When the Ignorant Get It Right

Plus: Two old proofs for faith still work

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm.  He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” (Mark 4:35-40, NRSV). 

I owe my deepest understanding of this passage to some men and women who knew absolutely nothing about Jesus. 

I was teaching a membership class to Laotians whom our church had sponsored. It was the early 1980s, and the United States was welcoming a number of people groups from Southeast Asia in the aftermath of the Vietnam war.  To thank the church for sponsoring them and helping them adjust to American life, the leader of the clan said he wanted the clan to join the church.  I explained that joining the church meant a commitment to follow Jesus, and I asked him what he knew about Jesus.  He said he knew nothing about Jesus.  So I suggested we go through the Gospel of Mark and then, after learning about Jesus, they could decide whether they wanted to become members. 

So we started meeting once a week, about six women and six men.  A teenage girl from the group acted as interpreter, since the English of the adults was limited, and my Laotian was non-existent.  We’d typically read a passage from Mark, then I’d ask a question or two to discern the meaning of the text, and then we’d move on to the next passage.  Things were going well until we came across this passage.

After we read the passage, I explained how it teaches us that Jesus can calm the storms in our lives. I asked them, “What storms do you have in your life that you would like Jesus to calm?” It was a standard psychological/spiritual application of a Bible passage, a tried-and-true method to help people see the relevance of Scripture.  Since the people attending this Bible study had endured many a storm just to get to the U.S., and were no doubt experiencing even more as they tried to adjust to American culture and support their families, I assumed this passage would be especially meaningful. 

But after I asked what storms they were experiencing in their own lives, there was silence.  So I asked again.  This time, they started talking to one another in their native tongue.  I asked the interpreter what they were talking about.  She said they were wondering if Jesus really calmed a storm like this.

I sensed that “the problem of miracles” was the issue.  They were stumbling over the miracle in the story.  In seminary, I was taught in one way or another that this is a big problem in today’s world, and that one of my jobs as a pastor was to recognize and deal with it when it arose. 

In this case, I said something along these lines: that we shouldn’t get caught up wondering about the miracle but to see that the larger meaning of the passage was how Jesus could calm our storms. 

More discussion among themselves ensued. I waited and finally asked the interpreter what they were talking about now.  Translating the leader of the clan, she said, “Well, if Jesus could calm a storm, he must have been a very powerful person.” 

I was caught with my exegetical pants down. I had completely missed Mark’s intention in including this incident in his gospel.  I was embarrassed by their “simplistic” but absolutely correct understanding of the passage. But I am a quick learner, and I replied that yes, Jesus really did this miracle and that it showed not merely that he was a powerful person, but master of creation, Lord of heaven and earth—this is what the Gospel was teaching here.  

More mumbling among them, but this time I could see that it was awe and wonder that animated the conversation. 

Psychological/spiritual interpretations have their place—I often use them because they can powerfully drive home personal meanings of the Scripture.  But from that day forward, I first try to take the passage as literally and plainly as possible.  When it comes to miracle stories, the point is not some fancy personal, psychological explanation, but the simple fact that a miracle took place by divine intervention.  Yes, Jesus may feed us, but the feeding of the 5,000 is about Jesus being the bread of life. Jesus may give us eyes to see the truth, but the healing of the blind man is about Jesus being the light of the world.  

Miracle stories are first and foremost about Jesus, not about us. And sometimes, those most ignorant about Jesus see that better than do we who are “mature” in the faith.  

Postscript to This Story

Weeks later, when we came to the resurrection account, I explained that this was the hinge upon which the Christian faith rested.  No talk about Jesus giving us new life at this point!  I just said, to be a Christian means to believe that Jesus rose from the dead, confirming his divinity.  And I asked them if they believed this.  

The teenage interpreter replied for herself: “No. It’s impossible for a person to rise from the dead.” 

I acknowledged that, indeed, it was a hard miracle to swallow, and I said I appreciated her honesty.  I then asked the leader of the clan, who often spoke for the rest of the group.  He asked, “Does the teacher [meaning me] believe it?”

I said, “Yes, I do.”

He replied, “Then we believe it.”

That settled it for most of the group, and they soon became members of the church.  I had learned in seminary that in other cultures, people often became Christians in families and clans—this was not unusual on the mission field.  So I didn’t worry about whether each individual personally experienced existential faith in Jesus at that moment, but I understood that together as a group, they would make Jesus their lodestar.

Betting on Jesus

There are many arguments for giving oneself to Christ.  Two of the oldest are Thomas Aquinas’ proofs for the existence of God and Pascal’s wager (that we lose nothing by becoming a Christian if the Christian story were to turn out false, but we gain everlasting life if it is true.)   Those still make sense to many people today, like Emmett Tyrrell Jr., the founder and editor-in-chief of The American Spectator. 

In my early years, I was troubled by very little, though some questions continued to nag at me. One is, “How did I get here?” Or, “Why am I here in the first place?” Finally, there is my objection, uttered ever more weakly through the years, “I never asked to be here,” which left me with one more question: “So, what is it all about?” Fortunately, I came across Pascal. Many young skeptics are never fortunate enough to find Pascal. He supplied the initial answer to my question. The answer is God. I took Pascal’s famous wager and bet on God’s existence.
 

Grace and peace,

Mark

Photo Credit: Note how the icon tells the whole story, from Jesus being asleep in the boat to his still of the storm.

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