Story Time Favourites (June 23)

Readings, 1 Samuel 17:32-49 and Mark 4:35-41
Image, Edgar Degas, David and Goliath (1863)

We heard two of the big hits from any kid’s Bible today. Indeed, recently my year two SRE class completed 11 weeks on the gospel story. As I was recapping the module with the class, one story stuck out again and again in their memory as a favourite: Jesus stills the storm. This isn’t all that surprising, as Jesus’ ability to control the storm is perhaps the closest we see Jesus fit the mode of a typical superhero.
 
And then we have David and Goliath, and again it is unsurprising that kids are excited to read about the small felling the great. The story’s details befit a classic action romp – a menacing giant, armour too large to be worn, the simplicity of the slingshot, pro-wrestler-esq banter, and the swift victory of the underdog.
 
But the appeal of such stories is found not only in their exciting and memorable details. It is also testament to the simple, though profound message at their heart. God delivers us through storms and strife.
 
While David begins his appeal to Saul by recounting his skill with a sling, he nevertheless makes clear that his deliverance from past snares and his confidence in a present victory, rests solely in the Lord of Hosts. For God does not save with the sword and the spear, but the Holy Name before which all falls silent. It is because God is with David that David defeats Goliath. God is the deliverer of Israel. David’s sling is no more responsible for the defeat of the Philistines than Moses’ staff for the deliverance out of Egypt. It is the presence of God, with and for us, that provides the assurance of deliverance amidst worldly strife.
 
So too with Jesus on that boat. Winds howl and waves crash, and Jesus sleeps. Do you not care that we are perishing? This is a prayer as honest as any psalm, a petition as raw as any crossing mortal lips, a plea as primordial as Christ’s own cry of desolation. For there is no despair deeper than the fear of God-abandonment in the midst of crisis. The fear that our creator, redeemer, and sustainer feels disinterested in our plight and distant from our prayers. For how could the one who called the disciples from their boats allow them to sink in his own? Now, we know that the faithful answer is, “he won’t.” Jesus would simply not allow those who have taken refuge in him to sink, but in the heart of the storm, no confession of faith is entirely without suspicion.
 
Having completed our little module on the gospel story, my SRE class are now exploring the big promises of God. The main themes so far are, God makes promises, and God keeps those promises. Some kids, in their delightful way, have started to question the premise. What if God promises something that God can’t keep? What if God promises to give me a new car but doesn’t? I attempt to explain, God would not make a promise that God didn’t intend to keep. God keeps every promise made, but doesn’t promise to do everything (as much as we’d like that new car). Nevertheless, there are many reasons to question even the stated promises, to doubt their assuredness, hedge our bets, and cover the alternatives.
 
So even if the disciples had the faith to step from their boats into Christ’s, agreed to leave their life to live within Christ’s, this is no immunity to the fear of storms. After all, we learn at a young age that there are no monsters under the bed, but that doesn’t mean any of us feel particularly comfortable sleeping with one arm hanging off the bed.
 
One might suggest that this is the natural by-product of David’s astute confession, The Lord does not save with the sword and the spear. The means of God’s deliverance are subtler than we might design. God perennially chooses humble, surprising, even foolish things to demonstrate God’s power and fidelity. The sling of a youth to fell an army, the baby in a basket to free the slaves, the child born of Mary to save the world, parables to announce the kingdom, the cross to conquer death, a little bread and wine to sustain the church. Even in the storm, Jesus simply speaks it into stillness. The very story of God’s mighty acts is preserved in testimony and community, kept afloat by through the praise and proclamation of fallible humans and the uncontainable movement of the Spirit.
 
Perhaps our fears would be better conquered by the undeniable vision of God swinging a sword and deafening the sounds of the earth with a heavenly voice. But in conquering our fears such approach would first conquer our freedom, and any chance to be anything more than a stone subdued in place. We are instead called into becoming, called into a life of faith, a life devoted to the joyful exploration of the disciple’s question, who then is this?
 
This question leads us back to the beginning, back to the unremitting allure of these stories. Yes, it is their narrative charm, yes, it is their extraordinary details, but yes, it is also because these stories say something fundamentally profound about our God. They are stories which draw us toward the ground of the question, who then is this. Who then is this that stills the storm, who then is this that saves the boy from the paw of the lion, who then is this that saves not by the sword or the spear… it is our God, our strength and refuge. It is our God who cares about us, who is present with us and for us. Our God whose Anointed One called us from the boats of our old life and promises the meaning and joy of his own voyage. Even in the moments where the winds of trial and the waves of strife crash in, even when the worldly armour does not fit, even when our cries seem to fall on sleeping ears, our God is the one who will not let us perish, who forgets not the cry of the afflicted, but stands and speaks the word of peace and invites us into a life of faith.