Scripture: Isaiah 40:1-11; Mark 1:1-8
Peace—or shalom, which is a much richer word than our English word peace the way we use it—is my connecting theme for my preaching during Advent this year. Not terribly original, I admit, but appropriate, I think you will admit. Last week I began by talking about the effort of the native American tribes of Virginia to achieve federal recognition and used that as a kind of parable for Advent directing us to the importance of just recognizing those places in our lives that are in need of mending, that stand in the way of shalom. This morning I want to turn my attention to the notion of inner peace.
There’s a story in the gospels that is not particularly related to Christmas or Advent, that is not one of the suggested readings for this time of year, and that I didn’t choose to have read this morning. But I want to start with it anyway.
It’s a story, most vividly told in Mark’s gospel, I think, where Jesus and the disciples are together in a boat going across the Sea of Galilee. The Sea of Galilee is a fairly sizeable lake and is well known for its sudden and violent storms, and sure enough one comes up while Jesus and his little entourage are out in the middle of the lake. The situation quickly becomes serious, maybe critical. Water is pouring into the boat from every direction. Disciples bailing as fast as they can, telling each other to work faster, probably uttering a few colorful epithets every time a new wave crashed over the boat and undid whatever progress they had been making. Meanwhile, Jesus—if you know the story, you know what he was doing—sleeping. I picture him curled up with some kind of a light cover over his legs and maybe a piece of canvass folded under his head for a pillow, or maybe on his back with his hands behind his head. I picture him snoring, just lightly, like someone who’s sort of into their sleep. In any case we can assume he was sleeping soundly because there was all this commotion around him that he was sleeping through.
And, of course, this did not particularly endear him to the disciples. When they couldn’t take it any longer, they woke him up, shook him, “Teacher, teacher, don’t you care what’s going on out here? We are perishing out here. Get it? Perishing. Not getting blown around a little bit. Not developing a touch of sea sickness. Perishing. Don’t you care? Jesus sits up, rubs his eyes, looks around at the storm, waves his arm and speaks out into the darkness, says, “Cut it out.” A few seconds later the storm is gone. Jesus says, now to the disciples, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you afraid? Don’t you have any faith?” Then he goes back to sleep, leaving the disciples to be filled with awe and muttering to themselves, “Who is this guy?”
That’s the Biblical story—more or less the Biblical story—my version of the Biblical story. It’s a story that has often been used to illustrate the authority and the miraculous power of Jesus. And the disciples do say, “We’re impressed. Even the wind and the sea obey him.” So one possible point to the story, I suppose, would be for the reader to be astounded at what Jesus did and to think that he must be, well, God, or something. Who else speaks to the wind and the sea and expects a response? That’s one possible way to receive this story, though it’s not one I’m particularly fond of.
I do identify with this story, but not at that level. The part I identify with is the contrast between the disciples who are understandably frantic and Jesus, who is, not so understandably, calm. Excessively and maddeningly calm, in the view of the disciples. And I have to tell you, I’m pretty much on their side here. I identify with the disciples in their reaction to Jesus. When there’s a crisis, sleep is not the appropriate response. Not even if you take the story symbolically.
Which I do, of course. For me, it’s a story about the storms of our lives, all the different kinds of storms, all the many different kinds of storms, from global events—wars, earthquakes, hurricanes, climate changes—to very personal storms—broken relationships, losses of loved ones, economic hardships, health problems. We are battered by storms of one sort or another pretty much all the time, and in the midst of it all the story gives us an image of Jesus asleep, unconcerned, serenely peaceful. At this level maybe the story is supposed to speak to us of the kind of inner peace that is possible through faith in spite of the storms, the kind of faithfulness and inner peace represented in the story by Jesus.
To tell you the truth, I have trouble with that meaning of the story too. I have always had this opinion of inner peace, that it’s a bit overrated. In any case I struggle with it. Not only is inner peace elusive, much easier to talk about than to achieve. I’ve never been quite sure that I should want it, even if I knew how to get it. There’s a saying: “Those who can keep their heads when all about them are losing theirs…obviously don’t know what’s going on.” That’s sort of where I’m coming from.
Is it really so appropriate, is it even possible, to pay any kind of real attention to the daily news from Iraq and be calm about it?
Is the proper response, when reminded maybe on World AIDS Day of the seriousness of the AIDS epidemic, especially in Africa and Asia, is the proper response to just let a wave of peacefulness settle over your soul?
When natural disasters painfully reveal the inequities and injustices that people live with every day and that make the poor much, much more vulnerable to the storms of life so that suffering is not just a result of things we can’t control, but is also the result of things we can control, is the proper response to be untroubled?
When confronted by ongoing evidence of serious, systemic racism in our society, isn’t it precisely the problem that for far too long too many people have been able to be at peace with the situation and with themselves in the face of it?
When gay folks in our society continue to be the target of mean-spirited laws and homophobic comments, is the proper response to smile and be serene?
Granted that there are some people who need help with anger management, is anger always something that we want to be managed? Aren’t there things to be angry about, and troubled, and upset, and anxious, and well, not at peace?
Isn’t there something not right about the concept of inner peace, given the world that we live in? Doesn’t it imply that we have made our peace too easily with the world as it is? If the idea of inner peace implies that we shut off the outside world or somehow refuse to let ourselves be touched by its troubles, if it means being oblivious, disengaged, or above it all, we may be better off without it. And if it doesn’t mean any of those things, then it is not just immediately and obviously clear what it does mean.
The Bible reading that is one of the ones often read during Advent and that I did choose to read today is about John the Baptist. John always makes an appearance during Advent as a kind of forerunner of Jesus, but he’s not exactly an engaging figure and you might be tempted to sort of dismiss him. He is angry, eccentric, crazed if not crazy, maybe gives the impression of a fire and brimstone type preacher, whose message is to repent.
Repent is a word that doesn’t seem to resonate too well with a lot of people. Repent is a word that doesn’t have a lot of positive vibes. Repent is a word that seems to accuse us all of being bad boys and girls. Repent. Say you’re sorry. Say you’re really, really sorry. And then shape up. Do better. Stop being such miserable creatures. And so forth. The message of repentance is harsh, uncompromising, patronizing, threatening, authoritarian, and in general unwelcome and downright offensive.
It is also I am convinced at some level a message we need to hear. Minus all the negative associations that when we hear the word repent seem to make us think of all the worst that religion has to offer. But if I can just put that aside, get past the garbage, repent says to me, “beware”. Beware of being satisfied. Beware of being content either with yourself or with the state of the world. Beware of being at ease in Zion. Beware of being thoroughly at peace with yourself. Instead, be hungry and thirsty for justice. Be anxious for a new day to dawn, for light to shine on those who dwell in lands of deep darkness, be restless for change within yourself. Refuse in other words to be content, either with the way things are out there, or with the way things are in here. That’s how I try to hear the call to repent. It’s a call to resist any tendency there may be in us toward complacency or self-satisfaction. And in that sense it reinforces my suspicious attitudes toward serene dispositions, contentment, and inner peace.
Still…still I know all of what I have been saying this morning leaves some important needs of the spirit unspoken for. The reading from Isaiah that is quoted in Mark, speaking of the “voice crying in the wilderness”, that reading begins with the words, “Comfort, comfort my people…” and as much as the word repent may not resonate very well with a lot of people, the word comfort does, at least with me. Very nice to say that we should not close ourselves off emotionally from the world around us. Very nice to say that we should hunger and thirst for justice. Very nice to say that we should be anxious for a new day to dawn and restless for change in ourselves as well as in our world. Very nice to say all those things, and very true to say all those things. But our souls need comfort too. Not instead of all those other things, but in addition to them, and somehow in the midst of them. Comfort and calm and some source for a peace that passes all understanding, which may in the end be the only kind of peace worth having, one that is beyond understanding, beyond understanding because it doesn’t keep one from being broken-hearted and restless and urgent at the same time.
It is not my intention this morning to offer suggestions on how to achieve that inner peace that passes all understanding—meditate, take walks, turn off the tv, those kinds of things. If the kind of comfort we need, if the kind of peace we’re talking about is not the kind that comes from emotional isolation or death, neither are we talking here about stress reduction. There are techniques for reducing stress, but as healthy as it may be for us, reducing stress is not the point either. I don’t know how to bring about the kind of comfort we need. Neither do you, not in any formula that would lay out the things to do. If there were a series of steps to inner peace, it would not be what we are looking for.
The comfort that is needed I believe, for you, for me, for God’s people, goes to the core of our being. I don’t know how to make it happen. I believe it is worth praying for, not because it will produce some state of blissful calm where nothing bothers us, nor because it will reduce our blood pressure or help us sleep better, but maybe because it will keep us from being overcome by the storms of our lives, and maybe because we do need to hear the call to repent, but not it a way that is frantic and causes us to cry out, “woe is me” and “the sky is falling” but that causes us to commit ourselves calmly to a vision of shalom and that gives us a peace born of a conviction that the future can be different from the past, and maybe because that calm at the center will keep us from living our lives from a center that is dominated by panic, frustration, anger, or fear, and maybe because it will give us what we need to move toward a new day in a thoughtful, faithful, focused, and loving manner. May God grant us to let the brokenness of the world into our spirits. May God also grant us a sense of calm in the core of our being, an inner peace that leads to shalom for all. Amen.
Jim Bundy
December 4, 2005