Jesus has sat in a boat in the Sea of Galilee and preached the Good News in parables to the people on the Israel shore. When evening comes he says to his disciples, “Let us go to the other side.” That doesn’t sound like such a big deal.

The Sea of Galilee is actually a lake. It stretches thirteen miles north to south, and seven miles east to west (at it’s widest point). At 700 feet below sea level, it’s the second lowest lake in the world and the lowest fresh water lake. (The Dead Sea, which is the lowest lake in the world, holds salt water.)

Now, the Sea of Galilee is in a deep crease in the land, so it’s surrounded by steep hills. That means that the most constant thing about this body of water is that it is always changing. The Sea of Galilee is well known for it’s sudden and violent storms. So maybe it is something of a big deal when Jesus says, “Let’s go to the other side.”

But, after all, at least four of his disciples are professional fishermen who have spent their lives sailing on this very body of water. So, this boat ought to be in good hands. Maybe it’s not such a big deal that he says, “Lets go to the other side.”

But maybe the big deal isn’t the lake they have to cross to get to the other side, but what’s on the other side. Well, what is on the other side? Not Israel. Jesus was brought up in a culture that believed there were two worlds: Israel and everywhere else. Jews and everyone else. And where is Jesus going? To Not Israel. To Not Jews. “Let’s go to the other side,” he says, let’s go to where the Not Jews, the Gentiles, the unclean people, live.

That is a big deal. And Jesus will find in this unclean territory, called the Decapolis, unclean spirits, and (horrifying for Jews) swine. And he will heal there. And love there. And the healed, loved, unclean Gentile will go into the Decapolis and proclaim how much Jesus has done for him. The first unclean, Gentile, evangelist.

Brian Stoffregen says that the trip across the lake represents “the Gentile mission for Mark. The storm at sea represents the storms in the early church as they sought to carry out Jesus' command ‘to go to the other side’ or ‘to make disciples of all nations.’”

Those storms have been with us for a long time. We’ve had wind and waves and fears of swamping as we’ve dealt with how to proclaim Jesus to those whom cultural and religious teachings have designated as unsuited or unclean. The first storm was when the early church decided to admit Gentiles without requiring them to become Jews first. This violated all cultural norms and the Holy Scriptures and came to pass only after quite a storm. We’ve had storms, serious storms, about people of different races and nations, about allowing AA to meet in churches, about allowing women full access to the ministries of the church.

And storms are with us still. As you know, I have just returned from twelve days in Columbus, Ohio at the once-every-three-years General Convention of The Episcopal Church. The metaphorical conditions there alternated between doldrums (when no wind seemed to be blowing at all and I was saying, “Can we please get on with this?”), to fierce storms of passionate disagreement, sometimes anger, and sometimes obstruction. The storms were all about (you guessed it) sexuality and whether homosexuals would be allowed full access to the ministries of the church. To my way of thinking, we bent over backwards (further than I would have liked) to assure the rest of the Anglican Communion that we wanted to stay in communion with them, and yet, even before the convention was over, the archconservative bishops stormed out. They were holding a press conference outside the convention center. I tried to hear, but it was crowded. All I could make out was, “petition,” “Archbishop of Canterbury,” and “dissociation.” When asked if he would violate diocesan boundaries, Bishop Duncan of Pittsburgh said, “The bishops of those dioceses have been unfaithful, so the boundaries are lowered.” Stormy weather. I knew I was in the midst of wind, and waves, and fear.

Our story this morning in some ways is not very helpful. Jesus sleeps in the stern as the small craft is caught in the tempest and, even with four fishermen on board, starts to take on water. When they wake him up and ask whether he even cares that they are about to be killed, he rebukes the wind and says to the sea, “Peace, be still!” Then he scolds the disciples: “Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?” And they are filled with awe and say, “Who is this guy?”

The part of the story I find is not very helpful is what it doesn’t say. It doesn’t say what they should have done. I mean, it seemed to me that waking Jesus up was a pretty good plan. It worked, too. So what would Jesus have had them do? Die? Rebuke the wind themselves? Not interrupt his nap? We don’t really know.

But I think that when we ask those questions, we’re pushing the story too far. To my mind, what this story means is this: this business of going to those who have been shut out, ostracized, excluded, persecuted, oppressed, considered unclean, this is always going to be a stormy business. Always has been, always will be. And at times it will seem that even starting that journey will inevitably end in wind and rain and storms and death.

And then the story tells us this: trust Jesus, have faith, be courageous.

When I was at General Convention, in the midst of wind and waves and points of order, and motions to substitute, and calling the previous question, and motions to reconsider, and speeches predicting dire consequences if we do, and speeches predicting dire consequences if we don’t, and press conferences predicting death at sea — when I was at General Convention in the midst of the church going about its stormy business, I want you to know that you were with me. You were a rudder to me. You encouraged me. You were Christ in the storm for me.

This is how: I knew, deep in my heart, that whatever happened or is to happen — if the Anglican Communion comes apart; if we are kicked out, ridiculed, and ostracized; if the Episcopal Church loses half its members — I knew that whatever happened or is to happen, I would come back from Columbus to be with you, you faithful, courageous people, in this place, this nave, this boat, and together, in so many different ways, we would bend our oars, through wind and waves, struggling to get to that far shore. I knew that whatever the storm has to throw at us, at least in this place, the reconciling work of Christ will go on. And that was enough. You were Christ for me. And I just was not afraid.

Thank you for that. Thank you for being Christ to me in the storm. And, my brothers and sisters, may God continue to richly bless you in your ministries.

The Rev. James H. Pritchett, Jr. St. John’s Episcopal Church, College Park, GA. If you would like to comment on this sermon or receive these sermons by email, contact me at rector@stjohnscollegepark.com.