Greater Fear

Mark 4:35-41

January 10, 2021 • Mount Pleasant UMC

It had been a pretty nice day—a little windy, but nothing that had gotten in the way of our many camp activities. It was in the afternoon, the time when the whole camp gathered at the pool for swim time. For many of the campers, that was their favorite part of the day. It wasn’t too far into swim time when Mark, the camp manager, came and found me. “We’re about to get hit with a big storm,” he told me, “and we’ve got to get all these kids out of here right now.” He showed me the radar on his phone, and then I looked around. The sky was getting dark in one place, but we had about a hundred kids and counselors in the pool at that time. How were we going to get them out of the pool and up to the dining hall? Mark had a plan. His staff brought down several ATVs with wagons attached and we loaded them down to move everyone to the basement of the dining hall. Yes, the basement. Did I mention there were also tornado warnings? Honestly, though I doubted Mark’s insistence on hurry, as it quickly got darker and darker, I had to admit he was right on target. No sooner had I gotten to the dining hall (as camp director, I waited at the pool until everyone had been transported) than the storm cut loose. And while we didn’t have a tornado, we did have high winds, lightning and some pretty fierce rain. Thankfully, we were safe and the counselors did an outstanding job coming up with games to play and songs to sing while the storm raged outside.

Storms usually come up somewhat unexpectedly. The meteorologist may predict some rain, maybe even some lightning and wind, but even if we do pay attention to the forecast, we’re often not ready for the storm. And that’s not just true of physical storms, thunderstorms. We get storms in our lives, and they almost always sneak up on us, threaten us, and bring us fear. This morning we’re in the middle of our series on fear, a series we’ve called #TheStruggleIsReal, and last Sunday we talked about the giants in our lives. I tend to think of “giants” as one-time events or situations while “storms” are those ongoing circumstances that continue to threaten, maybe repeatedly threaten, and swirl around us. Storms are those things that cause us to experience deep-seated and longer-lasting fear. We might experience storms as a fearful health diagnosis that’s going to mean long-term treatment or long-term care, an unexpected death (as many have experienced in the midst of this pandemic), a financial crisis, a marital strain or a relationship ending. If we think of our lives as the boat, then the storms are the things that beat upon us and threaten the stability of that boat.

Wednesday evening of this past week, I got home after having participated in Becky Drada’s funeral all afternoon, and I had a text message from my mom about “the things happening in Washington.” I had been out of touch—yes, there are times when I’m not paying attention to my phone—and texted back something like, “I have no idea what is happening.” She said, “Turn on your TV. It’s all over the place.” So I did and on every channel except WTHI, the news was of course covering the attacks on the Capital and the violence in Washington. My first thought echoed something I saw later on Facebook: this is not who we are. We’re better than this. But on Wednesday, we were not. Place the blame wherever you want, the storm came to all of us. It was a storm of violence, of anger, of unforgiveness, and of pent-up frustration, fear, and anxiety. The storm raged, and I found myself unable to look away. The fear and the uncertainty was all too real, and in some ways, continues still today. The stability of our boat has been threatened. When the storms rage, it may seem like fear has taken up permanent residence in our lives.

So let’s think about the parallels between the storms in our lives and a real storm that took place on the Sea of Galilee. In the Gospel of Mark, we’re actually told about two different storms; sometimes we get them confused. The second one is a couple of chapters over, in chapter 6, where the disciples are out on the lake as a storm comes up and Jesus walks to them on the water. That storm, as Mark describes it, is a normal storm, the kind the disciples expected to encounter on this lake, the kind the Weather Channel could predict, and it calms down when Jesus gets in the boat with them. But the first storm, the one here in chapter 4, is anything but a normal storm. In fact, this appears to be a demonic attempt to take Jesus out early on in his ministry (cf. Card, Mark: The Gospel of Passion, pg. 70). Mark describes the storm as a “furious squall” (4:37)—literally a “whirlwind” or a “tempest.” When Matthew tells the same story, he calls it a seismos (Matthew 8:24)—from which we get our word “seismic.” It’s a shaking, like an earthquake. At least that’s the way it felt to Matthew (who, remember, was in the boat as a disciple). It’s unnatural, not the normal kind of storm you usually have on the Sea of Galilee. But the even bigger clue that this is a demonic attack is the way Jesus responds to it. The NIV translates it as “Be still!” but literally it is, “Be muzzled.” It is the same way Jesus always responds to demons. Check out Mark 1:25 when you have a chance; there Jesus tells an “impure spirit” to “be muzzled” (though the NIV again translates it as “Be quiet!”). Muzzling is forced silence over another person and that’s what Jesus does here. “Be muzzled.” Here, out on the lake, Satan has Jesus and the disciples all in one place. He can take them all out with just one storm—or so he thinks. This is a demonic attack. “The violence of this storm has nothing to do with meteorology” (Card 70).

And neither do the storms in your life, nor does the fear. The storms came when one of you decided the marriage was no longer worth working on. The storms began when the doctor called and said, “We need to talk.” The storm began when a virus pandemic began spreading around the world, and maybe like me, you had this crazy idea that no one in your family would get it—until they did and you began to feel the storm as your own life was threatened. The storm began when a man was murdered in Minneapolis and protests (some resulting in riots) began in cities across the nation. Suddenly the storm of racism that has never gone away was out in the open, where we all had to confront its effect in each of our lives. The storm arrives when you come home to news of turmoil in the nation’s capital, when the new year doesn’t seem that much different from the old year. Closer to home, the storms come when there is too much month at the end of the money, or when the child you have done everything to love turns their back on what you believe, or when the company you have given all your energy to suddenly says they no longer need you. The storms come and the fear settles in. Maybe for longer than you can remember, fear has been a constant companion. The struggle is real, indeed, and the winds don’t show any sign of dying down. You look around in the midst of the storm, and where is help coming from?

Well, in Mark’s account, their master, their best source of hope, Jesus—um, Jesus is asleep. In the back of the boat. He’s asleep on the cushion in the stern. If you know how first-century boats were made, then you know that’s where the person who controlled the boat would sit. Jesus is in the seat of the person steering the boat—and he’s asleep (cf. Card 71). Well, why wouldn’t he be? If you follow Mark’s chronology, Jesus has been busy—overwhelmingly busy. At the very least, he’s spent that whole day teaching and preaching and being with people (cf. Wessel, “Mark,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 655). It’s been a very busy season of ministry leading up to this moment, and Jesus, fully God and fully human, is tired. He’s worn out. And I’ve experienced it, maybe you have to, how the gentle rocking of the waves can lull you to sleep. I picture that’s what happened, but the amazing part is that even when the storm comes up, the wind and the higher waves don’t even wake Jesus up. He’s really, really tired or he’s a really good sleeper. After all, according to the great theologian Rick Swan, having a clean conscience allows you to fall asleep fast and stay asleep.

Now, the Jews were never very good on the water. Sailing was just not their thing; Israel is mostly a desert nation. Sand they could do, and fishermen could do the Sea of Galilee, but that’s a relatively small body of water—13 miles long and 8 miles wide (cf. Card 70). Self-contained, they could handle that. But in general they were not sailors. Add in a bad storm and it’s a fear-filled situation. That’s why, in the Scriptures, the “sea” is described as a place of rebellion and sin. The sea represents the dark power of evil, the place where monsters come from (cf. Wright, Mark for Everyone, pg. 52). That’s why, in Revelation (21:1), at the end of time when everything in the world is made right, it says that in the new heaven and new earth there is “no longer any sea.” That doesn’t mean God hates lakes or oceans; it’s telling us that in the end, the realm of rebellion will be gone. In Scripture, the sea is a place of fear, a place of unknowns. The sea represents rebellion, and that’s no more true than this moment when the storm (water below and above) threatens the little boat with the disciples in it. In fact, in this instance, Mark says the boat is “nearly swamped” (4:37)—or, literally, it was full. And when a boat is full, it’s going down. I picture the disciples, most of them, bailing with all their strength, but the water is coming in faster than they can get it out. Some of the disciples are probably controlling (or trying to) control the sails, and there’s chaos and shouted commands and lots of noise. They’re so busy they don’t have time to look for Jesus.

When fear grips our heart and when our storms are raging, that’s often our response as well. It’s far easier to see the storm, to focus on doing whatever we think we should be doing to get out of the storm, or even trying to calm the storm ourselves. And I’m not saying there aren’t things we can do or should be doing in the midst of the storm. In the case of a medical diagnosis, we should absolutely pursue the very best treatment we can. Consult with the very best physicians and caregivers you can find. When a relationship breaks, we should do what we can do to mend it. Paul says, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” (Romans 12:18). Yes, I know I quote that verse a lot, but it’s because I need to hear it and actually we all do! I repeat it a lot because we don’t do it. But the key part of that is this phrase: “as far as it depends on you.” We do what we can do; we cannot force someone else to bend to our will. As far as it depends on you—take on the storm. I also want to say that if you are a Christian, I don’t believe you have an excuse for not doing everything to can to bring healing and reconciliation and forgiveness. That’s our mandate, “as far as it depends on you.” That’s true also in fighting injustice and racism, in battling a pandemic, in turbulent political times—yes there are things we can and should do. But here’s what the disciples forgot: they forgot to include Jesus in what they were doing. They seem to have forgot all about him or even that he was with them at all. They fight the storm in their own strength when the very Son of God is in the boat with them. We do the same thing. How often do we insist on battling our fear and our fear-causing situations with our own strength? Like a child confident in his own abilities, we say, “I can do it!” And it’s only when it all falls apart, when our boat is nearly swamped, that we remember Jesus. I remember a couple many years ago who told me they had come to some storms in their lives and she finally told him they were either getting a divorce or going to church. He chose church, and Jesus began to repair some of the broken pieces in their lives. But don’t hear me saying church is a magic pill. What Jesus longs for us to do is to include him from the beginning. Unfortunately, like the disciples, like that couple, we often forget he’s even there until the boat is nearly swamped.

At some point, one of the disciples finally wonders—where is Jesus? Is he helping bail? Then they see him. He’s asleep. In the midst of the storm, Jesus is asleep. And while I imagine the disciples are indignant or angry with him, I want to encourage you to see Jesus’ sleep in a different way. He’s not really ignoring what is going on; as the Son of God, you have to think he’s aware of, well, pretty much everything. But in the midst of the storm, Jesus has peace. In the midst of the storm, Jesus forsakes fear. He is peaceful while the storm rages around him. I like the way J.D. Walt puts it. He asks, “What if it’s our quality of peace within the storm that determines the capacity of our faith to calm the storm?” (The Gospel of the Holy Spirit, pg. 65). After all, Paul wrote, “Do not be anxious [fearful] about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7). That’s what we see happening in the back of that boat on the Sea of Galilee—the peace of God which transcends all understanding. And Jesus wants us to experience and live in that same peace. I believe we will find it when we live into not the fear that storms bring but what I want to call the “greater fear” that comes from being around Jesus.

Here’s what I mean. Look at the text again. When the storm is raging, we’re not told the emotional state of the disciples. We assume they are afraid, I think mainly because we would be, and because of the way they approach Jesus and say, “Don’t you care if we drown?” (4:38). We read fear into the text, but Mark doesn’t tell us anything about what they are actually feeling. Now, in Matthew, we hear Jesus ask them why they are afraid before he calms the storm; in Mark, that question comes after the storm is calm (4:40; cf. Matthew 8:26). But here’s where the “greater fear” comes in. It’s after the storm is calm that Mark tells us the disciples were “terrified.” The word there doesn’t specifically mean terror as we think of it. It more has the sense of reverence, alarm, or “to be in awe of.” The fear they might have felt toward the storm has now been tempered and redirected. Now, their fear (and Mark is very clear about that) is directed at Jesus. I’m not sure what they expected him to do when they woke him up (probably help bail the boat), but apparently they did not expect him to muzzle the storm because when he does, they now fear him. “Who is this?” they ask. “Even the wind and the waves obey him!” (4:41).

Now, this is not a fear that causes they to run away; we know that from the rest of the story. If anything, it is a fear that cements their relationship with him. This is the kind of fear described in the Old Testament, where it says, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Psalm 111:10 and other places). It also says, “The fear of the Lord leads to life; then one rests content, untouched by trouble” (Proverbs 19:23). I love that verse; I just came across it this week in my study, but it almost perfectly describes what I experienced when I went through a major storm a few years ago. I want to share this with you not because I’ve got it all together. I don’t, so don’t think I do. There are many times when fear overtakes me, when I see the storm more clearly than the savior. But when I read that verse from Proverbs, it made me think of a storm that came upon me unexpectedly several years ago. And I don’t want to go into specifics, but suffice it to say it was a storm that could have hurt not just me but my family, my ministry and several other people. It was one of those storms that could do real damage. There was a real reason to fear, and there were certainly times as the winds howled and the rain fell that I did succumb to fear. But there was also the realization that there was absolutely nothing I could do to make the storm go away. And for someone who is used to controlling things, that’s a bitter pill to swallow. Slowly, as the weeks of the storm went on, I found myself turning to find Jesus more and more. At first, it was just a prayer like we all pray: “Make this storm end now, God!” But, eventually, as I began to look for where Jesus was in the boat, I found myself praying more along the lines of, “Help me through this. Whatever comes, Jesus, help me to trust you.” Now I wish I had prayed that from the beginning because here’s where my story ties into the verse from Proverbs: I didn't miss a single night’s sleep because of the storm. Of all the things that happened during that time, the thing I remember most is how well I slept. Somewhere along the way, my soul found confidence that I could sleep knowing God was still up and taking care of everything. I’ve heard people tell me that this or that, giant or storm, was keeping them awake. I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever had that problem, and it’s not because I’m somehow super-spiritual. I’m not. But I was able to find a measure of peace in the midst of the storm. I was able to, as Proverbs, says, “rest content, untouched by trouble.”

What’s happening here in Mark’s Gospel reminds us that there is a difference between unhealthy fear—the kind that terrifies, the kind that results in worry and anxiety—and healthy fear (“greater fear”) or what we might more accurately call “reverence.” When the Bible tells us to “fear the Lord,” the authors are not saying, “Walk around terrified all the time.” Rather, a healthy fear acknowledges that God is God and we are not. God is in control and we are not and don’t need to be. Instead, we need to find the “greater fear” of the disciples: “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him” (4:41). Jesus has power we do not know of. He can calm the wind and the waves and he is also the answer to the fear within us.

How does he answer the fear in us? By reminding us of who he is. He is the God who came to earth—we just celebrated that in the Advent and Christmas seasons—but more than coming to earth, he came for a purpose. He came to show us the extent of God’s love and he did that by giving his life on a cross. John put it this way in a letter to the church: “This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins” (1 John 4:9-10). Hear that word again: “This is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us…” He answers the fear in us by reminding us that he has already loved us.

Tod Bolsinger, in his new book Tempered Resilience, tells about meeting Sister Madonna Buder. Now, it’s not unusual that he met a nun. What’s unusual is that he met her at a gathering of triathletes at Ironman Canada. Sister Madonna was not there to give an invocation or offer a blessing. Sister Madonna was there to participate. In 2012, she became the world record holder in her age group and the oldest person in the world, at age 82, to complete the Ironman. Now, in case you don’t know, the Ironman consists of a 2.4-mile swim, followed by a 112-mile bike ride and wrapped up with a 26.2-mile run. Anyone else tired yet? And Sister Madonna did that at age 82! I wouldn’t be able to do that at age 53! By the way, as of 2020, she’s 90 years old and still going, still competing. But even that’s not the most remarkable thing about Sister Madonna because Bolsinger says when she speaks to groups of competitors, she doesn’t talk about her world records or her incredible athletic feats. Instead, she tells them this: “When things get tough out there, remember you were loved into existence. If you get discouraged and want to quit, if you get injured and can’t finish, if things don’t go the way you hope even though you trained for this day for months or even years, even then remember: You were loved into existence” (qtd. in Bolsinger 45 [eBook edition]). She got that idea, of course, from the baptism of Jesus. Before he ever performed a miracle, before he ever preached a sermon, before he ever called a single disciple, Jesus heard a voice from heaven. At his baptism, this word came: “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased” (Mark 1:11). Yes, I know, Jesus was the Son of God, and as such he didn’t really need that affirmation. So don’t you think that voice came mainly for those around him? I think maybe, just maybe, that voice is meant to remind all of us that before we do anything that we would call “worthwhile,” even in the face of what seems like overwhelming fear and fear-filled situations, we are loved. You are loved. God is well pleased in you just because you are you.

It’s likely Mark was writing his Gospel in the wake of the fire that destroyed a good part of Rome while Nero was emperor. The fire amazingly destroyed a part of the city that Nero had wanted to rehabilitate and rebuild. By the time the week-long fire burned itself out, over 20% of the city had been destroyed and some estimate the flames had reached 1100 degrees Fahrenheit. The marble of the Roman temples melted, that’s how hot it was. When suspicions began to rise that Nero himself had ordered the fires started (which is what most historians believe today, by the way), Nero eventually began blaming these people who believed in a new God, these Christians who worshipped a crucified savior. Persecution began under Nero’s reign and the church soon found itself facing what Peter calls a “fiery trial” (cf. 1 Peter 4:12). A storm. A firestorm, you might say. And yet, in the midst of that storm, the church moved forward. We can, too, even in the midst of what seems like a political firestorm in our nation today. In fact, historically it’s true that the church is stronger and grows better when the headwinds are against us. It’s not a time for fear; it’s a time for “greater fear”—the fear of the Lord. The early church was fueled by the knowledge that God loved them and nothing could ultimately stand against God’s people. They faced the storm with confidence, with “greater fear,” because they knew God was with them—and so should we. Even when both Peter and Paul died in the resulting persecution, the church was undeterred because they knew the greater fear. “The fear of the Lord,” they knew, “is the beginning of wisdom” (Proverbs 9:10; cf. Card 22-24).

So, when fear comes your way, when storms threaten the safety of your boat, to whom will you turn? What voice will you fear—the voice of the wind and the waves that tells you everything is lost or the voice of the one who tells you that you are loved and all will be well? Will you give in to the lesser fear or will you fill your life with the greater fear, the fear of the Lord? Will you fear the world and its ways or will you lean into the “greater fear” that leads to deeper trust in the Lord? Let’s pray.