It’s
time
to
break
out
the
ol’
Gospel
reading
glasses
.
.
.
what’s
that
you
say? You’ve never heard
of
the
Gospel
reading
glasses? Well, the
Gospel
Reading
Glasses
are
made
of
tempered,
shatter-resistant
glass,
come
in
a
variety
of
designer
frames,
and
are
tri-focaled. That's right:
tri-focaled,
and
they
have
the
unique,
never-before
heard
of
property
of
being
able
to
see
scripture
in
the
light
of
different
times. But not just any old times, three
specific time-periods. The earliest is
the
time
of
Jesus
'
life
here
on
earth—around
30
Ado Domini,
what
the
historians
are
now
calling
“the
common
era”
or
C.E. The second time
period
is
variable,
and
corresponds
to
whenever
the
Gospel
in
question
was
written. In the case of Mark, we
think
that was
35
to
40
years
after
the
crucifixion
.
.
.
let’s
just
say
somewhere
around
65
to
70
Common
Era. The final, latest
time
period
is
easy—it’s
now. 2012 Common Era,
and
the
place—for
these
glasses
help
us
to
see
that as
well—is
these
United
States,
specifically
the
great
state
of
Ohio,
in
the
county
of
Hamilton
and
the
city
of
Cincinnati. And today, for
a
limited
time,
these
wonderful
glasses
can
be
yours for
the
low,
low
price
of
only
$19.95
+
shipping
and
handling
.
.
.
Ok,
enough
of
that. The point is,
to
understand
what
a
Gospel
is
saying,
you
have
to
look
at
the
incident
itself,
what
Jesus
might
have
meant
by
what
he
said
or
did,
and
how his audience might
have
understood
it,
then
you
have
to
look
at
what
the
gospel
writer
might
have
meant,
and
how
his audience—usually
a
congregation,
same
as
y’all—might
have
understood
it,
and
finally,
how
do
we
ourselves understand
it,
how
might
it
apply
to
us,
in
this
time
and
in
this
place.
So. Let’s look at the episode itself: Jesus had
just
gotten
finished
telling
his
disciples
a
parable,
and
it
is
evening,
and
he
up
and
says
“"Let
us
go
across
to
the
other
side." Now, the Sea of Galilee—the
body
of
water
of
which
he
proposed
to
sail
to
the
other
side—was
well-known
by
the
local
fishermen,
several
of
whom
were
members
of
the
twelve,
for
being
one
rough
customer. Doubtless, they
had
seen
more
than
one
of
their
colleagues
drown
on
its
storm-tossed
waters,
and
here
Jesus
was,
suggesting
they
go
out
in
the
evening,
at
just
the
time
when
the
convection
currents
of
the
air
began,
when
differential
cooling
meant
that
nasty
little
storms
would
almost
inevitably boil
up,
and
the
sea
would
begin
to
thrash
and
the
wind
begin
to
shriek,
and
small
boats
such
as
theirs
would
succumb
to
the
frightening,
devouring
depths
.
.
.
But
the
disciples
go
anyway,
their
obedience
is
absolute,
and
besides,
there
were other
boats
out
there
with
them,
so
maybe
it
isn’t
as
bad
as
they
think. But they don’t go far before a
great
windstorm
blows
up,
and
the
waves
beat
on
the
little
boat,
and
it’s
so
bad,
they’re
so
close
to
drowning,
that
the
boat
is
already
being
swamped,
and
I
cannot
blame
the
disciples
for
being
sore
afraid,
because
they’re
almost
done
for,
but
here
Jesus
is,
snoozing
in
the
stern,
on
a
cushion,
no
less,
and
here
he
is,
sleeping
like
an
innocent
child,
and
could
that
be
what
Jesus
meant
when
he
would
say
that
the
disciples
must
be
like
children?
And
the
contrast
couldn’t
be
more
severe,
the
disciples
panicking
and
fretting
while
Jesus
snores
in
the
stern—exactly
the
opposite
would
occur
in
the
Garden
.
.
.
Jesus
would
fret
while
the
disciples
sleep. But now, who can blame them,
with
their
lives
slipping
away
on
the
dark
sea? And who can blame them
for
being
a
bit
.
.
.
cross
.
.
.
as
they
wake
him
up,
saying
“Teacher,
do
you
not
care
that
we
are
perishing?”
Finally,
Jesus
wakes
up
and
rebukes
the
wind
and
tells
the
waves
“Peace! Be still!” and
just
like
that,
they
are. The wind halts, the
waves
quit,
and
there
is
a
dead
calm. And Jesus, ever
the
one
to
find
a
teachable
moment,
asks
them
“why
are
you
afraid? Have you still no
faith?” And they marvel at
Jesus
actions,
asking
themselves
“Who then is this, that
even
the
wind
and
the
sea
obey
him?”
And that
is the question
of
the
hour,
even
40
years
later,
when
Mark
is
writing
his
gospel. And the easy answer is
“well,
he’s
one
who
can
calm
the
seas
.
.
.”
and
although
it’s
obvious
and
redundant,
it’s
also
a pretty good
answer, on
at least a
certain
level:
who
can
calm
the
seas? Who has dominion
over
nature? Well, at
the
very
least,
someone
with
god-like
powers,
someone
with
the
abilities
of
the
creator,
who
can
command
the
elements
and
expect
them
to
listen. And only the Lord God, as their creator,
has
that
kind
of
power,
God
and/or
someone
he
gives
that
power
to,
someone
.
.
.
remember that in the ancient family,
there was a hierarchy, with
the
father
at
the
top
and
other
family
below
him
in
authority. And the first-born son
inherits
the
authority,
along
with
most
of
the
property,
of
the
father. And so, to Mark’s readers some
40
years
after
the
crucifixion,
this
is
a
vital
clue
as
to
who
and
what
Jesus
is. Not that they believe he’s
God
himself,
you
understand,
after
all—there
he
was,
standing
there
before
the
disciples,
when
everybody
knew that God lives above. But
because
he
had
the
authority
of
God
over
God’s
creation,
it
was
clear
that
in
some
way
Jesus was closely related
to
God
as
in,
oh,
say
.
.
.
“first-born
son.”
And
there
was
other
symbolism
that
Mark’s
congregants
would
immediately
understand
.
.
.
in
the
ancient
world,
the
sea
was
a
symbol
of
Chaos
.
.
.
it
was
rough
and
roiling,
men
in
boats
would
go
onto
it
and
never
be
seen
again
.
.
.
who
knew
what
lurked
beneath
those
waves? Great monsters
of
the
deep,
the
spectral
bodies
of
drowned
sailors
.
.
.
the
sea
was
chaotic,
unknowable
.
.
.
and
chaos
was
anathema
to
an
agronomic
peoples.
Agriculture—and
here
I’m
using
it
in
its
very
broadest
sense
of
anybody
who
lives
directly
from
the
fruits
of
the
land,
whether
herding
sheep
of
planting
grain—agricultural
activity
requires
order,
it
requires
predictability. You have to know
when
the
rains
are
going
to
come,
when
the
pasture
is
going
to
be
green,
or
when
you
can
plant
grain
for
your
bread. And in Palestine, that
is
notoriously
unpredictable—in
fact,
it
is
one
of
the
more
unpredictable
climates
on
earth.
And
so,
Chaos—represented
by
the
sea—was
the
enemy
of
the
Israelite
people
.
.
.
so
much
so
that
in
front
of
the
temple
were
two
huge,
shallow
bowls
of
water,
one
on
either
side
of
the
entrance,
so
that
when
one
passed
into
the
temple,
one
passed
through
the
waters
of
Chaos,
into
the
calm
order
of
God’s
realm
inside. For that’s what God’s creative force
meant
to
the
ancient
mind-set:
the
bringing
of
order
to
Chaos,
the
calming
of
the
angry
sea. And it went all the way back to creation, when
God’s
breath
blew
over
the
primordial
waters,
bringing
order
to
them—dry
land
for
crops,
sheep
and
habitation.
You
can
doubtless
see
where
I
am
going
with
this:
Jesus’
taming
of
the
sea,
his
rebuking of
the
wind
and
waters. Jesus’ calming
of
the
sea
recalls
God’s
creative
act
in
bringing
life-giving
order
to
the
primordial
soup,
structure
to
the
elemental
Chaos
before
the
earth
was
formed.
But
there’s
one
more
thing
to
be
seen
through
the
middle-distance
lens
of
our
spectacles:
unlike
what
has
become
our
practice
today,
the
original
hearers
of
the
gospel,
which
was
designed
to
be
read
aloud,
likely
heard
great
chunks
of
it
at
one
sitting
so,
unlike
us,
they
would
be
aware
of
the
context
of
this
particular
passage,
they’d
be
aware
of
what
comes
after this
passage
and,
most
importantly
in
this
instance,
what
comes
before. And
what
comes
before
is
the
parable
of
the
mustard
seed
.
.
.
you
know,
the
one
about
the
mustard
seed,
being
the
smallest
seed
imaginable,
and
yet
somehow
growing
up
to
be
the
greatest
of
all
shrubs? With large branches,
so
that
the
birds
of
the
air
can
make
nests
in
its
shade? Mark introduces this
passage
with
“on
that
same
day,”
that
is,
the
same
day
Jesus
told
the
parable
of
the
mustard
seed,
so
it
is
certain
that
he
wanted
them
linked
together,
and
so
might
the
general
topic
of
the
story
of
the
calming
of
the
seas
be
about
the
same
thing as
the
parable
of
the
mustard
seed?
And
hat
that
parable
was
about
the
kingdom
of
God—the
Kingdom
of
God
is
like
a
mustard
seed,
so
.
.
.
is
the
Kingdom
of
God
somehow
like
Jesus
calming
the
seas,
making
the
rough
places
plain,
providing
order
out
of
Chaos? And, in doing so,
providing
salvation
for
his
beleaguered
followers? Indeed, it
wasn’t too
long
in
the
gospel
before
this
story
that
Jesus
had
set
the
agenda
for
this
whole
section
of
the
gospel:
“The
time
is
fulfilled,
and
the
kingdom
of
God
has
come
near.” The kingdom of
God,
embodied
in
his
actions,
the
kingdom
of
God,
embodied
in
his
very
person.
It
is
important
to
notice
that
this
salvation,
this
kingdom
of
God
that
has
come
near,
is
not
some
pie-in-the-sky-by-and-by
kind
of
deal,
it’s
not—or,
importantly,
it
not
only something
that
happens
to
us
after
we
die. It is present, it
is
ongoing,
it
is
here
and
now. The kingdom of
God
is
being
fulfilled right
now,
as
the
disciples
were
saved
from
the
watery
deep,
which
is
salvation
no
less
than
what
happens
after
we
die. This salvation is
here
and
now,
it
is
physical,
not
spiritual—or
not
just spiritual. In fact, the
disciples—and
likely
Mark’s
congregation
as
well—would
have
been
puzzled
at
our
regard
for
a
salvation
of
our
spirit
separate
from
our
bodies. For them, there
was
no
separation
of
human
spirit
from
human
flesh—it
was
all
one
thing. The kingdom of
God
began
when
Jesus
came
to
earth,
and
though
it
is
eternal—and
thus
continues
after
we
die—as
far
as
Mark’s
congregation
was
concerned,
it
is
the
kingdom
of
God
on
earth,
where
they
would
be
bodily
resurrected,
just
as
Christ—the
first
fruits—was. That is what this story would
have
said
to
them:
salvation
and
the
kingdom
of
God
is
real,
tangible,
and
physical.
But
it
also
says
another
thing:
salvation
is
a
creative
act. We tend to think of
salvation
as
an
end-product,
a
one-time
deal:
God
chooses
us,
we
are
elected, as
our
Presbyterian
doctrine
has
it,
and
boom!
We’re
saved,
justified
as
Paul
called
it,
made
right
with
God. But look what happens here:
the
disciples
are
saved
by
an
act
of
creation,
by
Jesus
calming
the
seas
and
rebuking
the
wind,
making
order
out
of
chaos,
the
same
creative
act
as
at
the
beginning
of
time. It makes you
realize
that
John
was
onto
something
when
he
wrote:
The
word
was
made
flesh
and
dwelt
among
us. Jesus’ words
fly
out
across
the
water,
and
the
disciples
are
saved.
Finally,
the
disciples
are
saved
.
.
.
but
they
have
little
faith. Look at what Jesus says:
“Why
are
you
afraid?
Have
you
still
no
faith?” And of course, they
didn’t,
but
they
were
still saved.
But
it
wasn’t
their faith
who
saved
them,
was
it? It was the faith of
Christ. There he
was,
snoozing
in
the
back
of
the
boat,
maybe
a
serene
smile
on
his
face,
and
all
around
him
panic,
and
finally,
he
wakes
up,
I
imagine
with
a
heavy
sigh,
and
calms
the
storm. It is through the
faith
of
Jesus—sleeping
quietly,
with
all
the
trust
in
the
world—that
the
disciples
were
saved,
not
their
own. Christ’s
faith
in
a
loving
God—who
he
called
Abba—saves
the
day.
Sisters
and
brothers,
this
story
looks
back
on
creation,
but
also
forward
to
the
crucifixion,
when
Jesus
frets
and
the
disciples
sleep. And as he accepts his
fate—after
asking
God
to
take
the
cup
from
him—as
he
accepts
his
fate,
it
is
his
faith
that
saves
us
once
again. Faith in
a
loving
God,
who
will
rescue
him
from
bondage
to
sin
after
three
days. Faith that
his
suffering
a
horrible
death
spiked
to
a
tree
will
not
be
in
vain. Faith that
he
will
rise
again,
signifying
that
God
has
done
a
truly
new
thing.
And
as
the
world
gets
increasingly
dangerous,
increasingly
violent,
increasingly
chaotic,
I
for
one
,
I
thank
God
that
it’s
not
by
our
faith
alone
that
we
are
saved,
that
it
is
through
the
faith
of
Jesus
Christ,
and
through
the
electing
love
and
grace
of
God,
that
we
are
rescued
from
those
stormy
seas. Because if
it
were
by
my faith,
well
.
.
.
I
don’t
know,
but
it
might
not
be
a
pretty
sight. But we can thank God
that
it
is
by
the
grace
of
God
that
we
are
rescued,
and
through
God’s
grace
that
we
participate
in
the
once
and
future,
coming
and
in-breaking,
here
and
now
and
yet
to
be
fulfilled
Kingdom
of
a
loving
creator
God. Amen.
