Facing Giants and Calming Storms
6-21-15 (Proper 7/Ordinary 12 B, Semi-Continuous)
1 Samuel 17:1-49; Mark 4:35-41
I had a whole different sermon planned for today. I was thinking about the storms we’ve been dealing with, the nearly incessant rain, the dark gray clouds that dampen our moods even as they dampen our fields and yards. And then another storm hit - a different storm. A man walked into a church, into a group of people praying together, a community of our own brothers and sisters gathered in the name of Christ. He sat there with them and participated in their prayer meeting, then stood up and opened fire on them. By now, you’ve likely heard the story and you’ve likely heard the analysis from so many people over the last four days that you don’t even know what to make of any of it anymore. It’s become a storm of its own kind as we work through the aftermath of yet another tragedy - the pain, the outrage, the confusion, uncertainty, and even fear that we are feeling in the wake of all of this, they’re as powerful as the heavy winds that buffeted the boat in which the disciples sailed with Christ asleep in the stern.
It’s a storm that gets harder and harder to weather. It’s a storm that has built up in incredible ways over the last year as violence continues to escalate in event after event, as we hear about more and more of these acts of extreme violence, as we hear the stories of racial tension, gun violence, and the broken systems that continue to encourage and create these circumstances. I heard the announcement of this latest catastrophe and the immediate flood of commentary from so many sides and opinions, and I found myself echoing the same cries of the disciples: “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”
It’s so easy to feel lost in the midst of such senseless tragedy - there is no way to explain or to understand events like this, and try as we might to create some kind of narrative, to find some kind of way to place the blame at the foot of one issue or another, our own attempts to explain and understand will always fall short, because the issue is far greater than one person’s access to guns, one person’s disdain for people of color, or one person’s mental state. The issue is that we live in a broken and sinful world, a world full of storms that constantly threaten to swamp us and to drag us down into depths of despair, of fear, of hopelessness and senselessness. We live in a world full of giants who stand and laugh at us, meek as we are, and ask “Am I a dog, that you come at me with sticks?” Giants of sin, of racism, of violence and hatred, of greed and jealousy, of willful ignorance and straight-up, paralyzing fear that drive us to turn an unseeing eye, to bury our heads in the sand and give thanks to God that these things aren’t happening where we are in our towns….
When I sat down originally to write this sermon, I started out wanting to find comfort for each and every one of us, to remind us that no matter what storms we each are facing, no matter how scared we are or how fearfully we cry out to Jesus, asking him if he cares that we are fearful of perishing in the winds that beat us down and threaten to capsize our little boats, that Jesus is nevertheless the one who cries out “Peace, Be Still” to the storm and causes it to calm. There’s a truth in that realization, to be sure - and it’s something we need to hear just as strongly now as ever before. But as I worked through that thought, I realized that there’s something more to that, as well. There’s something deeper to what Jesus does than just “helping us through rocky patches” or “calming our storms,” and we need to recognize that, especially in times like these where we start to wonder where or how Jesus is going to calm the storms of Charleston.
As Dylan Roof appeared by video conference before a judge for his bond hearing on Friday, family members of his victims attended the hearing to speak on the shooting and to confront the man who killed the people they loved. While the rest of the world has been caught up in the storm winds, with different groups calling for the shooter’s head, others continuing to engage in the ongoing dialogue of race and racism, and still others continuing to debate over laws and policies regarding everything from gun control to mental health care to the meaning and appropriateness of flags… in the middle of the storm of media all around them, these families did something remarkable: they gave voice to their pain, their suffering, their grief… and then they offered Dylan Roof their forgiveness. The daughter of one of the victims said “I forgive you. You took something very precious from me. I will never talk to her again. I will never, ever hold her again. But God forgive you. I forgive you.” The sister of another victim said, “We have no room for hating, so we have to forgive.” And in these words of forgiveness from grieving families, I heard the resounding echo of “Peace, be still!”
In our own hurt, our own pain, our own confusion and need for answers, for comfort, for anything whatsoever that we can latch onto to make sense of the broken and sinful world we’ve been tossed in the midst of… it’s easy to question God’s presence. It’s easy to feel like God is asleep at the wheel, that we have been abandoned and must face these giants and storms alone - it’s easy to cry out in our fear, “Do you not care that we are perishing?” But then in the words of people who have the most right to be angry, the most right to question God’s presence, the most reason to feel abandoned and alone… we hear the strongest words of forgiveness, of grace, of “Peace, be still.” Those acts of forgiveness, that visible representation of the continuing presence of Christ in Christ’s own body, the church… they are smooth stones that can fell even the strongest giants.
This is the power of the Kingdom at work that Christ proclaimed throughout his ministry. This is the same power of God at work that David claims for himself as he stands before Goliath and says “This very day the Lord will deliver you into my hand.” And this is the command of “Peace, be still,” that Jesus issues in the midst of the storm. Jesus doesn’t just calm storms and give us the opportunity for “smooth sailing” through the troubles of our lives - he equips us to face the storms together, to stand before giants with nothing more than a sling and smooth stones, and to do so with the confidence that God is present with us. Jesus equips us with the power to stand up, to claim with certainty that this is not the way the world is supposed to be, that this is not God’s will, that this is not the vision of the Kingdom that God has implanted in our hearts and souls… and then Jesus equips us with the power also to go out, to work with every fiber of our being toward creating the Kingdom that Jesus does proclaim. Jesus empowers us to stand up against the giants of racism, oppression and violence, to show grace in the midst of the storm, and to declare that we work toward a world where we have no room for hating, and so we must forgive. Where hate, violence, and oppression are things that no longer exist because they have been replaced by the “Peace, be still” love of God.
As we gather together today around this table, as we celebrate Communion together today and look simultaneously backward and forward, remembering the meal that Christ shared with his disciples even as we look toward the meal we will all share together in the Kingdom, let us lift up those who gather round tables with empty chairs today. As we pray “thy kingdom come, thy will be done,” let that prayer take new meaning in our hearts today especially. And let us share in this meal together, as we feel the pain of loss in this one body of Christ and look toward the day when that pain will be healed and we all gather at one table in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ. And let us commit together at this table today to work to spread that same message of “peace, be still” among ourselves, our friends, and our neighbors, in the name of Christ, the prince of Peace. Amen.
1 Samuel 17:1-49; Mark 4:35-41
Facing Giants and Calming Storms
It’s a storm that gets harder and harder to weather. It’s a storm that has built up in incredible ways over the last year as violence continues to escalate in event after event, as we hear about more and more of these acts of extreme violence, as we hear the stories of racial tension, gun violence, and the broken systems that continue to encourage and create these circumstances. I heard the announcement of this latest catastrophe and the immediate flood of commentary from so many sides and opinions, and I found myself echoing the same cries of the disciples: “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”
It’s so easy to feel lost in the midst of such senseless tragedy - there is no way to explain or to understand events like this, and try as we might to create some kind of narrative, to find some kind of way to place the blame at the foot of one issue or another, our own attempts to explain and understand will always fall short, because the issue is far greater than one person’s access to guns, one person’s disdain for people of color, or one person’s mental state. The issue is that we live in a broken and sinful world, a world full of storms that constantly threaten to swamp us and to drag us down into depths of despair, of fear, of hopelessness and senselessness. We live in a world full of giants who stand and laugh at us, meek as we are, and ask “Am I a dog, that you come at me with sticks?” Giants of sin, of racism, of violence and hatred, of greed and jealousy, of willful ignorance and straight-up, paralyzing fear that drive us to turn an unseeing eye, to bury our heads in the sand and give thanks to God that these things aren’t happening where we are in our towns….
When I sat down originally to write this sermon, I started out wanting to find comfort for each and every one of us, to remind us that no matter what storms we each are facing, no matter how scared we are or how fearfully we cry out to Jesus, asking him if he cares that we are fearful of perishing in the winds that beat us down and threaten to capsize our little boats, that Jesus is nevertheless the one who cries out “Peace, Be Still” to the storm and causes it to calm. There’s a truth in that realization, to be sure - and it’s something we need to hear just as strongly now as ever before. But as I worked through that thought, I realized that there’s something more to that, as well. There’s something deeper to what Jesus does than just “helping us through rocky patches” or “calming our storms,” and we need to recognize that, especially in times like these where we start to wonder where or how Jesus is going to calm the storms of Charleston.
As Dylan Roof appeared by video conference before a judge for his bond hearing on Friday, family members of his victims attended the hearing to speak on the shooting and to confront the man who killed the people they loved. While the rest of the world has been caught up in the storm winds, with different groups calling for the shooter’s head, others continuing to engage in the ongoing dialogue of race and racism, and still others continuing to debate over laws and policies regarding everything from gun control to mental health care to the meaning and appropriateness of flags… in the middle of the storm of media all around them, these families did something remarkable: they gave voice to their pain, their suffering, their grief… and then they offered Dylan Roof their forgiveness. The daughter of one of the victims said “I forgive you. You took something very precious from me. I will never talk to her again. I will never, ever hold her again. But God forgive you. I forgive you.” The sister of another victim said, “We have no room for hating, so we have to forgive.” And in these words of forgiveness from grieving families, I heard the resounding echo of “Peace, be still!”
In our own hurt, our own pain, our own confusion and need for answers, for comfort, for anything whatsoever that we can latch onto to make sense of the broken and sinful world we’ve been tossed in the midst of… it’s easy to question God’s presence. It’s easy to feel like God is asleep at the wheel, that we have been abandoned and must face these giants and storms alone - it’s easy to cry out in our fear, “Do you not care that we are perishing?” But then in the words of people who have the most right to be angry, the most right to question God’s presence, the most reason to feel abandoned and alone… we hear the strongest words of forgiveness, of grace, of “Peace, be still.” Those acts of forgiveness, that visible representation of the continuing presence of Christ in Christ’s own body, the church… they are smooth stones that can fell even the strongest giants.
This is the power of the Kingdom at work that Christ proclaimed throughout his ministry. This is the same power of God at work that David claims for himself as he stands before Goliath and says “This very day the Lord will deliver you into my hand.” And this is the command of “Peace, be still,” that Jesus issues in the midst of the storm. Jesus doesn’t just calm storms and give us the opportunity for “smooth sailing” through the troubles of our lives - he equips us to face the storms together, to stand before giants with nothing more than a sling and smooth stones, and to do so with the confidence that God is present with us. Jesus equips us with the power to stand up, to claim with certainty that this is not the way the world is supposed to be, that this is not God’s will, that this is not the vision of the Kingdom that God has implanted in our hearts and souls… and then Jesus equips us with the power also to go out, to work with every fiber of our being toward creating the Kingdom that Jesus does proclaim. Jesus empowers us to stand up against the giants of racism, oppression and violence, to show grace in the midst of the storm, and to declare that we work toward a world where we have no room for hating, and so we must forgive. Where hate, violence, and oppression are things that no longer exist because they have been replaced by the “Peace, be still” love of God.
As we gather together today around this table, as we celebrate Communion together today and look simultaneously backward and forward, remembering the meal that Christ shared with his disciples even as we look toward the meal we will all share together in the Kingdom, let us lift up those who gather round tables with empty chairs today. As we pray “thy kingdom come, thy will be done,” let that prayer take new meaning in our hearts today especially. And let us share in this meal together, as we feel the pain of loss in this one body of Christ and look toward the day when that pain will be healed and we all gather at one table in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ. And let us commit together at this table today to work to spread that same message of “peace, be still” among ourselves, our friends, and our neighbors, in the name of Christ, the prince of Peace. Amen.
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