The entire book contains a grand total of 338 words
(I counted them), and yet it describes the nature
of fear and the possibility of transformation with
stunning clarity. Do you wish your preacher could be
so succinct?
I must have asked to hear it at bedtime a thousand
times as a child, and I have cherished that same
request from my own sons. I’m speaking of Maurice
Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are, first published
in 1963. Did anyone else request it as a child? Or
have that request made of them? Sendak illustrates
the terrors of childhood as wild things living in a land
created in the imagination of Max, a young boy who
is sent to his room for causing mischief of all kinds
and tormenting the family dog. Lonely and bored in
his room all by himself, Max sails his bed to the land
of wild things, where he is greeted by these monsters
who roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible
teeth and show their terrible claws and roll their
terrible eyes. Those wild things personify the angst
of childhood. They are symbols for the terrors that
plague us. They are fear embodied. Their name is
legion. They overwhelm us. Roaring. Gnashing.
Late in his life, in interviews, Sendak repeatedly
dismissed the criticism that Where the Wild Things
Are was too scary for children. He insisted that
children innately understand fear and that we
grownups do them a disservice when we bubblewrap their lives or downplay their worries. Fear
is real. And so, the wild things are real. But Max,
approaching this imaginary land in his imaginary
boat, is more than up to the challenge.
His commands of the wild things are unflinching.
The words appear in all caps. BE STILL! Before long,
Max is in total control. He is made king of all the
wild things. And that’s where the plot twist occurs.
Being the all-powerful king is an equally unnerving
proposition. The boy becomes homesick. We are told
that Max wanted, “to be where someone loved him
best of all.” And so, he musters his courage again,
this time to declare that he will go home. Despite the
wailing protests of the wild things, he steps into the
boat and is soon back in his own room, where the
dinner left by his mother, who had not forgotten him,
is still hot.
Max encounters many fears. There are the wild things
with their terrible teeth and their claws. Then there is
the burden of responsibility and the isolation it brings.
But most intimidating of all is the fear of returning,
of leaving the land of imagination and going back
to his own life, his own room, his own supper, in a
transformed way. The wild things represent the threat
of death, but it is going home a changed boy that
represents the threat of life.
Which brings us to this morning’s story from Mark’s
Gospel. Jesus and his disciples are aboard a very
real boat when a very real storm approaches. It is no
ordinary storm. We know this because Mark—who
is usually understated in his language—paints the
picture in vivid detail. Waves beat against the boat.
Water gushes over the sides. There is roaring and
gnashing. The threat of death is real. We should trust
the judgment of the fishermen on that.
And then there is Jesus. Fast asleep on a cushion
(where did he find that?) in the middle of a tempest.
The disciples are angry. Aren’t you concerned? Don’t
you see the threat of death? Do you even care about us?
Finally, Jesus wakes up. He chastises the wind for
interrupting his nap. And like Max, he commands
the sea to, “BE STILL!” He doesn’t calm the storm so
much as he overpowers it. And here is what happens
next. The disciples are filled with fear, more petrified
by the power of Jesus to conquer the storm than the
storm’s power to take their lives. More disturbed by
the threat of life than the threat of death.
Translations do us a disservice by rendering the word
awe. They are filled with fear. They are afraid. “Who is
this that even the wind and the sea obey him? Who
is this?” It is a moment of revelation for the disciples.
There is more to this man than an uplifting message
of love and harmony. Jesus may be peaceful, but he
is not passive. The experience on the raging sea is
an encounter with the sacred. Though the storm may
be stilled, the hearts of the disciples are still racing.
No wonder they are afraid. In fact, it is true of every
encounter with God or God’s messengers in scripture.
Why else would the angels always say, “Do not fear?”
When we are in the presence of God, the threat of
life is real. It challenges our settled assumptions. It
rearranges our carefully set priorities. The storm is no
match for the power of transformation in Jesus Christ.
I fear that too often I preach a safe and secure Jesus. I
fear that too often I convey faith as a cruise on placid
waters. I fear that too often we market ourselves
as upright people and the church as a respectable
institution. But the call of Jesus moves us beyond
tedious respectability to courageous faith. Just
consider his ministry. Every time he begins to attract
a crowd, Jesus speaks hard truths of inconvenient
changes and radical reversals. You want to follow
me? Give away everything you own. You want to be
my disciple? Humble yourself. Welcome the outcast.
Love all people—even, especially, those people.
Do you want to be blessed? Well, blessed are the
poor, blessed are the hungry, blessed are those who
mourn, blessed are the weak. His commitment to his
mission is so unwavering that he will not compromise
the message for anything. For anything. The more
extreme his actions become the more uncomfortable
his followers feel. He will not settle for platitudes
or easy truths. His message is his life—self-denial,
radical acceptance, unconditional forgiveness,
humble servanthood. Unpopular strategies for
attracting a crowd.
And so, for centuries, faith communities and their
eager leaders have tried to correct this unfortunate
error on Jesus’ part. The strategy is to downplay
the sacrifice demanded by the gospel, to replace it
with messages of self-centered power seeking—the
gospel’s plan of success. The strategy is to traffick in
the fear of the other, to magnify the threat of death. Be
afraid. The strategy, having created the condition of
terror, is to produce the solution. Pseudo-theologies
of superiority. Dehumanizing rhetoric. Exclusion and
judgment. Angry voices shouting that divide and
demonize. When the threat of death is our driving
force, we will cling to a false gospel that worships
power and encourages violence.
I understand the impulse. After all, the Church has
lost much of its influence. We’re drowned out by a
cacophony of conflicting voices. We’re immobilized by
our own weakness and division. We churches suffer
often from low self-esteem and high anxiety about the
future. What if the numbers keep dropping? What if our
children leave the faith behind? How can we survive
another year, another decade, another generation?
The problem is that such anxiety creates fertile
ground for demagogues who claim the capacity to
preserve power. That claim is a lie. The disciples on
the boat could not control the raging sea. They could
not still the violent wind. Only Jesus could do that. It is
past time for us to place our trust in his power.
Now, that path comes with a warning of its own. If
you choose to climb aboard the boat, you must be
prepared for transformation. It will change your life
in ways you could not imagine. This is the depth
of meaning that is missing from so many lives—so
obsessed with the threat of death we miss the thrilling
and threatening possibilities of life.
Listen. If your belief in Jesus leads you to judge and
blame others more than examine your own walk of
faith, you are missing the point. If our fear justifies
words and actions that demonize and dehumanize
God’s beloved children, we’ve abandoned the Gospel.
If we submit ourselves to ideologies of fear or leaders
who demand absolute allegiance, we are on the
wrong path. In this tempest-tossed time, we must
return to the only One who can command the sea and
calm the storm.
The Church will thrive and flourish when we are
faithful to the terrifying call of our God. Our mission
is not defined by any quest for power, but the call to
lives defined by sacrifice and service. Compassion
for the suffering. Bearing someone else’s burden.
Listening as an act of love. Lifting someone else in a
time of need and despair.
The greatest risk you will ever take, the most lifechanging decision you will ever make, is to step into
the boat with Jesus. Here’s what will happen. The
storms will come. The wind will blow. The sea will
rage. And then the fears will return. They will roar their
terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth. They will
roll their terrible eyes and show their terrible claws.
And then, in the most terrifying moments of all, you
will be called beyond your fear and past the storms to
a whole new way of life. You will be asked to change,
to grow, to trust more than you think you can. And
in time, you may come to see that you are no longer
living for yourself but for God. You may find courage
where once there was fear. You will love, and you will
be loved, and you will live with passion and purpose.
So, when the invitation comes, resist the temptation
to stay on the shore. As jarring as the journey will be,
that’s one boat you don’t want to miss. Amen.