Don't Just Do Something, Stand There
Scripture Reading: Mark 4:35-41
The first paper I wrote in seminary was for a class called Early and Medieval Church History, which met Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 8:00AM, which was another “early” feature of the class. Anyway, I titled the paper “Who Do You Say That I Am?” after the question that Jesus poses to the disciples in Mark chapter 8. In a moment of astounding and otherworldly clarity, Peter famously answers, “You are the messiah.”
The early church—and by “early” I mean the first 400 or so years of the church—was preoccupied with the question of who Jesus was. Was he fully human? Was he fully divine? Perhaps half and half? Was he sometimes one and not the other? Or was he fully both at the same time? Was he subordinate to God the Father or was he equal with the Father?
What we now take for granted as the orthodox view—that Jesus was fully human and fully divine at the same time, and that Jesus and the Father are of equal status along with the Holy Spirit, did not come in a flash of revelation, like Moses standing before the burning bush, but was hammered out over many many years. Theologians debated the identity of Jesus for centuries, which puts the church’s more recent disputes over social issues into perspective.
The identity of Jesus is also front and center in today’s reading from Mark. When the disciples see Jesus control the chaos of the storm that threatens to capsize their boat, they’re filled with awe and ask one another, “Who is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” First they were troubled when he was somehow able to sleep through the storm. Doesn’t he care that we’re about to drown? Now they’re awed and even a bit unsettled by his mastery of the wind and the sea.
I’ve mentioned before that Mark is the shortest of the Gospels. As a writer, Mark opts for brevity. In his desire to tell the story efficiently, Mark sometimes withholds details that would add interesting context. For example, the passage begins with the phrase “On that day.” That would be the day that Jesus had explained to the disciples the Parable of the Sower. Like seed sown on rocky ground, he said, some may receive the kingdom of God with joy, but when trouble or persecution comes, they have no root and fall away.
That seems to be what happens to the disciples. They have the faith to get into the boat with Jesus, but once trouble comes in the form of the storm, they’re overwhelmed with fear and ready to fall away. I don’t say this as an indictment of the disciples. Far from it. I mention it as a word of encouragement for ourselves. I imagine that we can see in the disciples our own tendency to become overwhelmed with fear and anxiety when our lives are beset by storms. When dark, menacing clouds circle above, we question or even doubt the power, the wisdom, and the goodness of God.
Like the disciples, we beseech God to wake from his slumber, “Don’t you care that we’re perishing?” Don’t you care that the cancer has returned? Don’t you care that I’m losing my job? Don’t you care that my children don’t speak to me? Don’t you care that my sister is an addict? Don’t you care that I’m lonely all the time? Don’t just sit there, God, do something!
We want God to answer us. We want God to take action. We want God to make things right. When we most need divine intervention, why does God appear to be sleeping?
It’s not doubt that’s the enemy of faith, it’s fear.
It’s amazing, really, that Jesus could sleep through such a violent storm as Mark describes. But verse 36 says that the disciples took Jesus with them in the boat, “just as he was.” Just as he was. Mark doesn’t explain the phrase, but maybe it means that Jesus was exhausted after a full day of preaching to the crowds and then having spent more time in private with the disciples.
And there’s something else that’s curious about verse 36. Mark writes, “they”—meaning the disciples—“took him with them.” They took him. Jesus may be the one who is leading the disciples to cross to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, but it’s the disciples who are on familiar ground when it comes to being at sea. After all, at least four of them—Peter and Andrew, James and John—are fishermen. They’re accustomed to the ways of the sea. They’re well aware of the sudden squalls that can form on the Sea of Galilee without warning.
It’s curious, then, that the disciples are so terrified by a storm. Those among them who made their living on the water have no doubt weathered violent storms before, which means that there is more to this storm than meets the eye.
I mentioned a moment ago that Jesus is leading the disciples across to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Although Mark characteristically says nothing of it, crossing the Sea of Galilee is significant because the other side is Gentile territory. Jesus is leading the disciples not only away from shore but away from home. And as we’ll see next week in chapter 5, immediately after they arrive on the other side, they will be accosted by a demon-possessed man.
I don’t think it’s a stretch, then, to suggest that there is something demonic in the fierceness of the wind and the tumult of the waves. The disciples are experienced fishermen. They’ve encountered violent storms, but not like this. There’s more to this maelstrom than wind and waves. The violence and chaos of the sea is an omen of the violence and chaos that awaits them once they cross to the other side.
Do you remember the story of creation in Genesis 1? This is how the author of Genesis describes things before God created the world. “When God began to create the heavens and the earth, the earth was complete chaos and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the waters” (Gen. 1:1).
The earth was complete chaos. Darkness covered the face of the deep. A wind from God swept over the waters. The image that the author presents is a dark, watery chaos, not unlike the storm that besets the disciples.
What God does in creating the universe is bring order to the chaos. God shines light amid the darkness. God separates the waters to create dry land. In a similar manner, Jesus brings order to the chaos of the storm. And in both the creation story and in Mark, the chaos is brought to order by a spoken command. God speaks into the void, “Let there be light,” and Jesus commands the wind and the waves, “Peace! Be still!” Mark writes, “Then the wind ceased, and there was dead calm.”
I imagine that the dead calm extended into a lengthy and awkward silence. The disciples have just experienced an emotional whiplash. A moment ago they were terrified, convinced that they were about to die. Now they’re trying to process what just happened. Jesus rebuked the wind and the sea, and as if on command, the wind ceased and the sea became still.
Finally, Jesus pierces the silence: “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” Let’s note that Jesus is not scolding the disciples. He’s not saying to them, Don’t be afraid. What’s wrong with you? The question he asks is, “Why are you afraid?”
See the connection that Jesus draws between faith and fear. It’s not doubt that’s the enemy of faith, it’s fear. Fear throws us into a panic and erodes our trust in God. Fear causes us to say to God, “Don’t you care that we are perishing?” Don’t just lie there, do something!
To trust in God is to pray, to pray is to hope, and to hope is to live as though our hope has already been fulfilled…because it has.
I was listening to a podcast the other day by these three brothers, all of whom are involved in the church in some way. One is a pastor over in Westchester, one is a theology professor at Cambridge, and the other is an author and publisher. The theme for the episode was faith. Each brother presented a working definition of what the word means to him.
One of them, the theology professor, gave a refreshingly nonacademic answer. He said that for him, faith is living as if God is real and loves you. Faith is not about giving one’s assent to this or that doctrine. Rather, faith is a way of being in the world, a way of being that is based on trust. To have faith is to trust in God’s goodness, not only for the world in a general sense, but for you specifically. To have faith is to trust in God’s goodness toward me even when the wind is howling, the waves are poring over the boat, and I feel like I’m about to drown.
To the Christian critic or skeptic, that sounds awfully passive. Especially in an American culture where we are constantly told that we’re in control and we have power to effect change. If you don’t like the circumstance you’re in, don’t just stand there, do something about it!
But Christian faith is far from passive. The kind of faith that Simeon, the theology professor, is referencing, and the kind of faith that Jesus embodies, is an extraordinarily active trust in God’s power and goodness. To trust in God is to pray, to pray is to hope, and to hope is to live as though our hope has already been fulfilled…because it has. What this passage tells us is that despite our frantically running back and forth, anxiously wondering where God is in the midst of the storm, Jesus is right there in the boat with us. And he’s saying to us, “Don’t just do something, stand there, and know that I am with you.”