Introduction
What word is a Christian entitled to who experiences personal and family dramas in chains? Epidemics, earthquakes, tornadoes that hit parts of the world already ravaged by hunger and poverty pose serious questions to the believer. Wars, violence, injustices, betrayals, it is true, must be attributed to man, but because man is so bad, could not God make him better?
In the past, the problem of evil was solved by shifting the blame on the devil, on natural laws, or by resorting to the magic formula: God does not want but allows. But if God can intervene in human history, why doesn’t he? The enigma of evil cannot be explained by reasoning; otherwise, Jesus would have clarified it for us. One day, when the history of the world will have come to an end, we will understand its meaning, but now God’s answer to the accusations that we have the right to address to him, shouting with the apostles: “Don’t you care that we die?”, is only one and it is the most unexpected. He did not start to disquisition but got into the same boat as us; tossed about by the storm, along with us, there is also him. He experienced poverty with the poor, rejection and marginalization with the excluded, shared incomprehension and tears with the disappointed, the bitterness of loneliness and abandonment with the betrayed, endured injustice with the oppressed, and experienced dismay and fear with those condemned to death.
Yet the impression remains that he is asleep. With our cry, we would like to wake him up and force him to intervene with prayer. But he is already awake, he only has a different vision of the danger and how to face it, and he asks for unconditional trust. Yes, we are tossed about by the sea waves, but even if we do not realize it, we are accompanied by him.
To internalize the message, we repeat:
“The storm rages, but I’m not afraid: you are also in my boat.”
First Reading: Job 38:1.8-11
In all the creation myths of the ancient Middle East, the dramatic conflict between God, promoter of order and life, and Yam, the sea, a frightening monster that, unleashing its overflowing power, tried to keep chaos and death in the world. The sea thus became a symbol of hostile forces, contrary to life, the enemy of man.
It is not surprising that the Bible, born in this cultural environment, has preserved, in some of its pages, the memory of this myth. The first chapter of Genesis already speaks of a formless and uninhabited mass, of an abyss shrouded in darkness (Gen 1:2). God intervenes to order, separate light from darkness, water from dry land, and freshwater from saltwater.
Compared to the gods that operate in the stories of the Mesopotamian peoples, the biblical God maintains a completely original behavior. He is never involved in a fierce fight against the sea dragon, but he imposes himself effortlessly, he implements by recourse to his word, he “speaks and all is done, he commands, and all exists” (Ps 33:9).
Amazed at this astonishing victory, the psalmist sings: “You covered it with the ocean like a garment, and waters spread over the mountains. But as you rebuke the waters flee. You set a limit they could not cross, never again to flood the earth” (Ps 104:5-9).
God’s dominion over creation is revealed as total and perfect, for “you reign over the surging seas; you calm its raging waves” (Ps 89:10). His unchallenged power appeared mainly during the night of deliverance from Egypt when “he made a strong wind blow all night and dry up the sea. The waters divided for the sons of Israel…forming a wall to their right and their left” (Ex 14:21.29).
On this theme, today’s reading offers us a memorable passage, taken from God’s response to Job, who demanded an explanation for the great enigma of pain.
“Where were you—the Lord asks him—when I founded the earth? Answer and show me your knowledge” (Job 38:4). It is an invitation to become aware of one’s condition as a creature, limited in time and space, unable to penetrate the great mysteries of the universe. Then, still addressing Job, God continues by recalling how, almost out of delight, he took complete control of the primordial waters that threatened to overpower the other elements. I placed—he says—the sea in its place, I fixed impassable boundaries for it, I closed the doors with bolts so that it could no longer go out to bring back disorder (v. 8); I deprived it of all its monstrous energy of death, I immobilized it by surrounding it with clouds like a robe, and I wrapped it as if it were a newborn child, in swathes of thick fog (v. 9). I gave it a peremptory order: This far you shall come and no further. Here the pride of your waves will be broken (v. 11).
These are evocative images that came from the mind and heart of an incomparable poet; they communicate, clearly, the feeling of the perfect, uncontested dominion of God over everything that threatens the order of creation and people’s life. They are images that allow us to understand the reason for the disciples’ amazement when they realized that Jesus commanded even the waves of the sea and they obeyed him.
Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 5:14-17
Paul always lived consistently with the message that he proclaimed. However, he was too harsh and uncompromising at times, and this limitation of his character often alienated the sympathy of many of his brothers and sisters in the faith. In Corinth, some Christians, especially, could not stand him, criticized his apostolic commitment, discredited his doctrine and, to gain the trust of the community, flaunted mystical experiences, ecstatic raptures, visions, convinced as they were, that they could thus prove, in an irrefutable way, that their preaching and their lives had the approval of God.
Paul could have replied, as he had done on another occasion (2 Cor 12:1-6), that he felt inferior to no one in terms of high spiritual experiences, yet it was not on this level that he accepted the comparison. It is not an extraordinary phenomenon that identifies the true disciple and proves the authenticity of the message. What qualifies a Christian is a selfless dedication to the service of the community, in imitation of the Master, who did not live for himself but gave his life for all (vv.14-15). In this imitation, Paul knows that he has no rival, which is why, with a certain audacity, he recommends to the Corinthians: “Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ” (1 Cor 11:1; 4:16).
“Before my conversion—he acknowledges—I knew Jesus’ according to the flesh,’ that is, I judged him according to human criteria, learned from the rabbis. I considered him to be ‘accursed by God,’ because he was condemned by the legitimate authorities of my people” (Gal 3:13). “Now, having received, on the road to Damascus, the light from heaven, I no longer know him as such” (v. 16); I have come to understand that he “has redeemed us from the curse, becoming himself a curse for us” (Gal 3:13).
Since that Good Friday, everything has changed; a new world has arisen into which anyone who renounces thinking of himself and opens himself to selfless love for others enters. Thus, “if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; old things have passed away, and new things have arisen” (v. 17).
Gospel: Mark 4:35-41
Some of the prodigies recounted in the Gospels leave us perplexed: a fig tree is dried because it does not produce fruit out of season (Mk 11:13), five or six hectoliters of water are transformed into wine (Jn 2:1-11), Jesus walks on water and Peter tries to imitate him (Mt 14:22-33), Peter pays the temple tax with a silver coin found in the mouth of a fish (Mt 17:24-27). These stories must be read with great circumspection because, in writing them, the evangelists used images and introduced biblical references that are not always easy to grasp.
The calming of the storm, which is proposed to us in today’s Gospel passage, falls into this category of rather particular miracles. The error that must be avoided is considering it an account, exact down to the smallest detail, of a news event. Some oddities jump immediately to the eyes: during the dangerous crossing, Jesus sleeps while the disciples try, alone, desperately, to fight against the waves of the sea; but it is unlikely that Jesus can rest quietly on a small boat, full of water, at the mercy of the waves. Then, it is evening, Jesus and the disciples are tired, and it would be time to return home, to Capernaum; it is not clear what they go to do on the other side of the lake where they do not seem to have any friends; from the following episode, it is clear that they do not know anyone in that region (Mk 5:17). The disciples turn to the Lord to save them, so they show that they believe in him, but they are rebuked for not having faith. Finally, after the wind had died down and the weather was calm, the apostles, instead of rejoicing, “were terrified.”
These and other details are an implicit invitation to go beyond the simple fact of the news and look deeper to discover the valid message of the story. We are dealing with a theological passage that contains numerous biblical references, and Mark’s objective is not to show that Jesus can perform extraordinary prodigies but to progressively reveal his identity to us. The evangelist wants to answer the question that, from the beginning of his public life, everyone has asked: “Who is this man?”.
Let us begin by decoding the language employed by Mark. The boat, the place to which it is headed, the other boats accompanying that of the disciples, the waves of the sea, the darkness of the night, Jesus’ sleep, the wind, the storm, and the fear that seizes the apostles are images well known to the readers of the Gospel because they frequently recur in the Bible. Let us recall their meaning.
The story begins with two important details: the time in which the event takes place and the journey’s destination. It is evening. The day in which Jesus announced the kingdom of God has ended, the disciples get into the boat with the Master and head for the other shore. Where do they go? The continuation of the Gospel (Mk 5:1) indicates their destination: the land of the Gerasenes, the territory of the pagans. Being pig breeders, the Gerasenes could only be pagans; Jews do not eat unclean animals.
In ancient literature, the image of the boat indicates a community or association. In our story, it represents the Christian community which, at the end of the day, that is, at the end of the earthly life of Jesus, is invited by the Master to go towards the “other shore,” that is, towards the pagan nations. The boat must bring Christ to them as well, but, during the crossing, a furious storm breaks out, making it impossible to continue the journey, and even endangering the boat itself and the lives of those on board.
The other boats that accompany the one in which Jesus is with the Twelve are introduced to indicate that there were many Christian communities involved in the adventurous crossing following the apostles at the time of Mark. The difficulty of the undertaking is underlined by another detail, the darkness of the night. In the Bible, dense darkness always has a negative connotation. Before God subdued the sea at the beginning of the world, everything was shrouded in darkness (Gen 1:2).
It is precisely during the night when darkness and the forces of evil and death seem to dominate unchallenged that God usually intervenes to spark life. It happened on the night of the liberation from Egypt, as the author of the Book of Wisdom sings: “While a profound silence enveloped all things, and the night was half over, your almighty word came down from heaven” (Wis 18:14-15). On an even darker night, that of the tomb, God manifested his power of salvation and life (Mt 28:2-6).
The scene that follows (vv. 37-38) deliberately recalls Jonah, the prophet sent to Nineveh to bring the Lord’s message to the pagans. During the storm, Jonah also lay down at the bottom of the ship and slept soundly (Jn 1:5).
In our story, it is Jesus who sleeps, and, the evangelist notes, he was at the stern, in the place of the helmsman. In a situation of extreme danger, a pilot who falls asleep and is not interested in what is happening deserves a severe rebuke, and the apostles rebuke him: “Do you not care that we perish?” The phrase is denser than it sounds. The disciples separate their condition from that of the Master: they perish, he does not, he does not perish. Indeed, he seems to be in a state where he cannot perish and does not care about what happens.
Two more remarks. The first concerns sleep which, in the Bible, is often used to indicate death (Job 14,12; Sir 46,19). Jesus also uses it figuratively: “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep” (Jn 11:11); “The girl is not dead, but sleeps” (Mk 5:39-40). The second refers to the pillow that, strangely enough, remains under Jesus’ head during that unrest. The presence of the pillowcase is surprising if one keeps in mind that the Greek term, proskephalaion, by which it is called, also indicates the pillow placed under the head of a deceased person.
Now the meaning of Jesus’ sleep becomes clear: it refers to his death, and the theological value of the whole scene is also understood. The disciples are tossed about by the waves, representing the dramas of life, persecutions, tensions, and disagreements within the ecclesial community. The Master has concluded his day in this world; he accompanies his disciples, but he never intervenes directly in history; he gives the sensation that he wants to let everything unfold as if he were not present.
Christians can, at certain times, feel alone in the face of problems, adversity, and failures and ask themselves: “Where is God? Where is Christ? Why does he not manifest his power?” They feel him far away or even absent; his silence disconcerts them and instills fear. They would like to cry out to him, with the psalmist: “Wake up, O Lord, why do you sleep?” (Ps 44:24).
The misunderstanding arises from the fact that they would like to have at their disposal a God who intervenes, on command, to alter the relationships of force that exist in the world, who allies himself with those who suffer injustice to defeat and humiliate those who commit it.
Jesus reveals to us a God who “sleeps,” who leaves things as they are, who has nothing to fear in the face of the unleashing of the violence of evil, who is not afraid to lose control of the situation. He is a God who lets things be, who allows envy, rivalry, lies, and injustice to be unleashed, and will enable events to take their course. Then, when evil seems to have had the last word, he reveals his cards and shows that he has won. He has used the very forces of evil to carry out his plan of salvation and love. We cry out to him to drag him into our anguish, he responds by introducing us into his peace.
It is from this point of view that Jesus’ reproach to the disciples must be understood. They made the mistake of remembering him only when they were in a desperate situation. Those who have faith live in constant dialogue with Christ and his word; they do not call him only when things are going badly. The apostles thought they could manage the situation independently; they did not understand that he was always with them, as he had promised (cf. Mt 28:20). He was sailing with them, but differently because he had fallen asleep… in the sleep of death.
I have left for the end the most important teaching of today’s Gospel passage. Mark notes that the disciples “were filled with fear at the end of the account and said one to another, “Who can this be? Even the wind and the sea obey him!” (v. 41).
The disciples have good reason to ask this question because, in the Scriptures, they have learned that only God has the power to command the waves of the sea. If Jesus possesses this divine authority, it means that he is the Lord. This is why, like Moses and like all those who have encountered God, the disciples are to overcome with fear. It is not the fear that grips those who face danger but the awe of those who have recognized in Jesus the Lord capable of mastering all the powers that threaten life.
After the biblical language in which it is steeped has been deciphered, the text reveals its literary genre. It is not the account of a miracle, but a theophany, a manifestation in Jesus of God’s strength and saving power and, at the same time, a profession of faith by Mark and the primitive communities in the divinity of Christ.