“Crossing to the Other Side” The Very Rev. Tracey Lind June 23, 2024 St. James the Fisherman Job 38.1-11 – 2 Corinthians 6.1-13 – Mark 4.35-41 Proper 7B Good morning. I’m so delighted to begin my tenth season with all of you. So much has happened over the past decade – a sea change across the globe. Many are asking how we should navigate through the turbulent waters of our times, and how we might face the uncertain days ahead. This morning’s scripture readings offer some insight and guidance. They portray ordinary people in really difficult situations who express frustration and anger with their trying circumstances, with one another, and even with God; and yet, they remain confident that God’s love and abiding presence will help them garner the courage to face whatever life presents. First, we meet Job, a decent man who had the audacity to confront God about his suffering. In response to Job’s compelling and forceful summons, God retorted: “Who are you to challenge me?” These words commence one of the most powerful monologues in the Bible as God informs Job of just how hard it is to be God. Talk about being put in your place. In the end, Job came to accept that suffering is part of life, and that when summoned, God shows up. Job concluded that for reasons beyond his understanding, God doesn’t stop what has been put in motion. Job is left wondering: perhaps, God, whose ways are not our ways, might not be all-powerful, but rather all-present and all-loving. Job’s story reminds me of the tale of an old man in a concentration camp digging out a filthy latrine. A Nazi guard standing over him, asked “Now, where is your God?” The old man looked up and replied, “Right here in the muck with me.” At the present moment, much of our world can be compared to a dirty toilet; but like Job, like the old man in the concentration camp, and like thousands of men, women and children living in unthinkable circumstances across the globe, I believe that God’s sustaining love is in the muck, a love that in the words of Anne Lamott, is “a penlight in the blackest, bleakest nights.” Next, we hear a passage from Paul’s Second Letter to the Church in Corinth. Speaking frankly to a struggling congregation, the apostle writes that when we act in the name of God’s love, we sometimes have to endure hardship, affliction and suffering. Paul’s words bring to mind the 1995 Episcopal Church heresy trial over the ordination of gay and lesbian folk. I had made a public witness and was getting a lot of pushback from local clergy and even some parishioners. I complained to a colleague who said, “What do you expect? You serve in the name of a man who was crucified.” Not the easiest message to hear but true. Bono and the band U2 offer a modern take on this truth when they sing:
One man caught on a barbed wire fence One man he resist One man washed up on an empty beach One man betrayed with a kiss In the name of love, What more in the name of love.
In this morning’s gospel, we receive an invitation to cross with Jesus to the other side – only to encounter a fierce storm in the crossing. There is scholarly consensus that Mark’s Gospel was written in popular storytelling fashion to encourage a Gentile Christian audience facing persecution under imperial dictatorship. With a sense of urgency, Jesus invites his disciples to leave the comfort of home, traverse the threshold of familiarity, and “go across to the other side.”To understand what Jesus was and still is calling his followers to do, consider the wisdom of The I-Ching. The phrase “crossing the great water,” which appears frequently in this ancient Chinese text, signifies moving to that which is unknown, unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
As pioneers, explorers, and disciples throughout the ages have learned, when we “cross the great water,” like a submarine, we often travel down into the deep abyss of confusion, chaos, uncertainty and doubt, described by John of the Cross as “the dark night of the soul.” But there, we eventually find ourselves enveloped in healing waters illuminated by that penlight of love. I was reminded of this subterranean passage last weekend at a fundraising benefit in Cleveland for a local organization called AMIS – Americans Making Immigrants Safe. As I listened to several individuals speak of their journeys to the United States, I couldn’t help but think about this morning’s gospel reading. These courageous refugees have suffered war, famine, violence, political unrest, climate crises, and even imprisonment in their homelands. They left behind spouses, children and parents. They spent their life savings (and sometimes that of their families and neighbors), carrying with them the aspirations of those they left behind. They traveled on the water, in the air and over land. Some were swindled, robbed and beaten along the way. Most have endured long and lonely separation from their families. Many didn’t speak a word of English upon their arrival. Some had been detained in federal prisons and border camps. And all of them were seeking a better life in this land of hope and promise. These immigrants, refugees and asylum seekers demonstrate inspiring strength, courage, determination and faith. And while they have not always been welcomed, individuals and organizations like AMIS, have lit their way with penlights, flashlights and headlights of love, compassion and support. Although, at this moment, you and I are not facing war, famine or exile, our future (and that of our country and our globe) is uncertain. Fortunately, through various sorts of life crossings, we are being trained for what might lie ahead. We cross to the other side when we accept a new job, start a new school year or move to a new city. We cross the great water when we begin a new relationship or get married, have a child or move in with our grown children. We go across to the other side when we sell the house where we raised our families and relocate to a retirement community, a memory unit or a nursing facility. We cross the threshold of security when we lose a job or are forced into early retirement. We also make such crossings when we’re told we have cancer, dementia or some other life-threatening illness; when we are widowed; or when we learn that our spouse wants a divorce. In all these crossings, as we leave behind the familiar, we frequently get to test new skills and undiscovered talents. We get a chance to develop new patterns and routines of daily living, acquire new resources, and form new families, friendships and communities. Some people who like change make such crossings with ease and enthusiasm; and others learn how to make them out of necessity. Some individuals resist such crossings with all their might; and others, don’t even know they are making the crossing. We might not always be in control of the circumstances in which we find ourselves on the crossing, but we are capable of determining what attitude we will hold in any given situation. Even in the worst of circumstances designed to break the human spirit, we are always able to decide how we will show up, and that decision might be what saves us. In this morning’s gospel story, the disciples are crossing to the other side of the Sea of Galilee with Jesus asleep in the stern, and a storm arises. Trying to manage in their little boat, they become frightened. Anybody who has sailed a small boat on Cape Cod Bay knows about the challenges of managing in a storm. It can be frightening, even to an experienced sailor. Mark tells us that the disciples awaken Jesus, saying, “Don’t you even care that we are perishing.” Jesus awoke and rebuked the wind, and told the sea to “be still.” Although the text says that the elements of nature obeyed, I’ve often wondered, to whom was Jesus really speaking? Was it the wind and the sea, or was it his disciples? Was Jesus talking to the elements in hopes that his disciples would calm down? During a tumultuous period of my own life, a friend sent me a card with a Ghandi quote that read: “Peace is not the absence of conflict but the ability to cope with it.” Do you think she was sending me a similar message? I’ve come to believe that our innermost peace is our most effective shelter in the storm. It is what T.S. Eliot once called, “the still point of the turning world.” As a nation, a global community, and perhaps as the human species itself, we are in the middle of a huge crossing. We are on the way to another shore, but right now, the waves are really big and scary, and you might be wondering if our ship will make it in one piece. Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe God is inviting us to cross this great water in small steps – island hopping if you will. Perhaps, it’s as simple as crossing a neighbor’s yard to talk about a local tax levy or city council election. Maybe, it’s crossing the partisan line to talk with a friend, colleague or relative about the upcoming presidential election. Maybe, it’s crossing over to an electric vehicle, solar power or a socially responsible investment portfolio. Maybe, it’s engaging a few friends with differing opinions in an earnest conversation about gun violence or reproductive choice. Maybe, it’s imagining yourself walking in the shoes (or sandals) of an immigrant trying to cross the U.S. border, and then volunteering with a refugee support organization or working for immigration reform. There are lots of crossings that you and I can make, and there are some that, like it or not, we are being called to undertake. In the end, all of these crossings – big and little – prepare us for the final one – the journey through death to eternity. And that is the greatest crossing – the one that nobody gets to avoid. So, why not practice your crossing skills now.