First Presbyterian Church of Watertown

Mark 1

“Important Safety Tip #32: Don’t Lose Jesus”

The Rev. Dr. Fred G. Garry

February 8, 2009

As a young boy I learned a lot about life by playing golf. At twelve my friend and I were taken by his father to the local course. We were given a basic swing with a bucket of balls and a seven iron. He told us to swing with our left arm straight, keep your head down, and shift your weight from the back to the front as we swung. Once this basic swing was in place he took us out on the course.

In golf there is a series of things you are not supposed to do. Like the Croce song where you don’t spit in the wind or mess around with Jim, in golf you are not supposed to walk across someone’s lie on the green; you are not supposed to speak while people are swinging; you are to mindful about who won the last hole and tee off at the next in that order. You don’t just hit when you are ready, but when it was your turn, when you are “away.” And don’t hit into the people in front of you. And if you do hit an errant shot that is heading for other golfers yell, “four” so they may take proper defensive measures.

This may not seem like a lot, but for a twelve-year-old boy this was a far cry from street football. Add to this that my friend’s father didn’t suffer fools lightly and the learning curve became steep and dangerous. Breaking one of the rules was met with a swift and furious response. To this day if I have a lapse of judgment on the golf course I expect to find this man emerging from the bushes to reform my character.

Perhaps it was the fear of God placed in me, perhaps it was just my time, but I learned. I learned to see myself as in a place, with rules and order, and decorum. I learned to pay attention and to take something serious. I also learned the long walk between shots once our game improved, discovering how to talk and converse with a friend as we traversed a few hundred yards between each swing. There is a different quality of conversation on a 7,000 yard golf course than there is in the game of pickle or the pick up basketball. We were learning the measured speech of men.

During the next six years the lessons continued. Where I could hit the ball hundreds of yard, I learned the last six feet could prove far more illusive. Golf was a great tutor for such things as “let a bad moment be what it is.” Even as a young teen I learned that a bad hole was just that. Falling apart was not only the stuff of a high score, but it just lacked decorum. How you played was as important as the score. And a sense of self and composure is key to the game. For when you really hit a bad shot, people are always watching.

Now while golf taught me a lot about being in a place, knowing where you were and what that meant; some lessons it seems unable to offer. I can remember being in our first church in Ohio and going out to play on my day off. During my round, which was probably the best I had ever played, a great Midwestern summer storm came through. Lightning and thunder were everywhere as the rain came down in buckets. A horn sounded from the pro shop suggesting play was called off and all players should come in. Having only three holes left on a fantastic round I kept going.

After finishing up I crept around the clubhouse so not reveal that I had kept playing and headed home. As I drove into our driveway I could see Kathy standing in the front door. Approaching the screen door I could tell something wasn’t quite right. “Tell me,” she started, “tell me you weren’t walking through a thunder storm holding up a metal rod.” “I was having a great round” was all I got off before she rolled her eyes and walked away. Decorum I learned; common sense not so much.

I’ve had many teachers. Some are people known throughout the world; others are nameless folk the Holy Spirit gave me in a moment of grace. I’ve heard the truth in different languages; I have known mercy in silence, in kindness that words would simply sully. Sometimes the lessons have been hard; sometimes sorrow has been my guide and that just hurts. I’ve been dressed down without cause; I’ve been shown mercy far greater than I deserved; and I know what it means to abide in a moment of revelation where the Spirit of Christ stands replete in humble glory.

In such profound company golf can look a little silly. It is a small white ball that you pay someone dearly to hit it around their backyard. Mark Twain called it a good walk spoiled. But again as a young boy it was a gracious teacher of place and order and decorum. And those are good things to have.

Figuring out who you are and where you are seems like it should come somewhat naturally, like an inborn sense of direction, an innate orientation. But, as it turns out, my innate orientation is to get lost. People, not just me, have a hard time figuring out where they are. It turns out, knowing what you are supposed to be in this place and time, where you are heading in life, or what is your station, your intent: these can prove truly elusive. And not just for twelve-year-old boys on a golf course.

The first time I preached the passage we read from Mark was quite a long time ago. It was the first time I heard the voice of the Gospel, the voice of the one who was trying to help me believe. While I had for many years heard the voice of Christ, the sound of the Holy Spirit had already taken hold, and I knew the deep echo of the Creator in nature, the Gospel voice really started here. At the very least it was the first time I knew who was talking.

The importance of the moment, though, really doesn’t match the passage. This story isn’t very heroic, or some might suggest even important. Jesus is hanging out in Capernaum doing what he did everywhere else. The miracle isn’t really of note. Jesus goes off to pray in the morning as would be his habit. Yet, what I heard, the Gospel voice I heard, was transforming. What I heard was panic; it was failure, or even just plain confusion.

This might strike you as odd, that I felt changed by hearing confusion in the gospel, but it was really the first time I understood what I was supposed to preach. I heard it in that moment in our story where the disciples realize, “hey, we lost him.”

Jesus was here just a minute ago. He was right there. Well, then where is he? I don’t know.

In the mundane of the morning Jesus took off to pray and the disciples felt afraid, they panicked, I heard the Gospel writer saying, following Jesus is like this. You have meaning and purpose and place and direction one moment, and then you don’t. Pay attention, he says, in heart beat everything can change even as it stays the same.

A number of years ago when we were heading into the Olympic Mountains on a regular basis and going far enough into the forest that we would have to be our own aid, we bought an emergency medical kit. In the kit was the usual bandages and what not, but there was also a small book that is probably one of my favorites. The book is an emergency medical manual of sorts.

Each chapter or section is a different malady and with each trauma, each disaster there is guidance as to what you are supposed to do in the moment. What I love most about the book is that with each catastrophe the response is the same. The book’s direction always begins with the same two directions: after you regain consciousness (one), then (two) apply pressure. Things like severed limbs, bones protruding, arties allowed to flow freely from the body are all to be administered with pressure once you come to.

Like the orientation of golf, the book was a gentle lesson, a reminder of sorts that on the precipice of life you need realize how precarious, how dangerous this is, and how vulnerable you are. Out here you need to know where you are going and what is the order you need to keep take heed for everything can change in a heart beat once you regain consciousness.

Just north of the Lake of Galilee in Peter’s mother in law’s house, the gospel writer gives a similar warning. As you follow this one life will happen. You will lose sight of what is important; it will seem to fly away. The presence of faith and hope and love, so secure just a moment ago, can vanish. Mark, in our passage today, is not trying to suggest that Jesus is just flighty, or ephemeral, or illusive. But life is. Being with him doesn’t keep life at bay.

In heartbeat we can forget where we are; the meanings we had a short time ago can evaporate. And if you panic, if you lose your bearings and just rush off, you make it worse. If you endure a quadruple bogey and you lose your composure it just gets worse; if in the moment you regain consciousness and don’t apply pressure, it is going to go from bad to worse.

Mark wants to say to the church, in the mundane of Peter’s mother’s in laws house, in the simplicity of the morning, we lost him. He was just right here and now he is gone. It doesn’t seem like a big challenge or event. Yet, this is what life is so often. We were just with Jesus, we were just in a moment of hope and peace and now we are lost. We finally knew where we were, but now we don’t.

Mark was writing to a young church, a kind of twelve-year-old boy on the golf course of salvation so to speak, trying to figure out where they were, and what this all meant. He says, I’ll will tell you, but don’t take this for granted, don’t expect it to be without fear and risk and the revelation that undoes you. Don’t expect life to stop happening. Be mindful that you are heading into the wildness of God’s mercy.

On a five par young men and women can find a sense of decorum and on a mountain path you can see how tenuous is the safety and security we hold in life. And these are good lessons: don’t panic, be unshakeable, and pay attention to where you are going, don’t talk in someone’s backswing. And the same sort of orienting voice Mark is saying, be prepared; life is going to change. The peace you had just a moment ago will fly away; the path will unfold in ways you least expected or couldn’t find the courage to even hope for.

But in this elusiveness, be sure you don’t lose sight of Jesus. The disciples didn’t stop believing, they didn’t construct a golden calf, or anything of that order. They just lost sight of him for a moment.

Mark’s voice is often caustic. And you can sense a kind of chastising in the lack of any comfort Jesus gives to the disciples. But there is also in our passage a moment of real grace. For he is saying, while you lose sight, in the moment of chaos, just don’t panic. Jesus will find you.

Mark is not only telling the story of Jesus; he is telling our story as a church. And this is where the story becomes very important today. We have all had moments where the order and definitions, the sense of place and identity we worked so hard to find, just fly away. And we the chances are good if you are sitting here, Jesus has come and found you. We have been rescued, aided, comforted with words and friendship and moments of courage we know we could muster but somehow found. Mark not only says that is Jesus finding you, but you finding those you love.

When I hear of what troubles people deeply, what steals their readiness to love and leaves impotence, what robs their dreams of sweetness and leaves a restless toil even in rest, what I hear is that they have lost sight of Jesus. They still believe, they still hope; they just can’t see him. They know they are some place, but now they have stopped caring where it is. And the pew, the place of worship, has become like any other place. When Jesus says follow me, they can’t hear him no matter how close he is.

Mark is saying it is for us to be the voice, his voice so to speak, that says, we are heading out this way, come with me. I’ll show you. He is saying to the church, help them see; help them know where they are; help them to follow. It is what it means to be a friend.

Just when you think you know where you are going, just with the path seems predictable, it changes; it shifts. The meanings and definitions that were here just a moment ago, they fly away. Jesus was just here a moment ago. Be his voice, his presence, and lift up those who are lost. Be this friend even if you have to apply pressure. Amen.