent and deadly wrath of the Empire.  Chaos and terror were not found only in stories.  The first readers of this Gospel could relate to the disciples.  They too were watching the world fall apart around them.

 

We are just now beginning to emerge from our own apocalyptic moment.  And I mean that in the true sense of the word “apocalyptic”: revealing.  The pandemic, and the calls for social and racial justice that are shaking our society, have revealed a lot about our country, about our community, and about the messiness of our own hearts.  During these pandemic days, heroes emerged and sacrifices were made, but also prejudices were exposed, old wounds reopened, and new battle lines drawn.  There is a lot that is both beautiful and terrible around us.  Both are now perhaps more obvious than they were a year and a half ago.  It is clear that chaos is not only in our old stories. 

 

I’ve heard a lot of preachers say that the point of this passage is that it is good to have Jesus in our boat.  And that is true.  It is always good to be in the boat with Jesus.  Certainly better to have him in your boat than to sail alone.  But I am also struck in this passage that the Gospel writer notes that there were other boats out on that dangerous sea with Jesus.  And he wasn’t in those boats on account of the incarnation.  And yet while the other boats, the other sailors on the sea, never saw Jesus stand, never heard him speak peace into the storm, they still saw the waves settle and still felt the wind cease.  The world didn’t end because, while Jesus wasn’t in their boats, he was in their world.

 

And isn’t that what matters?  Knowing that even when we can’t see or hear Jesus, when we can’t find him or feel him because of the turbulent storms of life, he is still in our world – speaking peace into the chaos, being our hope when it seems like the world is falling apart around us.