The entire book contains a grand total of 338 words

(I counted them), and yet it describes the nature

of fear and the possibility of transformation with

stunning clarity. Do you wish your preacher could be

so succinct?

I must have asked to hear it at bedtime a thousand

times as a child, and I have cherished that same

request from my own sons. I’m speaking of Maurice

Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are, first published

in 1963. Did anyone else request it as a child? Or

have that request made of them? Sendak illustrates

the terrors of childhood as wild things living in a land

created in the imagination of Max, a young boy who

is sent to his room for causing mischief of all kinds

and tormenting the family dog. Lonely and bored in

his room all by himself, Max sails his bed to the land

of wild things, where he is greeted by these monsters

who roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible

teeth and show their terrible claws and roll their

terrible eyes. Those wild things personify the angst

of childhood. They are symbols for the terrors that

plague us. They are fear embodied. Their name is

legion. They overwhelm us. Roaring. Gnashing.

Late in his life, in interviews, Sendak repeatedly

dismissed the criticism that Where the Wild Things

Are was too scary for children. He insisted that

children innately understand fear and that we

grownups do them a disservice when we bubblewrap their lives or downplay their worries. Fear

is real. And so, the wild things are real. But Max,

approaching this imaginary land in his imaginary

boat, is more than up to the challenge.

His commands of the wild things are unflinching.

The words appear in all caps. BE STILL! Before long,

Max is in total control. He is made king of all the

wild things. And that’s where the plot twist occurs.

Being the all-powerful king is an equally unnerving

proposition. The boy becomes homesick. We are told

that Max wanted, “to be where someone loved him

best of all.” And so, he musters his courage again,

this time to declare that he will go home. Despite the

wailing protests of the wild things, he steps into the

boat and is soon back in his own room, where the

dinner left by his mother, who had not forgotten him,

is still hot.

Max encounters many fears. There are the wild things

with their terrible teeth and their claws. Then there is

the burden of responsibility and the isolation it brings.

But most intimidating of all is the fear of returning,

of leaving the land of imagination and going back

to his own life, his own room, his own supper, in a

transformed way. The wild things represent the threat

of death, but it is going home a changed boy that

represents the threat of life.

Which brings us to this morning’s story from Mark’s

Gospel. Jesus and his disciples are aboard a very

real boat when a very real storm approaches. It is no

ordinary storm. We know this because Mark—who

is usually understated in his language—paints the

picture in vivid detail. Waves beat against the boat.

Water gushes over the sides. There is roaring and

gnashing. The threat of death is real. We should trust

the judgment of the fishermen on that.

And then there is Jesus. Fast asleep on a cushion

(where did he find that?) in the middle of a tempest.

The disciples are angry. Aren’t you concerned? Don’t

you see the threat of death? Do you even care about us?

Finally, Jesus wakes up. He chastises the wind for

interrupting his nap. And like Max, he commands

the sea to, “BE STILL!” He doesn’t calm the storm so

much as he overpowers it. And here is what happens

next. The disciples are filled with fear, more petrified

by the power of Jesus to conquer the storm than the

storm’s power to take their lives. More disturbed by

the threat of life than the threat of death.

Translations do us a disservice by rendering the word

awe. They are filled with fear. They are afraid. “Who is

this that even the wind and the sea obey him? Who

is this?” It is a moment of revelation for the disciples.

There is more to this man than an uplifting message

of love and harmony. Jesus may be peaceful, but he

is not passive. The experience on the raging sea is

an encounter with the sacred. Though the storm may

be stilled, the hearts of the disciples are still racing.

No wonder they are afraid. In fact, it is true of every

encounter with God or God’s messengers in scripture.

Why else would the angels always say, “Do not fear?”

When we are in the presence of God, the threat of

life is real. It challenges our settled assumptions. It

rearranges our carefully set priorities. The storm is no

match for the power of transformation in Jesus Christ.

I fear that too often I preach a safe and secure Jesus. I

fear that too often I convey faith as a cruise on placid

waters. I fear that too often we market ourselves

as upright people and the church as a respectable

institution. But the call of Jesus moves us beyond

tedious respectability to courageous faith. Just

consider his ministry. Every time he begins to attract

a crowd, Jesus speaks hard truths of inconvenient

changes and radical reversals. You want to follow

me? Give away everything you own. You want to be

my disciple? Humble yourself. Welcome the outcast.

Love all people—even, especially, those people.

Do you want to be blessed? Well, blessed are the

poor, blessed are the hungry, blessed are those who

mourn, blessed are the weak. His commitment to his

mission is so unwavering that he will not compromise

the message for anything. For anything. The more

extreme his actions become the more uncomfortable

his followers feel. He will not settle for platitudes

or easy truths. His message is his life—self-denial,

radical acceptance, unconditional forgiveness,

humble servanthood. Unpopular strategies for

attracting a crowd.

And so, for centuries, faith communities and their

eager leaders have tried to correct this unfortunate

error on Jesus’ part. The strategy is to downplay

the sacrifice demanded by the gospel, to replace it

with messages of self-centered power seeking—the

gospel’s plan of success. The strategy is to traffick in

the fear of the other, to magnify the threat of death. Be

afraid. The strategy, having created the condition of

terror, is to produce the solution. Pseudo-theologies

of superiority. Dehumanizing rhetoric. Exclusion and

judgment. Angry voices shouting that divide and

demonize. When the threat of death is our driving

force, we will cling to a false gospel that worships

power and encourages violence.

I understand the impulse. After all, the Church has

lost much of its influence. We’re drowned out by a

cacophony of conflicting voices. We’re immobilized by

our own weakness and division. We churches suffer

often from low self-esteem and high anxiety about the

future. What if the numbers keep dropping? What if our

children leave the faith behind? How can we survive

another year, another decade, another generation?

The problem is that such anxiety creates fertile

ground for demagogues who claim the capacity to

preserve power. That claim is a lie. The disciples on

the boat could not control the raging sea. They could

not still the violent wind. Only Jesus could do that. It is

past time for us to place our trust in his power.

Now, that path comes with a warning of its own. If

you choose to climb aboard the boat, you must be

prepared for transformation. It will change your life

in ways you could not imagine. This is the depth

of meaning that is missing from so many lives—so

obsessed with the threat of death we miss the thrilling

and threatening possibilities of life.

Listen. If your belief in Jesus leads you to judge and

blame others more than examine your own walk of

faith, you are missing the point. If our fear justifies

words and actions that demonize and dehumanize

God’s beloved children, we’ve abandoned the Gospel.

If we submit ourselves to ideologies of fear or leaders

who demand absolute allegiance, we are on the

wrong path. In this tempest-tossed time, we must

return to the only One who can command the sea and

calm the storm.

The Church will thrive and flourish when we are

faithful to the terrifying call of our God. Our mission

is not defined by any quest for power, but the call to

lives defined by sacrifice and service. Compassion

for the suffering. Bearing someone else’s burden.

Listening as an act of love. Lifting someone else in a

time of need and despair.

The greatest risk you will ever take, the most lifechanging decision you will ever make, is to step into

the boat with Jesus. Here’s what will happen. The

storms will come. The wind will blow. The sea will

rage. And then the fears will return. They will roar their

terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth. They will

roll their terrible eyes and show their terrible claws.

And then, in the most terrifying moments of all, you

will be called beyond your fear and past the storms to

a whole new way of life. You will be asked to change,

to grow, to trust more than you think you can. And

in time, you may come to see that you are no longer

living for yourself but for God. You may find courage

where once there was fear. You will love, and you will

be loved, and you will live with passion and purpose.

So, when the invitation comes, resist the temptation

to stay on the shore. As jarring as the journey will be,

that’s one boat you don’t want to miss. Amen.