One day Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side of the lake.” So they got into a boat and set out. As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so that the boat was being swamped, and they were in great danger.
The disciples went and woke him, saying, “Master, Master, we’re going to drown!”
He got up and rebuked the wind and the raging waters; the storm subsided, and all was calm. “Where is your faith?” he asked his disciples.
In fear and amazement they asked one another, “Who is this? He commands even the winds and the water, and they obey him.”
Silence.
Silence all around. The shops aren’t trading, cafes aren’t serving, lecture halls are empty, school playgrounds stand still. Churches can’t gather in person. None of the show, none of the hustle and bustle tune our lives normally play along to.
Maybe the silence is our storm.
Yesterday, you were with Jesus one side of the lake. Following his voice, you stepped into the boat, thinking it was just another journey, another day, preparing yourself for the people, the miracles, the plans that lay ahead. You didn’t know a storm was coming.
Maybe the silence is our storm.
As the first waves hit, you taste their bitterness in your mouth, the chaos of the wind swirls around; what do you do? How do you react? Are you hiding? Are you fighting?
The waves get bigger, they don’t seem to be subsiding. As you realise this storm may be bigger than you, may last a while; what do you do? How do you react? Are you hiding? Are you fighting?
Maybe the silence is our storm.
I don’t know about you, but meditating on this passage, I was out there fighting. Fighting the storm, assuming it was some sort of test of endurance. Jesus was sleeping to test and see what we could do without him. But the storm continued. My efforts were futile. It was in disappointment and panic I realised I needed to wake him. It was only in desperation I decided to go to him, only in finally noticing my powerlessness that I asked him for help.
I fear this sums up my spiritual journey a little too much. Just enough to have caught my attention.
What if this silence is our storm?
As we let our fists fall to our sides, and our efforts subside, what is left?
Let the tears rise and fall as your identity flounders again; sharp and freshly aware of your own limits. Notice the pain as you see the world as it is, this time framed by your own powerlessness. Allow the uncertainty to hover: where is God? What is his will now, is this part of it? Which of his promises still stand? Don’t fear anxiety as it starts to amble in, it is simply another sign of your ever-present fragility.
Now, at least, you are free to fall to the floor and go find Jesus. Fall to your knees, fall on your face, it doesn’t matter much. This is what is left to us and, O how sweet it is. To be rendered powerless and find yourself at the feet of the One who holds all power. Because, you see, at his feet, without the noise of your pride and your plans, now God can really speak. In the silence, we will learn the true power of YHWH. In the silence, we will learn what it is that God is with us. Who knows, maybe he will even begin to whisper of his own plans, if you can hold the silence at his feet.
Come, Church.
In our disappointment, our desperation, our powerlessness, let us go to Jesus.
Come, Church.
Not for answers or solutions, but to listen and wait. For the silence of this storm holds so much for us.
