Do You Not Care?
Mark 4.35-41
Let’s start at the end of the story this morning. Shall we? The end of the story of the stilling of the storm.
Because it has a strange ending. Not what you would expect, maybe. How does it end? Do you remember?
The disciples, Jesus’ closest followers, are sitting in a boat on a
placid
It says, the last verse of the story says, And they were filled with great awe… But we can do better than that. We can come up with a better translation of the ancient Greek words Mark used at this point in his gospel. And they were filled with great awe… No. Something, something more like this: And they feared a great fear…
And they feared a great fear and said to one another, Who then is this that even the wind and sea obey him? Which is a funny ending
when you think about it. Afraid. And surely
they were afraid. A moment or two
earlier, when their boat was being swamped, surely they were afraid then. But now? On a placid
And they feared a great fear and said to one another, Who then is this, that even the wind and sea obey him?
Which is how it ends, how the story of the stilling of the storm ends.
I don’t know about you, but I wonder shy. More afraid now—the sea is placid, smooth—than they were earlier?
Earlier, just moments before, a great windstorm was blowing upon the sea.
And I can see them, the disciples. In a panic. With waves of water tossing their boat around, up and down. Waves of water almost swallowing them and their boat whole. Trying to pull the sail this way and that in the gale. And rowing helplessly. And bailing. Buckets bailing hopelessly.
Don’t you care? one shouts to Jesus. Jesus, Jesus is asleep. Asleep in the back of the boat. Asleep in the back of the boat on a pillow. How, I don’t know. I don’t know how he could be asleep. And neither could the disciple who shook him awake, shouting, Don’t you care that we are all about to die? Here, pull this rope. Or take hold and help row. Or there’s another bucket over there. Start bailing. For heaven’s sake, do something. He shouts over the noise.
And he did do something. He woke up—and I don’t know, he might’ve slept through the whole things—he woke up and rebuked the whistling wind and said to the rushing waves, Hush. Hush up and be still. Placid. Smooth as glass. Or maybe the sound of the water gently and rhythmically lapping at the sides of the wooden boat. Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?
The rope slackens. So do their arms. An oar dangles in its lock. A bucket drops of a sudden. If they had been afraid a moment before, now, even more so. Now, even more so. For something, something even more powerful—more powerful even than the storm—was there in the boat with them.
And they feared a great fear and said to one another, Who then is this, that even the wind and sea obey him?
Who is this that even the wind and sea obey him? I think they knew. They knew who.
Who is this? they said amongst themselves, one to another. Each asking the question, but none daring to give the answer. Afraid. Afraid to say the word.
Who is this? they whisper. Who is this that even wind and sea obey him? And who is it?
Who made the sky to separate the waters above from the waters below?
And who gathered the waters below into one place to let the dry land appear?
Who sets the boundaries of the seas and says, Thus far you may go, but no farther?
And who is it who rebuked the Red Sea and it became dry before the
people of
Who is it that rules the raging sea; when its waves rise, who stills them?
Who? Who is it that even the wind and sea obey?
You know. You know who. And so do I. But it’s hard to say sometimes, hard to say that word.
It is. I know. I understand the feeling. In someone’s living room. Or in a restaurant.
You want to say it, to speak it. But you’re not sure there’s enough wind in your lungs to push it out. To say it with enough force and power. To make it mean what you know it means. Or what it ought to mean. Afraid. Afraid it will fall from your mouth and onto the floor, just one word among a dozen others, like peanut shells on some barroom floor somewhere.
Or someone’s boat is being swamped. Afraid to speak it. Do you care? you pray. Do you care? Afraid maybe… And you’ll say anything but. Here. Grab this rope. Or pull your oar harder. Or let me help you bail. Give me that bucket over there. You’ll say anything else. Afraid. Do you care? Do you care? you pray in a panic and under your breath.
And I know. I understand. Even me, a preacher, standing in this room, in this pulpit. Even for me, it’s hard to say it. Sometimes.
And I hear him. I hear him, too. His words ringing and stinging in my ears: Why are you afraid? Have you still know faith?
Who is this? they whisper among themselves. Who is this, that even the wind and sea obey him? They know who. So do we. Afraid, though. Fearing a great fear. None dare speak the answer.
A funny ending. A funny way to end a story.
At the end, at the end of Mark’s story about Jesus, a young man
dressed in a white robe says—he is there in the tomb with them, with three
women. He says to these women, to three
trembling women, He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he
is going ahead of you to
Now it’s a funny way to end this story, but the oldest and most reliable copies of Mark’s gospel end, end with the eight verse of chapter sixteen, with this verse:
So they—the three women—went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said—said what?—they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. Fearing a great fear, they fled the empty tomb. They said nothing. Nothing and nobody.
It rings and stings in my ears. Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?
So I’ll say it. It was God who was with them in that boat, who is here with us now. It is God who stilled the storm—Hush, be quiet—and who raised Jesus from the dead, who is here with us now. Do you care? Do you care? Yes. And God is with us now. God. God, who sets the boundaries of the sea, Thus far but no farther. Who rules the raging sea, who stills its waves when they rise. Even God. And do you care? Do you care? Yes. And God, even God, is with us now.
Neal Kentch,