Stilling the Storm
Mark 4:35-41
As the week wound down and Hurricane Florence trundled onto shore at Wrightsville Beach in North Carolina, we watched and waited in Charlotte. As someone remarked, it was like being stalked by a turtle, so slowly did the storm move.
The news from he eastern part of he state became increasingly alarming as buckets and bucket of rain fell, inundating areas that were just now feeling recovered from Hurricane Matthew, a few short years ago. Word came that Wilmington was completely inaccessible by land, sea, or air.
Meanwhile, back here, the storm was becoming annoying. Hysterical weather reporters had told us the very apocalypse was about to come to Charlotte. But by Friday evening, it had not even begun to rain. Stores were closing. Even restaurants shuttered early. Schools had been out since Wednesday afternoon. For what?
When it finally did start raining, it felt almost like a relief.
Then the wind rose and the rain became a deluge.
Sunday plans changed. Areas in Charlotte that were low began to flood. Trees took out power in some neighborhoods. Churches cancelled gatherings. Things got quiet as the storm ran.
We really began to hear the voices from the east crying out. It was like the disciples in the boat, “Don’t you care? Don’t you know we are perishing?”
Some folks felt like others were asleep on the job. Some even cried out to God, afraid maybe even God snoozed.
But we were awake. At Mallard Creek, we were able to gather for church. It struck me that as we gathered for worship, God meant for us to awaken. God was not asleep. God was working to still the storm.
But that stillness was going to come from us as we heard and responded to all who were crying out.
Mallard Creek has a history of responding, sending teams to rebuild places washed out or blown away by storms. In fact, some realized the very homes they had repaired from Hurricane Matthew—work done just this summer—were drowning again. There would be a return. They’d be back.
And that is how storms grow still.
When we respond in compassion, mercy, grace, and help, peace descends. Hope replaces angst. Intervention brings reassurance.
That is our call. The storm will move somewhere else. It will blow itself out. But the anguish will continue as floods come and recede. Lives will become stormy, uncertain, and chaotic. We can bring stillness. We can bring quiet. We can bring help.
That is the church following Jesus.
As the week wound down and Hurricane Florence trundled onto shore at Wrightsville Beach in North Carolina, we watched and waited in Charlotte. As someone remarked, it was like being stalked by a turtle, so slowly did the storm move.
The news from he eastern part of he state became increasingly alarming as buckets and bucket of rain fell, inundating areas that were just now feeling recovered from Hurricane Matthew, a few short years ago. Word came that Wilmington was completely inaccessible by land, sea, or air.
Meanwhile, back here, the storm was becoming annoying. Hysterical weather reporters had told us the very apocalypse was about to come to Charlotte. But by Friday evening, it had not even begun to rain. Stores were closing. Even restaurants shuttered early. Schools had been out since Wednesday afternoon. For what?
When it finally did start raining, it felt almost like a relief.
Then the wind rose and the rain became a deluge.
Sunday plans changed. Areas in Charlotte that were low began to flood. Trees took out power in some neighborhoods. Churches cancelled gatherings. Things got quiet as the storm ran.
We really began to hear the voices from the east crying out. It was like the disciples in the boat, “Don’t you care? Don’t you know we are perishing?”
Some folks felt like others were asleep on the job. Some even cried out to God, afraid maybe even God snoozed.
But we were awake. At Mallard Creek, we were able to gather for church. It struck me that as we gathered for worship, God meant for us to awaken. God was not asleep. God was working to still the storm.
But that stillness was going to come from us as we heard and responded to all who were crying out.
Mallard Creek has a history of responding, sending teams to rebuild places washed out or blown away by storms. In fact, some realized the very homes they had repaired from Hurricane Matthew—work done just this summer—were drowning again. There would be a return. They’d be back.
And that is how storms grow still.
When we respond in compassion, mercy, grace, and help, peace descends. Hope replaces angst. Intervention brings reassurance.
That is our call. The storm will move somewhere else. It will blow itself out. But the anguish will continue as floods come and recede. Lives will become stormy, uncertain, and chaotic. We can bring stillness. We can bring quiet. We can bring help.
That is the church following Jesus.
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