Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year B

One of the drawbacks, if that's the word I want, limitations is perhaps a better one, of trying to base our worship week after week on the themes developed in the liturgical readings is that those themes are presented, necessarily, I suppose, in sort of bits and pieces. And that is too bad, really, because that is not how they are presented in the Scriptures. In order to appreciate the impact of this morning's Gospel passage, for example, we really should read it together with that of that past couple of Sundays, and a couple more yet to come. This passage, the story of the calming of the storm is the first of four consecutive miracle stories in Mark, and these four stories come right after Mark's version of the collected parables of the Kingdom, two of which were read last Sunday.

And the point of the parables is to describe, in a series of very concrete, useful images, something of what the New Kingdom, the Reign of God will be like. So the Kingdom is described in a variety of ways. It is described as a pearl of great price, something so valuable that it is worth sacrificing every other value, every other interest in order to acquire it. It is described as the field of wheat that grows and produces fruit on its own terms, at its own pace. It is described as the mustard tree, which grows from the smallest of seeds to become a tree large enough, strong enough to provide a home for all those who seek its protection, and so on. And as those images pile up, as we reflected last Sunday, there usually grows in us a sort of an uneasy feeling. A feeling that what is being proposed for us is just too big, too complex, too wonderful for our skills. Does Christ really expect us to be the agents of such a renewal of creation as the New Kingdom promises?

Well, the Scriptures give us a simple answer to that, and a complicated one. The simple one comes first, and it is given in these four miracle stories, with which Mark complements the parables of the Kingdom. And the simple answer is, "No". We cannot bring about the coming of the Kingdom. We cannot cause it. It is indeed well beyond the range of our powers. That answer is already begun to be given in last Sunday's image of the farmer, whose role is simply to plant the seed. Once he has done that there is really nothing else he can or should do to control the growth of the field. But if we cannot cause the New Kingdom to be, Christ can, and will.

And that seems to be the point of the miracle stories. There are four of them, illustrating, asserting Christ's power over the elements, the natural world, over demons, powers we cannot identify or understand, over illness, and even over death. It is as though these stories are meant to give flesh and blood to Christ's claim elsewhere that indeed, all power in heaven and on earth has been given to Him. So Christ's promise of the New Kingdom is not a hollow one, it is not just wishful thinking. Everything that Christ proposes can and will be made real, by Him.

I like Mark's Gospel. It makes good reading. Mark's was the first of the Gospels to be written, so in a sense it probably represents the freshest memories of Christ. The stories are direct and colorful, less polished by years of reflection and application. Mark must have been an interesting man. He records very few long sermons. Perhaps he was not much impressed by words, perhaps he just had a difficult time dealing with words. Mark has no infancy narrative at all. That would have depended on long conversations, and research, and that, presumably, was just not his style. But if he was shy on words, he was impressed by deeds. He records the miracle stories at greater length than do the other evangelists. He apparently had a good eye for details, and something of a sense of drama. The stories seem to be almost staged, the physical setting for the deeds of Christ is described clearly, carefully. Mark's account of this miracle, brief as it is is the most amplified of the three, and it is a good example of Mark's use of language. He gives the time of day, he mentions the destination, the fact that Jesus was in the boat first, and that there were other boats around. Matthew sums all that up with simply, "Jesus got in a boat." There was no long sermon there, so Matthew doesn't make much of it. Mark gives the exact part of the boat in which Jesus was sleeping, and even mentions that He had a pillow. Nice touch that.

But if Mark's style was simple, his insight was not. There is a good deal more being said here about the power of Christ than simply the ability to control the weather. The wind and the sea in Hebrew mythology and literature, even Scriptural literature, were a good deal more than simply natural realities. They were strong symbols, even instances of the original chaos from which the universe was formed. That same idea is mirrored in the first reading from the book of Job. This Gospel story draws on the impact of the opening few verses of Genesis, and in doing so compares, equates the power of Christ with that of the original creative power of God. Far beyond managing weather, Christ has the power to overcome the chaos, to give order and purpose to everything that is, literally to re-create the world according to His design, just as He had originally done.

And that power is effectively contrasted with symbols of our immediate human experience. To be on a small and fragile boat, in the middle of chaos and meaninglessness, tossed about by it, seemingly about to be overcome by it, is a pretty good image of human experience sometimes. That of the Church, for which a boat is a common Scriptural symbol, and that of individuals, imaged in the all too familiar picture of frightened people. And more, frightened people to whom it seemed that Christ wasn't doing a blasted thing about the chaos that threatened them. We are going under, and there is Christ, sound asleep. On a pillow yet. Apparently unconcerned about what happens to us. That is such a human conclusion really. If Christ is not there, on our schedule, changing what we think should be changed, changing what frightens us, we immediately conclude that He doesn't care. Well, when we do that we come by it honestly. So did the Apostles. They turned to Christ and rather than ask for help, they accuse Him, "Teacher, don't You care that we are about to be drowned?"

And then the Gospel says very simply that Christ awoke. Whenever I read this, I always wish that Mark had thrown in a couple of yawns and stretches before Christ does anything. It would have made a much better story. But he didn't. The story simply says that Christ awoke, spoke to the sea, and it was calm. No struggle, no drama, no contest of wills between good and evil, between meaning and chaos. Simply a word of infinitely creative power, and what had seemed so dangerous, so terrifying, was not.

It is almost too quick, really, casual, offhand. It is as though in a sense the judgement of the Apostles was almost accurate. Christ really wasn't much concerned about that storm. But then Christ does focus His attention. What comes next is not at all casual or offhand. It is the heart of the story. The Apostles were not in danger. They never had been. But they thought they were. They thought the chaos was stronger, and Christ was unconcerned. That is how it seemed, that is what it all felt like. And so they were afraid. That is the font of fear, in them and in all of us. It is a perception of danger. Something is going to hurt me. And so Christ very directly addresses that fear. That is His concern. It is as though that is where the danger really lay. He tells them, "Why are you afraid? Have faith. Nothing here can hurt you." It is as though to change the setting would have meant nothing if He did not challenge, at least invite change, in the experience of that setting, the attitude, the stance the Apostles took toward the setting. And once He has done that, the settling of the water becomes really not much more than an audio-visual aid. Once Christ had addressed the fear of His people with that word of infinitely creative power, the real miracle, the only one really worth doing had been done.

So the first of the four miracle stories asserting the power of Christ says quite a bit. The new Kingdom that has been promised is Christ's own. It is He Who will bring it into being. It flows from His power, not ours. And that power is utterly limitless. It is the creative power of the Father that brings order and purpose, meaning out of chaos, even out of the chaos of our own experience of inadequacy, powerlessness, danger. To be troubled by all of those from time to time, even tossed around by them is a part of the human experience. It is a part of the experience, the journey of believers from time to time, to look around in the midst of all of that and conclude that Christ is sound asleep indeed, apparently unconcerned. But it is a part of the act of faith He calls from us to do what he did, to challenge not the storm, but the fear of it. And by doing that to see that if Christ does seem unconcerned about the storm, it is because it is simply not dangerous.

Readings: Job 38:1, 8-11; 2 Corinthians 5:14-17; Mark 4:35-41. The homily was preached on Sunday, June 19, 1994.