A Voice Against The Wind
Sermon
Preaching Eyes for Listening Ears
Sermons and Commentary For Preachers and Students of Preaching
Although this sermon was preached in the Columbia Chapel as late as July, 1993, it had been delivered in much the same form at numerous churches over the last several years.
It is essentially a retelling of the biblical story with the recurring refrain "against the wind" over against the I AM (ego eimi) of Jesus' voice.
The story is told in such a way as to try to draw the hearers into the emotions, sights, and sounds of the narrative so that they can identify with the sense of helplessness the disciples felt in the storm as well as the awe and assurance which swept over them when they realized that Jesus had come to them in the midst of the storm.
Most of the time the wind was their friend, the sea their home, the boat their submissive chariot. Several of these men were fishermen who drew their livelihood from the sea. With skills sharpened by long years of practice, hands and muscles hardened by constant use, they could control the boat, guide it along watery lanes, and bring it to safe and certain shores. They liked the sting of the wind in their faces, and, at times, they could capture its strength in their sails to speed them on their way.
But this time they were distressed in rowing, for the wind was against them. Their boat was on the sea in the dead of night. The darkness obscured the distant shore. The wind pushed against them like a giant hand blocking their way. All their combined skill, all their corporate muscle bent against the sturdy oars could not release them from the grip of the tossing waves which held them fast.
Not only did the boat seem to stand still except for its restless rocking, but time, too, seemed not to move. What watch of the night was it? Stars were hidden by mist and clouds; the glow of the moon could not penetrate the gloom. Darkness seemed to close in upon them. Surely dawn must come sometime, but for what seemed like days instead of hours there had been no streaks of light on any horizon.
And with the darkness, the wind, and the crashing waves there came the sense of loneliness, of near despair, of forsakenness. Twelve of them were together in the boat, but still they felt alone. The presence of the One who had made them one was not among them. He had set them on their journey in the night. He had sent them on ahead of him. Surely there was in that sending the promise of his coming, that he would meet them on the other side.
But suppose they never reached the shore. How, then, could he join them? Why had he gone up into the hills? He was there alone on the land, and they were out here on the sea in the dark, distressed in rowing, for the wind was against them.
But what they did not know, or did not have the faith to believe, was that although they could not see Jesus at prayer in the hills, he could see them on the sea, and he knew that they were distressed in rowing.
Then at last, when the night is darkest and strength is exhausted and the lamp of life burns low, in that long, lonely stretch of night just before the dawn finally breaks, in the fourth watch of the night, he came to them walking on the sea.
With what splendid restraint the story is told. Here is quiet dignity, firm assurance, unshakable authority. This is no nick--in--time rescue effort; no dashing through the waves on angel wings. But walking on the sea, like a laird striding across his acreage; like a king strolling through his realm.
In fact, Mark tells us that Jesus meant to pass them by. Did he need to come directly to them? Would it not be enough simply to show himself in silhouette, to let them know that he was near, steadfast against the wind? Would not such a passing by be enough to bolster their confidence and strengthen their faith?
Perhaps it should have been, but it was not. Such a coming did not fit their expectations nor their hopes. It shattered the limits of what they thought possible.
This was not the familiar figure whom they knew and could recognize. Jesus had startled them before by calming a storm only with his words, "Peace, be still." But that time he was in the boat with them; he had not left them alone.
But what was this strange shape striding across the waves? Who was this lordly figure defying the wind and the waves and moving majestically across the sea? Surely this was no source of comfort, but an apparition, a phantom from the realm of the dead, perhaps a sign of sure disaster.
So they cried out in terror, "It is a ghost," But the wind snatched their words and flung them scattered against the distant hills.
Then through the wind, against the wind, there came a voice, a voice which the wind could not catch nor distort: "Take heart; it is I; have no fear!"
What an extraordinary command! What a daring call for faith! "Take heart; have no fear!"
What evidence will he give to support such a call to courage? What reason will he set forth for abandoning fear?
He does not promise that the storm soon will cease. He does not say, "All will be well"; he does not declare, "Hold on a little longer; dawn is about to break"; he does not challenge: "Row harder and you will surely reach the shore."
The only word he gives them to call them to faith is this: "It is I." This word he flings against the wind. This word he brings to terrified disciples in a boat that will not move. "I AM, AND I AM HERE!"
This is a strong word. It is a revealing word. It is a word which calls for the response of faith.
When Moses stood before a burning bush and heard a command and asked the question, "Who are you?" the answer came, "I AM." This is a word which reveals that God is present and active, concerned and caring, whether spoken from a burning bush or from a voice against the wind.
After proclaiming, "Take heart; I AM; have no fear," Jesus came through the mist and got into the boat with his disciples. They were utterly astonished. His being with them still did not answer all their questions, for there was still much which they did not understand. There were lengths to go before their voyage of faith would land them on a safe and solid shore.
But the wind had ceased, the waves were calm, and the boat was on the move again, for they had heard a voice against the wind: "I AM."
Perhaps some of you have had the literal experience of being in a small craft in the dark of night, distressed in rowing because the wind was against you. If that is true, then you can identify with the disciples on the storm--tossed sea.
I have never had that experience, but I, like most of you I am sure, have known times when I was distressed in rowing because the wind was against me.
Who among us has not found himself or herself in situations which were about to overwhelm us, that were far beyond our skill or strength to control? A serious illness for ourselves or for someone whom we love; a controversy in the church which seems to have no ready resolution; tensions within the family circle which grow worse the more we try to work at them; disruptions in the world which are so deep and complex that we are at a loss to understand them, much less to know how to contribute to their salvation.
Are there not times when we dare to wonder whether God has abandoned us, whether Jesus has forgotten us, whether the Holy Spirit is after all simply a Holy Ghost?
Oh, we of little faith! Does Jesus not come to us again and again over the waves, through the darkness, with his voice against the wind?
He may not come on our terms nor according to our timetable. He may wait until the fourth watch of the night. But come he will!
Look then. That dim shape forming through the mist need not be a source of terror simply because it is new, mysterious, and does not fit what we believe is possible. Our Lord Christ exposes himself to the storm and comes to us through it.
Listen! There is a voice against the wind. The voice gives no easy assurances. But it speaks a strong word: "Take heart; have no fear, I AM." God is; God comes; God is here.
Is this not better than a smooth sea and a dull crossing?
Is this not better than a ship becalmed, rocking softly and sleepily with no shore for which to strive?
Is this not better than to feel no need for Jesus Christ to come to us in the fourth watch of the night?
Give us, then, the wind against us, the breaking waves, and a craft tossed in uncertainty and fear, if in such a setting we can see him coming to us through the dark, and hear his voice against the wind, "Take heart; have no fear; I AM!"
It is essentially a retelling of the biblical story with the recurring refrain "against the wind" over against the I AM (ego eimi) of Jesus' voice.
The story is told in such a way as to try to draw the hearers into the emotions, sights, and sounds of the narrative so that they can identify with the sense of helplessness the disciples felt in the storm as well as the awe and assurance which swept over them when they realized that Jesus had come to them in the midst of the storm.
Most of the time the wind was their friend, the sea their home, the boat their submissive chariot. Several of these men were fishermen who drew their livelihood from the sea. With skills sharpened by long years of practice, hands and muscles hardened by constant use, they could control the boat, guide it along watery lanes, and bring it to safe and certain shores. They liked the sting of the wind in their faces, and, at times, they could capture its strength in their sails to speed them on their way.
But this time they were distressed in rowing, for the wind was against them. Their boat was on the sea in the dead of night. The darkness obscured the distant shore. The wind pushed against them like a giant hand blocking their way. All their combined skill, all their corporate muscle bent against the sturdy oars could not release them from the grip of the tossing waves which held them fast.
Not only did the boat seem to stand still except for its restless rocking, but time, too, seemed not to move. What watch of the night was it? Stars were hidden by mist and clouds; the glow of the moon could not penetrate the gloom. Darkness seemed to close in upon them. Surely dawn must come sometime, but for what seemed like days instead of hours there had been no streaks of light on any horizon.
And with the darkness, the wind, and the crashing waves there came the sense of loneliness, of near despair, of forsakenness. Twelve of them were together in the boat, but still they felt alone. The presence of the One who had made them one was not among them. He had set them on their journey in the night. He had sent them on ahead of him. Surely there was in that sending the promise of his coming, that he would meet them on the other side.
But suppose they never reached the shore. How, then, could he join them? Why had he gone up into the hills? He was there alone on the land, and they were out here on the sea in the dark, distressed in rowing, for the wind was against them.
But what they did not know, or did not have the faith to believe, was that although they could not see Jesus at prayer in the hills, he could see them on the sea, and he knew that they were distressed in rowing.
Then at last, when the night is darkest and strength is exhausted and the lamp of life burns low, in that long, lonely stretch of night just before the dawn finally breaks, in the fourth watch of the night, he came to them walking on the sea.
With what splendid restraint the story is told. Here is quiet dignity, firm assurance, unshakable authority. This is no nick--in--time rescue effort; no dashing through the waves on angel wings. But walking on the sea, like a laird striding across his acreage; like a king strolling through his realm.
In fact, Mark tells us that Jesus meant to pass them by. Did he need to come directly to them? Would it not be enough simply to show himself in silhouette, to let them know that he was near, steadfast against the wind? Would not such a passing by be enough to bolster their confidence and strengthen their faith?
Perhaps it should have been, but it was not. Such a coming did not fit their expectations nor their hopes. It shattered the limits of what they thought possible.
This was not the familiar figure whom they knew and could recognize. Jesus had startled them before by calming a storm only with his words, "Peace, be still." But that time he was in the boat with them; he had not left them alone.
But what was this strange shape striding across the waves? Who was this lordly figure defying the wind and the waves and moving majestically across the sea? Surely this was no source of comfort, but an apparition, a phantom from the realm of the dead, perhaps a sign of sure disaster.
So they cried out in terror, "It is a ghost," But the wind snatched their words and flung them scattered against the distant hills.
Then through the wind, against the wind, there came a voice, a voice which the wind could not catch nor distort: "Take heart; it is I; have no fear!"
What an extraordinary command! What a daring call for faith! "Take heart; have no fear!"
What evidence will he give to support such a call to courage? What reason will he set forth for abandoning fear?
He does not promise that the storm soon will cease. He does not say, "All will be well"; he does not declare, "Hold on a little longer; dawn is about to break"; he does not challenge: "Row harder and you will surely reach the shore."
The only word he gives them to call them to faith is this: "It is I." This word he flings against the wind. This word he brings to terrified disciples in a boat that will not move. "I AM, AND I AM HERE!"
This is a strong word. It is a revealing word. It is a word which calls for the response of faith.
When Moses stood before a burning bush and heard a command and asked the question, "Who are you?" the answer came, "I AM." This is a word which reveals that God is present and active, concerned and caring, whether spoken from a burning bush or from a voice against the wind.
After proclaiming, "Take heart; I AM; have no fear," Jesus came through the mist and got into the boat with his disciples. They were utterly astonished. His being with them still did not answer all their questions, for there was still much which they did not understand. There were lengths to go before their voyage of faith would land them on a safe and solid shore.
But the wind had ceased, the waves were calm, and the boat was on the move again, for they had heard a voice against the wind: "I AM."
Perhaps some of you have had the literal experience of being in a small craft in the dark of night, distressed in rowing because the wind was against you. If that is true, then you can identify with the disciples on the storm--tossed sea.
I have never had that experience, but I, like most of you I am sure, have known times when I was distressed in rowing because the wind was against me.
Who among us has not found himself or herself in situations which were about to overwhelm us, that were far beyond our skill or strength to control? A serious illness for ourselves or for someone whom we love; a controversy in the church which seems to have no ready resolution; tensions within the family circle which grow worse the more we try to work at them; disruptions in the world which are so deep and complex that we are at a loss to understand them, much less to know how to contribute to their salvation.
Are there not times when we dare to wonder whether God has abandoned us, whether Jesus has forgotten us, whether the Holy Spirit is after all simply a Holy Ghost?
Oh, we of little faith! Does Jesus not come to us again and again over the waves, through the darkness, with his voice against the wind?
He may not come on our terms nor according to our timetable. He may wait until the fourth watch of the night. But come he will!
Look then. That dim shape forming through the mist need not be a source of terror simply because it is new, mysterious, and does not fit what we believe is possible. Our Lord Christ exposes himself to the storm and comes to us through it.
Listen! There is a voice against the wind. The voice gives no easy assurances. But it speaks a strong word: "Take heart; have no fear, I AM." God is; God comes; God is here.
Is this not better than a smooth sea and a dull crossing?
Is this not better than a ship becalmed, rocking softly and sleepily with no shore for which to strive?
Is this not better than to feel no need for Jesus Christ to come to us in the fourth watch of the night?
Give us, then, the wind against us, the breaking waves, and a craft tossed in uncertainty and fear, if in such a setting we can see him coming to us through the dark, and hear his voice against the wind, "Take heart; have no fear; I AM!"
