Loading...My Mom’s parents lived in a house with a great big open porch. My Dad’s parents lived in a house with a little, screened-in porch that overlooked Lake Pepin.
Both were great places to be when there was a storm.
If my memory is accurate, it was my maternal grandma who would encourage us kids to go out onto the porch when there was a storm. She wanted us to learn that storms are not something to fear, but rather to marvel at, and to pay attention to so that we would learn about what a good rainstorm looked like, but also to recognize the danger that could be present in a thunderstorm.
I learned to count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder, a rudimentary way to know just how close the lightning struck.
A few years ago, our daughter Erin called me in a panic after the lightning and thunder had ZERO seconds between them, and her power had gone out. When the storm calmed, I suggested she walk around her house to see what may have happened. That’s when she found that lightning had struck the tulip tree in her front yard, zapping only a portion of her power.
When I went over to her house the next day, I was awestruck by the damage that was done. The tree had basically blown from the inside out. The sap of the tree heated up so rapidly, bark, branches and twigs exploded into the neighboring yards, two and three houses away. As I collected some of the debris, I was amazed at the distance the damage covered—and I was in wonder at the beauty of the innards of her tree.
The lightning strike was so violent that this humongous tree died.
One more story…When I was a very young girl, my family lived on Lake Minnetonka. We had a porch there, too. In 1965 there was a series of tornadoes that touched down in many communities, including ours. The story I’ve been told is that my mom had my baby brother and I in safely the basement…while my dad was up on the porch, watching as the tornado bounced over the water and destroyed parts of our little town. My mom was both furious and petrified.
I have come to enjoy watching storms, and sometimes do take risks peeking out windows to see how the light flashes on the trees, the wind blows leaves and branches, and the rain puddles and rises.
I think my grandmother was wise in her expectation that we go out onto the porch to see just how powerful Mother Nature can be. She also, I believe, taught us to pay attention to what happens when the tumult ends. To look for the rainbow. To see how the colors of the earth have transformed as the water drips off surfaces. Photographs can hardly capture the beauty of the colors after a good rainstorm.
At the same time, I despise driving in the rain. I will avoid it if I can. Inevitably, when it’s my turn to take the wheel when we drive to Minnesota, it’s me who gets the downpour. And I will pull over if I’m uncertain where the road is. We’ve come to check the radar to see if it will rain before choosing who is in the driver’s seat. We aren’t always right!
I’m sure many of you have experiences with threatening weather.
Today’s Gospel seems like it is about the weather, doesn’t it? But as I have spent time with it, I believe it is a metaphor for any kind of storm that affects our lives that creates chaos, fear and doubt within us. And it is about how we can sometimes respond to Jesus when we are afraid.
Jesus has asked the disciples to take him away, on a boat, to the other side. He’s tired after a long day. He desires to be lulled to sleep as the boat sways with the waves. And, it seems, he gets just what he asked for.
I wonder if he knew the weather was going to be life-threatening, and wanted the disciples, and all those in the surrounding boats, and us, to be taught a lesson in trust.
Sometimes, we need a good, raging storm to get us to pay attention to who is in charge.
Last weekend, not only was I home with COVID, but my dad was also admitted to the hospital. There is nothing like being about 700 miles away and having a loved one in a hospital to make a storm rage within a person.
Even though I think I trusted that everything was under control, my nerves certainly acted out with worry, fear, and anxious, restless sleep.
And then, I read this Gospel.
Questions of my own trust and faith arose within me. Feelings of being tossed and tumbled, and doused with buckets of seawater, uncertain and afraid. I just might have taken on too many emotions that pulled me away from trusting God.
Reading this Gospel was like splashing water on my face to help me wake up and remember that I am not God. But even more, to remind me that God hasn’t left me, or my dad, my mom, or the rest of our family. To remind me that it’s okay to wish I could be there to offer support, but also be confident that others were doing what is necessary and it is okay that I was at home. Besides, I had Covid and wouldn’t have been allowed in the hospital anyway.
We all experience stress and fear, worry and helplessness occasionally. I think that when it becomes debilitating, or overwhelming to a point that we cannot see the presence of the Holy supporting and protecting us we need others to help us see that we are not in the storm alone. That even though it seems like Jesus is sleeping at the back of the boat on the only comfortable spot available, he is still present. Still protecting. Still watching. Still there.
Jesus is there to calm the storms that come up throughout our lives. The literal weather-related ones and the emotional or health-related ones. He provides us with the wherewithal to make it through. Not always easily and not always without scars, but he provides strength for this journey.
It makes me think of the image of footprints in the sand. You know the story. Two sets of footprints to remind us that Jesus walks with us throughout our lives. And then, the footprints become a single set in those times when life is so very complex, chaotic, hard, or frightening, like in today’s Gospel. Those times when we might wonder where God is in all this difficulty. Thankfully, the story says, Jesus hasn’t abandoned us, but instead, carries us, perhaps like a baby in his arms, shielding us, protecting us to the best of his ability, from whatever harms us or causes us fear, doubt, and worry.
Or maybe he has thrown us over his shoulder, like a disobedient toddler, trying to strong-arm us into submission. And then tries (in his frustrated, impatient parent voice) to help us understand as he did when he rebukes the disciples, asking them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”
All to remind us just WHO is in charge.
Because sometimes, we, like the disciples, need to be reminded who it is that can calm the storm. And who it is that can make the wind and the sea obey. And who we need to ease our personal storms.
Who, indeed?
It is Jesus, son of God, who comes to order the storms to “be still.” Jesus who reminds us to be still when chaos and fear overtake us during the storms that come and go throughout our lifetimes. Jesus, who will not abandon us. Jesus, who will show us how to trust in our God and teach us that even in the times of chaos, of fear and worry, he is with us.
My generally healthy, 92-year-old dad, Darwin, was released from the hospital on Monday. He, thankfully, had gotten to the hospital at just the right time to get the care and IV antibiotics he needed to stop the sepsis that was making him so sick. My mom is thankful he is home. And so are the rest of us.
And I’m feeling a bit more secure, more peaceful, more still, now that I remember that I can trust that Jesus is with me, especially in those stormy moments, even if I wonder how he can sleep on the only comfortable cushion, in the middle of a raging storm, in the back of the boat.
Amen.
