In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Time and time again, the men that Jesus chose to follow him, the men that Jesus commissioned as his own apostles, failed to recognize the One who stood before them. Jesus of Nazareth was so much more than simply their teacher, a wandering rabbi, the son of a carpenter. He was and is, indeed, the Son of God. 

Jesus spoke with authority. He interpreted Scripture as though he himself wrote it. Jesus cured the sick, freed the demon-possessed, told a paralyzed man to stand up and walk. He forgave sins. No one in the history of Israel had done such amazing things except Moses or maybe Elijah; but they were dead and gone and no one like them had been seen since. Until Jesus appeared in Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God’s kingdom come. 

“Who is this man?” Everyone was asking that question. The way he spoke, the way he acted, the look on his face when he saw someone suffering — it was almost as if Jesus had stepped out of the Scriptures themselves, but the role he was playing was God’s. 

Not that his disciples (or anyone else you might expect) made that connection. Caught up in their own conflicts and distracted by their own desires, Jesus’ followers missed what was right in front of them. They missed who Jesus really was even as they walked beside him along the dusty roads of Galilee and on toward the sea. 

Which is where the story in our Gospel text today begins.

Evening had fallen, and after teaching a crowd of thousands for the whole day, and after having been forced to stand in a boat offshore because of the sheer number of people, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go across to the other side.” 

The moon was bright, and the sea was calm. The journey should be straightforward, easy even; half of the disciples were fishermen. But almost as soon as their boat left the shallows for the deep, the wind changed. Clouds raced across the sky, and rain began to fall. 

The disciples knew what was coming. They knew how fierce sudden storms could be on the Sea of Galilee; but this was worse. The wind and the water had come alive, roused like some wild beast on the hunt, the kind of animal that plays with its prey before killing it. 

And the disciples panicked. Rushing to the stern of the boat where their master lay sleeping, the men shook Jesus awake. “Teacher,” they said, “do you not care that we are perishing?” 
And without saying a word, Jesus stood up, reached his hands toward the sea and said, “Be still. Be quiet.” And in an instant, it was. The sky cleared. The water calmed. All was at peace — except for the disciples who, as St. Mark tells us, were even more frightened. They “feared greatly.” 

“Who is this that even the wind and the waves obey him?” 

And on that note our story ends, with the disciples near-stupid with terror and exhaustion, asking themselves who this man could be. 

We know! The answer is clear. You’d think the disciples would get it. How could they not, when they had followed Jesus for long enough to see him cure the sick and feed the hungry and calm the storm. How could they not come to the conclusion that Jesus is in fact the Messiah, mortal and more than mortal, the Son of God not just in name or in character but in his very being. 

What a difference that realization would have made on the Sea of Galilee that night. If they had known, if they had believed that God himself was on board, would the disciples have been so scared? The storm would have raged. The boat would still have been swamped. But the disciples would have been safe, even while their lives were in danger. 

Which is where things start getting complicated, especially for us, who can smile at the irony of a story written down so many years ago; but who nevertheless can also recognize the fear and even imagine the terror those men experienced — because we’ve felt something like that and seen something like it before.

It could have been a tragedy. A friend dead before their time. A career ruined in an instant. A dream crushed by one careless comment. Or it could have been the slow build of sorrow over months or years, the bad news that creeps up until suddenly we’re drowning without ever having realized we were so far from the shore. Each one of us has been and each one of us will be those disciples at some point in our lives: helpless, hopeless, ready to shout at God, ready to shake him. “Don’t you care that we are perishing? Don’t you care that I am perishing?”


A statement to which Jesus did not actually respond. When his disciples woke him up, Jesus heard the fear in their voice, and he saw the desperation on their face — and he got to his feet and raised his hands to the sky and commanded the sea to calm and the wind to still. Then, turning to his disciples, he spoke to them for the first time since their voyage began: “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” 

It’s worth noting the difference in his voice, the tense in which he speaks. Jesus commands the wind and the waves; he questions us. That distinction is important and not just because grammar is important: God commands the forces of nature to obey him. In the beginning, he commanded all that is to appear. Except for humans. For humans, God speaks differently. He invites, he questions, he dialogues. God speaks to us and wants to hear our response — because he wants us to find that same calm and that same stillness with him and through him and in him — a state of mind and a posture of heart that begins when we believe what he says and what he does is true and thus recognize him when he comes.

Jesus said at the end of his earthly ministry that all power and authority had been given to him and that he would be with us always, even to the ages of ages. God is with us, behind us, before us, beneath us; above us and all around us. On the boat in the storm, in the car before work, when we laugh, when we cry, He abides – even when we miss him, even when we don’t believe he is there. God rests in this place where there never seems to be any rest that he might be ready to raise his hands and calm the turmoil within us when we ask him to do so. 

Tossed here and there by the waves, it takes a certain courage to leave the cabin or let go of the handrail. It takes a bravery of spirit to step away from the power of our fear and set down the easy comforts and the quick fixes and reach for the Lord, daring to take God at his word, to say, “Save me, O Christ, lest I perish.”

That movement, that prayer, is in itself a victory. Because he will save us. He will deliver us. Maybe not from our circumstances, but through them. Maybe not in the ways we expect or even want but in the way we need. For all that we experience, the good and the bad, is the domain of our salvation, an opportunity to exercise our faith in the steadfast love of the LORD, a love that never fails, not even in the face of death. God is with us, offering us peace, offering us rest, even amidst the storm. AMEN. 


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​      Linda and I have just returned from a wonderful cruise in northern Europe.  We planned this in celebration of our 50th wedding anniversary, which really isn’t until 22 June. Anyway, we had a tremendous time. We thought of you all along the way and kept you in our prayers as I know we were in yours. It was great to get away, but it was even greater to get back and it is wonderful to see you again. 
 
      An elderly lady was well-known for her faith and for her boldness in talking about it. She would stand on her front porch and shout “PRAISE THE LORD!”
 
     Next door to her lived an atheist who would get so angry at her proclamations he would shout, “There ain’t no Lord!!”
 
     Hard times set in on the elderly lady, and she prayed for God to send her some assistance. She stood on her porch and shouted “PRAISE THE LORD. God, I need some food!! Please, Lord, send me some groceries!!”
 
     The next morning the lady went out on her porch and noticed a large bag of groceries and shouted, “PRAISE THE LORD.”
 
     The neighbor jumped from behind a bush and said, “Aha! I told you there ain’t no Lord. I bought those groceries. God didn’t.”
 
     The lady started jumping up and down and clapping her hands and said, “PRAISE THE LORD. He not only sent me groceries, but He made the devil pay for them. Praise the Lord!”
 
     That lady had faith, didn’t she? I’ve had the great blessing throughout my ministry of knowing many people who had that kind of strong faith.  In my brief time here at Emmanuel Memorial, I’ve met some people who have that kind of faith.  In every person who has strong Christian faith, it started out small, like a mustard seed, but with time and care it has grown large and overshadows every other element in the person’s life.
 
     All people have faith. Don’t misunderstand me, I didn’t say that all people have Christian faith, but all people have certain guiding principles that determine how they look at life and the course their lives take.
 
     We all have principles by which we live our lives, some large and some small. My Aunt Martha, may she rest in peace, grew up in the small town of Grove City, Ohio. She and my mother and their other sister and my grandparents were related probably to half the people in town. Everyone knew everyone else. She told me when I was growing up, “In a small town, don’t tell anyone anything you don’t want everyone to know.” She put faith in that small principle.
 
     We’re still pretty new here, but it seems like Champaign is a fairly small town!
 
     There are many things that become guiding principles in people’s lives. Some people’s primary guiding principle is the amassing of wealth. Others have as their primary motivation having power over others. For others, it’s respect, for others, work.  For some, the most important thing is family.  For the addict, it’s coming up with the next fix.  For the alcoholic, the next drink.  Some guiding principles are basically good things, and are compatible with Christian faith, if kept in perspective; others are not.
 
     The most important of the 10 Commandments is the first one: “I am the Lord thy God who brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have none other gods but me.”  Jesus restated this most important guiding principle this way: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.”   a second guiding principle is like the first: “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”
 
     These are the guiding principles for every Christian, and they’re the only way to true life. The faith revealed to us in Holy Scripture is that to put anything else as the most important thing in life is idolatry and will ultimately lead to destruction. Money, power, fame, respect, family, drugs, alcohol – they’re all in the same category—if they become more important than the love of God. When that happens, that’s what we call sin.
 
     Wait a minute!  Did I just change gears with you?  I thought we were talking about faith!  Don’t you have to have faith first, before you have the love of God? Isn’t faith synonymous with belief?  The theologian John Macquarie, in his book The Faith of the People of God, says “faith is a total attitude toward life, and although belief is a part of this attitude, it’s essence is to be seen rather in commitment to a way of life. It may be the case that when the commitment is made, all the beliefs implied in it are not yet clear, and it’s only in following out the commitment that the beliefs come to be fully and explicitly understood.”  In the Letter of James, the apostle says, “You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that—and shudder.”  So, when Jesus speaks about faith he’s speaking about a relationship between God and the believer.
 
     I just quoted from the Letter of James.  James is an excellent example of the point I’m making.  During our Lord Jesus’ earthly ministry, his own family wasn’t particularly supportive of his ministry in Nazareth.  Jesus’ family actually tried to restrain him from preaching, teaching, and healing.  James, his brother, isn’t mentioned, but we would assume that he was one of the family members trying to keep Jesus from doing his ministry.
 
     James obviously believed that Jesus existed as he was growing up with him, but I think it’s safe to say that he had no faith in him at that point.  Even if our Lord Jesus had tried to convince his brother that he was the Creator of the universe, James would most likely have thought he was crazy or possessed!  James eventually became an apostle and was the first bishop of Jerusalem.  By that time, he knew that Jesus had been raised from the dead.  He knew him as his Lord and God.  He actually gave his life for him, for he died for his faith in the year 62.  Now that’s a mustard seed growing into a large shrub story if I’ve ever heard one!
 
     So, faith, while it includes belief, is more than belief; it’s a relationship between God and the believer. Think about the most important relationships you have. What are the characteristics of those relationships?  They’re loving, they have a foundation of trust, and they require nurturing through time spent with the beloved.  That’s a good thing to remember always, but especially on this Father’s Day.
 
     Your being here this morning is an act of faith.  You’re spending time with God, your heavenly Father.  You’re nurturing your relationship with him.  If perhaps you’re here for the first time and know very little about the Christian faith, this first small step is an act of faith, and could be that small mustard seed that eventually will grow into a large shrub in your life, overshadowing everything else.
 
     As fallen human beings, we all have a tendency to make something else the main thing, when we know our commitment to God should be the main thing, always and everywhere.  But thanks be to God, whenever we fall and confess our failure, God forgives instantly.
 
     God grant us the grace to make our faith the main thing, as that mustard seed grows into the largest of shrubs, and our faith becomes more and more the way to life.
 
 
 
 
 
 

In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Adam and Eve heard the sound of the LORD God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God among the trees of the garden.” 

We all know this particular story. We’ve heard it before, some of us even since we were children. Though they had been commanded not to eat the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, the man and woman did precisely that. The snake tempted Eve, she tempted Adam, and the rest is history — which is really where we’ve all learned this story in unforgettable and sometimes deeply personal ways. 

No one, not even the most optimistic among us, can look at our world — or at our own selves — and conclude that everything is fine. As G.K. Chesterton once famously said, original sin (this disease or dysfunction that got its start somewhere behind the mists of myth and legend) is the one doctrine on which everyone can agree. The evidence is simply too great to deny. One glance at the news, one moment on any social media platform, and we know (if we’re being honest) that something has gone terribly wrong. In sinful hands, the fruit of that forbidden tree really is death.
Not that Adam and Eve were thinking about that when they dashed into the forest on that primordial evening. All they wanted to do was hide. To flee from their mistake, to deny their disobedience, to be exempted from responsibility — as if the absence of the criminal could reverse the crime. Adam and Eve were ashamed; and they were ashamed to be seen by the only One who could save them. 

You see, when the woman and the man ate the forbidden fruit, they didn’t actually gain anything. They lost something, even everything. Ever since that moment, humankind ceased to know God as he is. We stopped looking to the heavens with our arms raised in thanksgiving because we were too busy looking after ourselves, too concerned with our own self-preservation to recognize God as our creator and sustainer and friend. And so it is that Adam and Eve hid because they thought they knew what was coming, and they couldn’t bear to watch.

But if they had dared — if they had stayed, if they had stepped out from among the trees, what would they have found but the God who was coming to find them. And who is also coming to find us. 

Because we, too, hide from God. Like our forebears, we reach for something that we should not have or does not belong to us and then recoil when the consequences unfold. “But he deserved the harsh words,” we think. Or, “I wanted the dress or the car or the phone and have a right to it — and to my opinion.” That movement rarely results in healing or hope. In fact, more often than not it results in the kind of pain or alienation that can blind us to each other and to the world and to God. Wittingly or unwittingly, we hide — and so lose ourselves.

And yet God is not deterred. Nor is he dismayed. He loves us, he speaks to us, not only when we are “good,” but when we make mistakes. Maybe especially when we make mistakes. God approaches, calling us each by name, holding out a wounded hand to lead us back into the light. A light in which we are revealed just as much as God is.

For God made a promise to the frightened couple that night in the garden. He told them that their own offspring, their own flesh and blood, would face the same temptation they failed to withstand; but this time, he would overcome it, even if it cost him his life. 

Even then the gospel is spoken. Even then the Christ is revealed. Almost from the very beginning — when creation seemed to have come to its very end — we find the Son of God and Son of Man, the One in whose image we are made, who was born, who lived and died so that we might once more dwell in the presence of God without fear or shame but in quiet confidence and contented rest. 
Which is where the human being was always meant to be: at one with God, at home with God, at peace with Him. Christ achieved that for us. Opened up that garden again for us. Though Jesus suffered, though he was crucified, he crushed the serpent, and gave us what we thought had been lost forever: communion with God himself. 

That is our eternal reality, our belief and our hope, a hope that is unseen in so many ways and yet present and possible even in the here and now. For God does not find us only to let us hide again but draws the soul who desires him ever deeper into the life of his love and the light of his kingdom. There we are reborn. There we once more grow up. There we learn as an infant does — crawling, toddling, running, falling, again and again and again, always looking to dada, to “Abba” for our every need and our every good. 

Until one day we learn to give him everything and to expect everything from him. Until one day we learn to surrender our will to his, to long for him with the same intensity as a watchman guarding his city gates longs for the dawn. Until one day we know him, finally, as the God of mercy, who forgives that he might be revealed to us — and so he heals us. And when that happens, the watching becomes seeing, and the longing becomes enjoying, and we enter paradise again, not as the children of Adam and Eve but as the children of God, the brothers and sisters of Christ. 

For now, though, we wait. We wait in this world at the time of the evening breeze for the sound of the LORD God walking our way. May we listen for him. May we long for him. May we run out to meet him when he comes. AMEN.

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