Above painting: Storm on the Sea of Galilee, Rembrandt, 1633
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From sermon at Calvary Lutheran Church, Rapidan, MN., June 23, 2024; for their 150th Anniversary year celebration. I was their pastor for six years in the 1980’s.
Mark 4:35-41 — That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side.” Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him. A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm. He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” They were terrified and asked each other, “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”
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In mid-October of 1991 the National Weather Service began warning of a dangerous situation that was developing in the North Atlantic. Three major storm systems were forming and moving toward each other. They were expected to converge somewhere off the coast of New England and create one massive storm; perhaps the biggest North Atlantic storm ever. They began to call this unique convergence of weather systems “the perfect storm.” They were expecting trouble, and trouble came. Coastal towns in the path of the storm were heavily damaged. Hundreds of homes were destroyed, thousands of docked boats were destroyed or damaged, and thirteen lives were lost.
Six of those who died in the storm were on a 70-foot fishing vessel called the Andrea Gail. The storm was devastating on land. Out at sea it created impossible conditions. 60-foot waves were widespread; one place even recorded 100-foot waves. The last communication from the Andrea Gail was from a place near the center of the rapidly developing storm. All six men on board perished and the boat was never found. No one knows if mistakes were made, or if there was a mechanical failure, or, most likely, that the storm was just too big and came on too fast.
In 1997 a book was published that told the story of the Andrea Gail, the men who died on it, and the families who were waiting for their return. The title was “The Perfect Storm.” Three years later, a movie was made with the same title. I remember two things about the movie. First, I remember the vivid portrayal of the intensifying storm and the escalating fear of the crew members as they began to realize they would probably die in that storm. Second, I recall the last scene of the men on the boat as it sank. The boat was upside-down, the last two men alive were below deck, up to their necks in the rapidly rising water, and they were sharing a few words in the final moments of their lives. It was a terrifying scene because it was so hopeless.
This morning’s reading from Mark 4, like the story of the Andrea Gail, takes place on a boat during a storm. Verse 37 says, “A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped.” The sea of Galilee is much smaller than the Atlantic Ocean, so the storm was nowhere near the intensity of the ‘perfect storm.’ But the boat was also smaller and perhaps overcrowded, with thirteen men on what probably was a three-man fishing vessel. It was in danger of sinking, and the men were afraid of dying in that storm. They were afraid of death.
We might say death is a storm we are all going to face, one way or another. It will be our biggest storm. The image of life’s troubles being like a storm is used in some of our favorite hymns. For example, after Thomas Dorsey’s wife and baby died in childbirth, he wrote: “Precious Lord, take my hand, Lead me on, let me stand, I am tired, I am weak, I am worn; Through the storm, through the night, Lead me on to the light: Take my hand, precious Lord, Lead me home.” Some of you, perhaps even most of you, are in some sort of storm right now; perhaps even your last storm. I’ll get back to that.
Not long after we moved here 42 years ago this Fall, I took a walk through the Calvary Cemetery. Strolling through a cemetery is a good thing to do every once in a while. The Bible says, “Teach us to number our days, O Lord, so that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.” Cemeteries help me do that. It helps me remember that I, like all those out already there, am here for only a little while. I also took that walk because I wanted to get a sense of the history of this congregation that I had just been called to serve. The old church had been on that site, so that was the place of worship for many years. The people whose stones I was looking at were the ones who worshipped there. And now, as I walked those quiet grounds, it occurred to me that all that was left for any of them, anymore, was that promise from Jesus that they heard about in that old church. Jesus had risen from the dead to say, “Because I live, you also shall live. Whoever believes in me shall not perish, but have eternal life.” That is all they have left now, but that will be enough.
A couple weeks ago I took another walk through the cemetery. It is a much fuller cemetery than 42 years ago. On that long ago walk, I was not familiar with a single name. Now I know something about almost all of them. I know about family connections and old stories of those who died even before I arrived. And, of course, there are those many buried there that I knew very well. I did several of their funerals in the time I was here, and dozens more have died in the 35 years since I left. There are many folks, now in that cemetery, who sat in this sanctuary, where you are now, week after week, for the six years I was in this pulpit. Walking around and reading the names on those stones, brought to my mind a million memories.
In this morning’s Gospel, the disciples are in a storm. Each one of those gravestones in the Calvary Cemetery marks the story of a storm—a death; a death either sudden, or long and drawn out. Death never comes at the right time, you know. It is either too soon and unexpected and it’s a hard wallop; or, it comes too late, after too much pain and suffering and agony and waiting. I was here for some of each.
Let me tell you about a couple of them. Joyce and Marvin were in church every Sunday, and were enjoying their retirement in good health. Both were younger than I am now. One very early morning my phone rang, and it was Joyce. The ambulance was at her house, but it was too late. Marvin was dead on the floor from a heart attack. Devastating. Way too fast, way too soon, and just like that, Joyce was at day one of 30 years as a widow. It was my first funeral here. (continued…)
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