Surviving the Calm

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Mark 4:35-40
"Leaning on the Everlasting Arms"


About five years ago, when I was still in seminary, one of my very best friends had a baby. I will call her Elizabeth. Having a baby was harder than Elizabeth thought it would be. The baby cried. A lot. Elizabeth cried. A lot.

When I finally had a chance to visit her over my so-called summer “vacation” I ordered my dear friend straight to bed, took over the childcare, and held her son in my arms. It was time to calm the storm.

Three hours later I was crying! The baby was crying. Elizabeth was crying.  I was training to be a pastor, but every prayer I ever knew escaped me (and I will not repeat the words that took their place!). I was completely lost. But singing, now that I still remembered. And for whatever reason those songs I learned in Sunday School came flooding back. The lullabies most of all. And I started singing (in my “those who can’t sing, preach, soprano” . . . or is it alto?) “Peace . . . peace . . . be still . . . peace . . . be still . . . peace . . . be still . . .

I did not care how badly I sang off tune that day. I just sang with all my might to that crying baby. And to the baby’s crying mother. And yes, to my crying self. And it wasn’t immediate. And it took a lot longer than I really thought it should. But finally . . . eventually . . . the wailing ceased. And the hiccups turned to sighs. And the baby became a lump in my arms. And I collapsed . . . exhausted . . . on the couch. And my friend finally got some sleep. And so did the baby.

And so did I.

I am guessing just about everyone here could tell a version of that story—from five years ago or from five minutes ago—about coming to our wits end in the swirling chaos that just won’t quit, not even for a second, and holding on to whatever gift of grace God gives us in a moment. Crying out for peace. Singing out for peace. Literally making peace so by our singing. And in an odd way by our crying. Because somehow in our singing and our crying we are finally able to relax enough to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we are leaning on everlasting arms. And they are the arms of peace. And they will not ever let us go.

[choral interlude, “Riding Through the Storm”]

The thing about the winds and the wave is that they have been with us from the beginning of time. From those very first verses in Genesis, when God was beginning to create the heavens and the earth, and the New Revised Standard Version translation says “a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.” And of course the Newquist Interpretive Version from the Hebrew [ve·ru·ach e·lo·him me·ra·che·fet al-pe·nei ham·ma·yim] coming from a woman named “Gusti,” would translate this as the Spirit of God, the breath of God, the wind of God, according to our sacred stories, literally swooping and swirling and maybe even storming over the waters of primordial chaos. From the very beginning.

Which means that the Spirit of God has not just been calming the storm from the beginning of time, but that the Spirit of God has also been in the storm from the beginning of time. And that the Spirit of God may even be using the storm as an uncharted gift of God’s presence and grace and ultimate healing, if it can lead us to know deep in our soul that God is still with us, in good times and in bad, through the swooping and swirling Spirit that forces us to confront our deepest fears, and the peace of Christ within it that passes all understanding, and the everlasting arms of our mothering/fathering/or even best-friend-stepping-in-to-help-out-on-vacation God who will do whatever it takes to calm us in our chaos. Because even God knows what it is to take a break and rest, in the midst of the storm.

Which is, of course, what Jesus is doing on that boat in the first place. With a really long day of preaching and teaching behind him and another long day of healing and casting out demons ahead of him, you could say he is a little tired. And so he is, as we say, “asleep at the wheel” as the storm rages on . . .

And the disciples are terrified, of course, fearing Jesus has abandoned them. But in his defense, may I just point out that Jesus is a carpenter! The disciples are the fishermen! They are the ones who know about boats! What on earth do they expect Jesus to do that they don’t already know how to do themselves? And how often do we cry out to God to save us when we really already do have everything we need to survive already in our possession, as God-given gifts and talents, just waiting for a storm to give us the chance to step up in ways we never knew we could? We know that, here at Madison Square. We do know that . . .

But of course Jesus does still the storm as soon as he wakes up. And chides the disciples for their lack of faith. And then they go on about their healing mission on the other side of the Lake of Galilee. And so, in the end, must we, on the other side of whatever storm has raged—or is still raging . . . around us . . .

But here’s where the real trouble begins. Because if the Gospel of Mark is any indication, the more difficult journey for the disciples comes when the storm ends, and the waters calm, and the clouds fade, and the gentle waves lap at their hull. We start to take the other boat-riders for granted. To jockey for positions of power. To forget the mission that draws us together in the first place. That’s what the disciples do. That’s what we do, if we’re really truly honest.

Jesus asks them to do something different. Jesus asks us to do something different. Yes, we can descend into petty bickering. And miss the moment of grace in search of another crisis. And even go so far as to re-create the storm in an ironic twist that we think will bring us together to “survive” again.

Or we can celebrate all that God has done to lead us through. We can play together and appreciate one another and glorify the God who made it so. We can splash together forever in the cool, calm waters of baptismal grace that form the font of our identity. We can feast with abandon at the table of mercy that offers us such generous sustenance. We can sing boldly—and even badly!—from the word of memory and hope that helps us survive the calm.  And we can walk together with one another whenever the moment arises to offer a word of comfort and care, as the people of God who really do already know how to steer this boat.

And we can survive the calm even better than we have survived the storm. Because the peace that passes understanding is with us always. Leading us forever home. Where help will always come. And we will always be held. Leaning on the everlasting arms of a God who is just as tired as we are. And is bidding us all to rest. And be at peace. And be still. I pray it may be so. Amen.