In January of 2017, I too set sail across this lake. It was, fittingly, windy that day as well. There were a good bit of white caps and our boat ended up being delayed for a while until things settled down and weren’t quite so choppy. In the end, we even had to switch boats from a wooden one made more in the style of the boat Jesus would have been in, to a metal boat that would be more resilient in the waves and wind. We worried some of the fellow passengers who were a little less seaworthy might become motion sick. The pastors and seminarians on that trip of course made lots of jokes about needing Jesus to calm the storm so we could set sail. The storm that day, as with today’s reading, is a literal storm, but perhaps there are storms in our own lives we also need to be stilled.
For many of you, I do not know what this storm was in your life. A few of you have shared storms I think may be that storm for you. The storm for me, I remember clearly. I can picture the opening scenes of NBC Nightly News that evening, the way the cop cars looked, red and blue lights painting the Palmetto trees and buildings on the south side of Marion Square. I recognized the trees. I have spent so much time at Marion Square; it’s the site of my favorite art supply store, the original Citadel building and campus, and the site of many historic churches. Charleston is called the “Holy City” after all. I’ve probably marched, walked, run, or driven past that line of Palmetto trees well over 200 times in my life. It’s an odd thing to say, “I recognized the trees,” but I did, I knew those trees and I know that place.
On June 17th, 2015, a young white man joined the Bible study at Emanuel AME, Mother Emanuel in Charleston, South Carolina. At the end of the night he would kill nine members of that Bible study.
Over the next few days the more I learned about what happened the more painful the whole thing became. Layer upon layer of connectedness and interconnectedness. Not only did all of this happen in a beloved and well known place, but two of those men, Pastors Clementa Pinckney and Daniel Simmons were both graduates of Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary, the seminary I was attending and would graduate from. Myra Thompson, also a pastor, received not one but two Master of Education degrees from The Citadel, my other alma mater. It had of course already come to light that the shooter was a baptized and confirmed Lutheran. That congregation was less than three miles from the chapel, classrooms and library Pastors Pinckney, Simmons, and I sat in.
The names, faces, places, and connections are different, but nearly all of you have had an event like this in your life. An event which, when recalled, gives you that sick feeling at the bottom of your stomach, the kind that makes you want to grip your knees in case you need to heave. That dear friends is the feeling of grief. It is the feeling of hurt and sadness; anger and fear; rage and bewilderment all occupying the same small space. It is that feeling of knowing there is a profound loss in the world which cannot be fully comprehended by the mind and so we feel in our guts.
What do we do with all that grief? Does it shut us down? Do we withdraw? Does it drive us to do something? Jesus calmed the storm but the disciples still had to move the boat. When we ask Jesus to calm the storm, are we prepared to go on to fulfill that to which we are called?
We will skip over the passage that happens immediately after this Gospel reading. We don’t tend to think much about one of the obvious questions to this passage: where are they headed on this apparently wind torn lake? What is so important about the destination? They’re going across the sea where Jesus healed many, in fact his healing people was so successful there that the towns folk brought their sick on mats from across the area to be healed. They had such confidence in the work Jesus was doing that the people simply hoped to touch the hem of his garments and believed that would be more than enough to heal them. When we ask Jesus to calm the storm, are we prepared to go fulfill that to which we are called?
Nearly two years ago now, I and many others re-lived and recalled these details as we discussed and voted on this commemoration we hold today. I would watch bishops and pastors of various ages, ethnicities and experiences line up at microphones across the Churchwide Assembly hall to plead for us to pass this commemoration, to reject white supremacy, to repent of the sin of racism in our church and in our world, and to venerate these martyrs. I still recall the faces, the anxiety, the shaking voices of those who spoke, those who understood the weight of that moment, the weight of this moment.
All of these folks, from various backgrounds and synods had channeled their hurt, their grief, into action. Into an action that helps to ensure that this event, that the loss of these wonderful, diverse, and influential lives continue to shape our church. That they continue to push us to ask questions about the racism of our church and our country and to push to reform wherever we may find it.
Friends, for many of you, I do not know what this storm is for you. I do not know what event, what faces of those lost shaped you and drive you. But I know that you too have these kinds of hurts that are deeply connected to your being and that they do drive you to fulfill the purpose to which you are called. To which we are called.
Jesus will calm the storm. Jesus will calm the storm for us to continue the work we are called to. Jesus is ready to calm the storms in our lives for us to receive healing on the other side. Jesus is with us, and delights with us, when we use our own healing to offer healing to others. Thanks be to God.
~ Pastor Chelsea Achterberg, Sermon for June 20, 2021, Emanuel 9, Fourth Sunday after Pentecost