Mark 4:35-41
I want to speak
with you this morning about a topic that, in one sense, I know nothing about
but that, in another sense, I live out a lot more than I’d like. I want to speak with you about being in peril
amidst the chaos of the raging sea. I
believe we find ourselves in a moment very much like the Gospel reading we
heard this morning – that story of Jesus, and the disciples, and the storm on
the Sea of Galilee that almost swamps their small boat.
Now, as I said, I
have no experience navigating storms at sea.
I don’t even have any experience navigating storms on a lake or a
river. But I want to tell you about an
experience from our vacation to New York that’s had me thinking about tempest-tossed
seas a little more than usual.
One of the places Ann
and I visited was Ellis Island, which is now a national monument
devoted to the
history of the immigrant experience in the United States. I walked up the stairs into that stunning
great hall, which looks more like a church than a government building; and I
could imagine it teeming with people seeking new life in this country – that huge,
echoing space, with thousands of voices speaking scores of languages. For the government officials trying to make
sense of all those stories, it must have felt like complete chaos. And yet, that chaos was nothing compared with
the crossing each of those 12 million immigrants had experienced – most of them
selling their possessions and coming in steerage, sharing cramped space and all
kinds of diseases, to journey to a land where they saw hope and
opportunity. That’s chaos on the
storm-tossed seas I can’t even fathom.
(And if that’s true, by the
way, just try to imagine the chaos endured by people enslaved and brought
across that same ocean, enduring the monstrous injustices of kidnapping,
torture, and death.)
 |
| The Great Hall, Ellis Island |
But what really
struck me at Ellis Island was part of the facility most visitors don’t
see. We had arranged for a special tour
of the hospital wards where sick immigrants were housed and treated before
being admitted to this country or sent back home. The hospital wards look very rough today because
they haven’t been preserved. But in the
day, the hospital on Ellis Island provided arguably the world’s standard of
care, particularly for infectious diseases like cholera and tuberculosis. The immigrant hospital pioneered innovations
like housing contagious patients separately, sterilizing instruments and
bedding, designing wards to allow in light and fresh air, and studying disease both
clinically, like a medical school, and epidemiologically, like a public health
service.
The Ellis Island
hospital had a tremendous cure rate and remarkably low mortality. And all this care was offered for people who
weren’t even American citizens. It was
for people who had endured the stormy chaos of the Atlantic passage and were
living in the frightening limbo of being citizens of nowhere. Our government cared for these strangers with
the best technology available, treating them as full human beings, full
children of God. Now, you can make a
good argument that doing so was in the nation’s pragmatic interest, to bring in
healthy people for jobs we didn’t have enough workers to fill. True enough – and in the process, the
individuals themselves were also blessed, and made well, and given new lives. For them, the storm was stilled. And because of the care they received, they
became the ancestors of millions of us today, perhaps some of us sitting in
this very room.
Today, in our
historical moment, the metaphorical storm-tossed seas continue to rage and foam. Immigration is among the issues dominating
our news and dividing our loyalties. How
do we do what every nation has to do, establishing safe and secure
borders? We’ve had to figure that out
across our history, whether the focus was on Ellis Island or, now, on the
southern border. Part of the challenge
is that immigration is not just an issue of public policy but also as an issue
of ethics because there are real, live people involved – which is also
something we’ve struggled to figure out across our history. How are we called to treat the stranger at
our border and the stranger in our midst?
And for us as Christians, we are required to ask the question this
way: How would Jesus have us treat the
stranger at our border and the stranger in our midst?
Recently, the
attorney general moved into that question of Christian ethics, too, quoting Paul’s
letter to the Romans to back up administration policy. This morning, between the services, we had a
discussion about Scripture, interpretation, and the treatment of immigrants. It was great, and you’re invited to come as
we continue it next week, same time and same place. We’re doing this because we can do this here. We can have
great discussions in this congregation.
We are a family of folks with wide-ranging points of view who can trust
each other enough to share them, and learn from each other, and still come
together around this table to be empowered as Christ’s body in the world. This is a big-tent moment in our national
life, and I believe Jesus is asking this parish family to lean into it – to be
a contrast presence to the divisiveness of the culture around us.
Of course,
immigration isn’t the only stormy sea that the Church and our nation have been
navigating. Other waves also beat
against our boat, and, again, I want to be direct with you about one of them. We’ve been interviewing candidates to be our
new assistant rector, someone to take on Mother Anne’s formerly full-time
duties in pastoral care, parish life, and worship management. This search follows three other searches that
have brought us three stellar people to serve as our minister for younger
adults and families, our community coordinator, and our engagement
coordinator. And each of those new hires
is doing a fabulous job, even in their first two or three months with us. We had a gathering for younger adults last
Friday, and even in the summer, with folks out of town, we had 25 people
there. HJ’s is seeing use every day by
parishioners, community groups, local businesses, nonprofits, and people just
wanting a cup of coffee – and paid bookings are over $7,000 already. Newcomers are receiving not just an immediate
welcome but solid follow-up; our greeter ministry is growing stronger; and
parishioners are being contacted to get involved in new ways.
Of the people
we’ve called to serve in those three positions, two of them have spouses of the
same gender. The search committees
didn’t recommend hiring any of our new staff members because of their sexual
identities, and I didn’t hire any of them because of their sexual
identities. We called the three best
people we could find for the work Jesus is asking us to do here. And I believe we are richly blessed to be
part of a Church that embraces the ministries of all people and allows us to
consider any qualified candidate for a job.
Now, at this
point, we’re close to calling a priest to take on leadership of our ministries
of pastoral care, parish life, and worship management. And, as it happens, one of the two finalists for
that job also has a spouse of the same gender.
If the Holy Spirit leads us to call that candidate, it will be another
example of our seeking the very best person we can find for the work God gives
us to do here. I hope to have something
to share about that search in the coming week.
Now, a lot of the people
in our national boat have felt frightened by the storms we face. There are immigrants who fear the prospect of
detention and deportation – and there are Americans who fear what they see in
other countries whose immigration systems have weakened their economies and
changed their societies. There are LGBT
Christians who’ve felt marginalized and silenced for decades – and there are
other Christians who tell me they don’t recognize the Church that, not so long
ago, taught them homosexuality was a sin and who don’t want to feel left behind
by a family they love. This is a time of
change and uncertainty on so many levels in our world and our Church, and rapid
change is maybe the most frightening storm of all.
I will be honest
with you. As the captain of this ship of
souls, I am afraid sometimes. I find
myself right there with the disciples in today’s reading, fearing that the wind
and the waves will tip us over. When the
tension torques up – when harsh language or divisive actions hit the news – I
struggle with what I can say, and
what I should say, and what effect saying something will have on
this church family, and yet how Jesus commands us to put loving God and loving
neighbor ahead of anything the world
tells us. I sometimes worry about just
how great a storm our nation and our Church can navigate without the boat
becoming completely swamped.
So, help me out
here, Jesus. Like all of us in this
room, I’m trying to do the right thing.
Wake up, and give us a hand! Do
you not care that we’re taking on water?
Do you not care that we’re afraid?
And Jesus looks at
me and says, “Really? You fear that I
don’t care, and you fear I’m not engaged?
Look,” Jesus says, “I’m right here in this ship of souls with you. Now, I could
silence all your worried arguments with a single word – and I will; that’s what
the second coming’s all about. I’ve
already defeated sin and death, and given you eternal life,” he says, “and I’ve
called you to represent me in the world.
You know who you are – the family of God; gathered under this big,
beautiful tent; called to grow into the fullness of who I’ve created you to
become. Work it out, and show the world how it’s done. Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”
In the hymn we’ll
sing at the end of today’s worship,1 we’ll pray for all those in
peril on the sea. We’ll remember our
eternal Father, whose arm hath bound the restless wave. We’ll remember Christ, whose voice the waters
heard and hushed their raging at his word.
We’ll remember the Spirit, who didst brood upon the chaos dark and rude,
and bid its angry tumult cease, and give, for wild confusion, peace. And I pray – in the midst of the chaos of Church
and state, when it feels like our
boat is being swamped – I pray that we’ll remember who we are and whose we are: that we have Jesus with us in the boat, that
we can love each other through our differences and teach the world to do the
same, and that we need never be
afraid.
1.
Whiting,
William. “Eternal Father, strong to
save.” In The Hymnal 1982. New York: Church Pension Fund, 1985. Hymn number 608.
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