A Meditation on Discipleship and the Stormy Sea (Mark 4)
1
“Let us go across to the other
side.” If there’s one thing Jesus
resists it’s business-as-usual, or maybe we want to say religion-as-usual. “Let us go across to the other side.” Jesus just refuses to stand still, to get
stuck in tired devotional patterns or theological ruts. Business-as-usual bores him. Instead, Jesus’ God provokes imagination,
inspires compassion. Jesus’ God defies
convention and suggests creativity. The Spirit
is wild. So Jesus goes where the wind
blows. That’s his faith. That’s what God does for Jesus.
So, sooner or later, no surprise, Jesus
says to us, to you and me, something like this.
Something like: “Let us go across to the other side.” There’s still more to see. There’s still more to do. There are other worlds to explore. God provokes imagination, inspires
compassion. The Spirit is wild. Let’s go where the wind blows.
Here it is then. If you’re going to take up the journey with
Jesus, if you’re going to commit to this spiritual path, Jesus is going to dare
you to go where he goes. Creativity,
compassion, imagination. He’s
restless. And he looks you in the eye,
Jesus does, and he says: “Let us go across to the other side.”
So make no mistake. This little vignette from the fourth chapter
of Mark is both a very, very old tale and a deeply relevant one. It’s a story about discipleship, our
discipleship, a story about following Jesus on strange trails of grace. What we have here is a parable of sorts, a
parable about creativity and compassion, gale-force winds and furious
waves. What we have here is a parable
about discipleship, compassion and fear.
All the ways faith tests us.
Because faith tests us. You know
that Spirit tests us. Gale-force winds
and furious waves.
The brilliant Buddhist writer and
nun Pema Chödrön gets it just right when she says: “Like all explorers, we are
drawn to discover what’s waiting out there without knowing yet if we have the
courage to face it...” Without knowing yet. Isn’t that us? Without knowing yet?
We have choices. Right? We can play it safe. Live out our lives within the narrow confines of self-interest, Madison Avenue and the American Dream. But that’s not who we are. That’s not how it rolls with Jesus and his friends. We choose to question everything. We dance to the restless rhythm of wind and Spirit. We explore uncharted lands between all that we know and all that we don’t. Isn't that us? You and me? “We are drawn,” says Pema Chödrön, “to discover what’s waiting out there without knowing yet if we have the courage to face it...” This kind of faith tests us. Discipleship invites danger. Gale-force winds and furious waves.
We have choices. Right? We can play it safe. Live out our lives within the narrow confines of self-interest, Madison Avenue and the American Dream. But that’s not who we are. That’s not how it rolls with Jesus and his friends. We choose to question everything. We dance to the restless rhythm of wind and Spirit. We explore uncharted lands between all that we know and all that we don’t. Isn't that us? You and me? “We are drawn,” says Pema Chödrön, “to discover what’s waiting out there without knowing yet if we have the courage to face it...” This kind of faith tests us. Discipleship invites danger. Gale-force winds and furious waves.
I’m thinking now of Mother Theresa
and all that we now know of her doubt, her agony through the years. I’m thinking of Martin Luther King and how he
feared for his life. Without knowing how
it would all turn out. But it’s not just
them, not just the great icons of faith.
I’m thinking of every one of us whose made a dramatic course correction
in our lives. I’m thinking of every one
of us who’s gotten sober or turned the corner on bitterness. And I’m thinking of our teenage friends
who’ve spent this last week exploring poverty, violence and despair in
Oakland. It hurts to look such sadness
in the eyes. To not know if it can ever
change. I’m thinking of our teenage
friends. I’m proud of them. They had choices this week. They might have played it safe. But they didn’t.
“Let us go across to the other
side.” You know that the crossings in your
life, the spiritual crossings are hard. Gale-force
winds and furious waves. You know that,
more often than not, spiritual life takes you into the storm, not away
from it. The Spirit tests you. Sometimes the storm stirs madly in your own
self-doubt. Sometimes it makes you pull
up the covers, defeated, and you go back to bed. Sometimes the storm comes furiously and
unseen, crazy waves of bigotry, the mean winds of a mean world. And sometimes it looks like a recession, a
foreclosure, another broken promise. The
crossings are hard.
How we face our fears—maybe that’s
the question. How we lean into the chaos—maybe
that’s the point of this morning’s reading. Because it seems that chaos is inevitable for
seekers and pilgrims, for dreamers and disciples. It seems that our crossings are always
going to be hard. And fear simply means
we’re on the right path, taking on the right challenges, following the transgressive
Lord of love. Jesus.
OK, I know all this sounds a little
odd, maybe kind of glib. But hang in
there. Because here’s a little story
about fear, chaos and power of compassion.
Here’s a little story about what can happen out there on the stormy
seas.
2
There was once a restless man who
went to India, determined to purge his heart of negativity and bitterness. He struggled mightily against anger and lust;
he struggled sadly against laziness and pride.
But mostly, this restless man wanted to rid himself of fear. He was fearful and anxious most of the time. So he went to India.
And there, a great teacher
urged him to give up the struggle. "Let it go," the old teacher said. "Let it go." And the restless man
listened carefully, but he took this as more of a challenge than consolation. And he strained all the more stridently to purge his
heart of the fear that crippled him. Predictably,
the more he strained to overcome it all, the more fearfully he lived. And he couldn't sleep.
At last then, the teacher sent this
restless man into the nearby hills—to meditate in a tiny hut. He shut the door at last and settled down to
practice. And when it got dark, he lit
three small candles.
Around midnight, he heard a noise in
the corner of his little room, and in the darkness he saw a very large (I mean,
a very large) snake. It looked to
him like a king cobra. And it was right
there, the snake, in front of him, menacing, swaying.
All night long, as you might imagine, the man stayed totally alert,
keeping his eyes, his attention on the snake. He was so very afraid that he couldn’t move,
wouldn’t move. Not even an inch. There was just the snake and himself and all
that fear.
Well, just before dawn, the last of
the three candles went out, and the man began to cry. They surprised him, his tears, rising from a deep place, deeper than any place he'd ever known. They came slowly at first, then generously.
The man in the hut cried not in despair, but from tenderness. You know those tears. Tender tears. At last, at long last, he felt the longing, the aching of all the animals, all the people, all the beings in the world; he felt something of their alienation and struggle. To that point, all his meditation, all his prayer had been nothing but further separation and struggle. He'd prayed for a way out, hoping to rise above ordinary suffering, to exorcise his fear and anxiety.
The man in the hut cried not in despair, but from tenderness. You know those tears. Tender tears. At last, at long last, he felt the longing, the aching of all the animals, all the people, all the beings in the world; he felt something of their alienation and struggle. To that point, all his meditation, all his prayer had been nothing but further separation and struggle. He'd prayed for a way out, hoping to rise above ordinary suffering, to exorcise his fear and anxiety.
But just before dawn, something shifted within. The pilgrim
accepted—really, really accepted—who he really was. He accepted that he was angry and jealous,
that he resisted and struggled, and that he was often afraid. Very afraid.
He also accepted that he was
precious, precious beyond measure—wise and foolish, rich and poor, totally
unfathomable and precious. It was all
true. All of it. Tears rose from deep inside. And he wept.
And he felt so much gratitude that there, in the darkness, just before dawn, he stood up, walked toward the snake, and bowed there. A deep, loving bow. And then, right there, he fell into a deep sleep, in the hut, on the floor.
And he felt so much gratitude that there, in the darkness, just before dawn, he stood up, walked toward the snake, and bowed there. A deep, loving bow. And then, right there, he fell into a deep sleep, in the hut, on the floor.
When the man awoke, the snake was
gone. He never really knew if it was his
imagination or if it had really been there in his hut; and, the truth is, it
didn’t seem to matter. Think about
it. Tenderness saved the pilgrim's soul. Somehow, through the dark night, he
discovered compassion in his own heart: the kind of compassion that embraced
everything in his life—even and especially his fear. Can you imagine? Compassion meant even the willingness to bow
before his fear. To love his fearful
self. The struggle was over. And the world around him finally got through. Grace got through.
3
Faith is a gift because it allows us
to embrace every bit of who we are with tenderness and compassion. Even our fear. Especially our fear. Along the way, we come face to face with all
kinds of worry: we worry about divesting ourselves of spiritual certainties; we
worry about risking difficult relationships with old adversaries; we worry
about leaving old careers behind to pursue new opportunities in peacemaking; we
worry about what happens when friends see our vulnerability, our weakness, our
heartbreak.
But faith meets even this, even our
anxiety, with tenderness and compassion.
In India, that restless man comes to weep for all his years of struggle
and to bow at last before the menacing snake in his hut. And in his weeping, in his bowing, the long
struggle comes to an end. He is at home
and at peace in his own skin, in his own story, in the gift that is his
life. I think this has everything to do
with the kind of church we want to be here, in this place. We want to be the kind of church where all
kinds of people, from all walks of life, can meet anxiety and heartbreak with
tenderness and compassion. Let this be a
sanctuary where every one of us can pray through the dark night, expecting to
find light, grace, tenderness in the morning.
Let this be a place where we mean it when we sing it: With God all
things are possible.
4
Every week for a couple years now,
I’ve been reading one of the great Riverside sermons of William Sloane Coffin,
one of the 20th century’s truly great prophets and preachers. They’re published in two thick volumes—and I
enjoy Coffin’s eloquence, humor and his willingness to say just about
anything. At any time. This spring, I’ve read into the first few
months of 1983, just weeks after Coffin’s young son died suddenly and tragically in a car wreck. In his preaching, he
wrestles with the senselessness of it all and the pain he bears in his
core. But he persists, through it all,
he persists and searches for good news.
For gospel. For some kind of
light in the darkness.
What do you do in the midst of so
much pain? What do you do with all the
fear, all the despair, the great gale life sends your way? On February 27, 1983, at Riverside Church in
Manhattan, William Sloan Coffin said this: “Self-surrender is the proper
attitude to life in general,” he said, “simply because life finally can’t be
earned or grasped with fists clenched, it can only be received with palms
open...You have to remember,” he said to his congregation, “that the secret is
to abandon self-control for self-surrender; you have then to fall in love with
God, with Jesus, and with life; you really have to be a little crazy, a ‘fool
for Christ’s sake,’ as St. Paul puts it.
After all,” he concluded that day, “’It’s the cracked ones that let the
light through.’”
That last line: that’s where I want to
linger just a bit. “It’s the cracked
ones that let the light through.” The
gospel is good news for the brokenhearted, good news for the lost at sea, good
news for the sometimes intimidated and often frightened dreamers of the kingdom
of God. And why is that? Because “it’s the cracked ones that let the
light through.” Because it’s the broken
pots that bear the sweetest treasure. The
gospel is good news for the brokenhearted—because our broken hearts let the
light through. Because our vulnerability
reveals the only true source of justice and grace.
I guarantee you. Jesus’s
restless. Sooner or later, he looks you
in the eye, Jesus does, and he says: “Let us go across to the other side.” It’s time to cross over. It’s time to leave all that bitterness
behind. It’s time to pack up your
friends and spend a few days helping out in Oakland. It’s time to turn it all over and give up
drinking for good. It’s time to lay down
every weapon and study war no more. “Let
us go across to the other side.” And
you’re going to wonder if you have what it takes—if you have enough courage—if
you have enough smarts—if God loves you enough to see you through. You’re going to feel like the storm’s about
to sink your little boat.
When you do, when you feel that way,
I want you to remember the little man in India bowing before his fear and bringing
all that tenderness to bear on his life.
Tenderness, compassion. You can
do that. You can love yourself like
that.
And I want you to remember William
Sloan Coffin grieving for his son in 1983.
“The secret,” he said then, “is to abandon self-control for
self-surrender.” Self-surrender. Your calling and mine. The joy we find in giving ourselves
away. The peace we discover in weeping,
in caring, in loving without hesitation.
After all,” said Coffin, “after all, ‘It’s the cracked ones that let the
light through.’” That’s really all you
need to remember. It’s the cracked ones
that let the light through. Amen.