June 21, 2009

Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Deacon David J. Shea

 

Job 38: 1, 8-11    X    Ps 107:23-26, 28-31   X    2 Cor 5:14-17    X   Mk 4:35-41

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It was a day that we had planned since the beginning of summer. A boat ride in Narragansett Bay and a whole day on a remote beach. It was one of our favorite spots—a paradise all to ourselves on a private secluded island. Two families with five children—Chris was the oldest at 12 and Jeremy the youngest at only 3. We packed a picnic lunch and headed out early that morning. It was a beautiful day. We anchored the boat just a few feet off shore and the kids used the front of it as a diving platform. While the kids were swimming and the wives were sunning, Rich and I dug for clams for that evening’s dinner.

 

We were all having such a good time that we didn’t notice the storm moving in on us. It happened so suddenly. One moment the sky was crystal clear without even a cloud and the next it was dark and menacing. When we finally realized what was happening we were surrounded by the storm. There was very little time. We tried to be calm so as not to frighten the kids and we hurriedly packed-up everything and pulled-up anchor. The kids kept asking why we had to leave not realizing the danger we were in. Everyone put on a life jacket. We had the kids and the moms lay on the floor of the boat while Rich and I stood at the front. I trusted Rich, but I was also hanging on for dear life. I tried not to show my panic, but I was more afraid than I could ever remember. The boat bounced wildly as we were whipped from side-to-side. Waves crashed across the front and passed over the entire the length of the boat. We were soaked. It was the longest 45 minutes of my life.

 

Of all of the forces of nature, one of the most awesome is the sea. That boat trip on that summer’s day almost thirty years ago is a poignant reminder of the sea’s power and how dangerous a storm at sea can be. We were vulnerable and at great risk and our enjoyment changed to sheer terror in just a matter of moments.

 

It was probably just like that on the Sea of Galilee. Surrounded on all sides by mountains with warm air rushing up and cooler air rushing down, violent storms could come up suddenly and catch even the most experienced off-guard. The storm must have been especially terrifying to shake the disciples who made their livelihood on the water—“Waves were breaking over the boat, so that it was already filling up.” They could do nothing and they experienced the fear and helplessness of being trapped on a stormy sea. So they turned in panic to Jesus, wondering, perhaps, if this wasn’t just a bit too much for even him. And he’s fast asleep leaving them on their own. “Don’t you care that we are perishing?” They are frightened for their lives. You can just imagine their anger and frustration—“We’re caught in a raging storm and just look at him—sleeping without a care in the world. Doesn’t he realize how much trouble we’re in? Doesn’t he realize how much we gave up to follow him? Just think of all the things we’ve endured to be with him. Look at him over there in the back dreaming; he doesn’t have a clue what’s happening to us.” (Pause) All the time they had spent with Jesus they should have known; they should have been convinced of his special concern for them. But fear changed all that. In their anxiety they lost their trust in Jesus and somehow convinced themselves that he didn’t care—“Don’t you care that we are perishing?”

 

There are times when we are all surrounded by sudden storms, when our trust is tested and we wonder if Jesus cares and even knows what’s happening to us. There are times when God seems “out of it,” when no matter how much we pray or how hard we pray, God remains silent, distant and detached from our lives. When cancer that has been in remission for years suddenly and unexpectedly reappears; when the test results are the very worst we feared; when the unimaginable happens to our children; when Alzheimer’s cruelly steals the memories from someone we love and we find ourselves adrift in a thrashing sea with our boats on the brink of capsizing. And we call out to Jesus for an answer to the chaos we feel and he responds with silence and appears to be sleeping through the turbulence of it all. And we grumble in fear and frustration, just like the disciples—“What about our faith? We’ve trusted you; we’ve worked hard and lived good lives. We pray every day and rarely miss Mass. But now, things are really tough, tougher than they have ever been. Please Lord, please . . . we need your help to calm the crises in our lives! Don’t you care that we are perishing?”

 

Sometimes there just isn’t an answer for the question of suffering. Our faith and our trust in Jesus aren’t a guarantee that the waters will be calm and that we won’t be overtaken by storms. Our prayers will not always resolve our fears and threats. And Jesus will sometimes be silent and seem like he’s asleep. And when he finally awakens it may only be to chide us—“Why are you so terrified? Why are you so lacking in faith?” When that day comes will we be able to say to the Lord, “I do trust you  . . . honestly. I’m upset with you, but I’m staying in the boat even though I’m scared to death and hanging on for dear life. And whatever storms come my way, I know, Lord, that you’ll always be with me, that you’ll never leave me . . . no matter what.”