Mark 4:35–41

Some storms announce themselves.

Others don’t.

One minute life is moving along quite normally.

And then comes the phone call.

The conversation.

The diagnosis.

The unexpected bill.

The disappointment.

The news you weren’t prepared for.

Suddenly the landscape has changed.

That’s why I like the honesty of this story in Mark.

Jesus and his disciples get into a boat.

They set off across the lake.

And a storm blows up.

The important detail?

Jesus is with them.

Following Jesus has not prevented the storm.

That’s worth noticing.

Sometimes, perhaps without quite meaning to, we absorb the idea that if we’re faithful enough, prayerful enough or good enough, somehow life should work out.

Then the storm comes.

And alongside whatever difficulty we’re facing comes another question:

Where is God?

The disciples ask their own version.

Jesus is asleep.

They wake him:

“Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”

I love the honesty of that.

This is not polished prayer.

This is frightened prayer.

Don’t you care?

Maybe you’ve prayed something like it.

God, don’t you see what’s happening?

Don’t you care about this person?

Don’t you care how frightened I am?

Why aren’t you doing something?

There is something strangely comforting about the fact that the Bible allows those words into the story.

Fear doesn’t disqualify us.

Questions don’t frighten God.

The disciples are terrified, and Jesus is still in their boat.

He gets up and speaks to the storm.

Peace.

Be still.

And the wind dies down.

Then Jesus turns to his friends and asks:

“Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

I don’t hear that as Jesus saying, “How dare you be frightened?”

They are in a storm. Fear is hardly surprising.

Perhaps the deeper question is this:

Have you forgotten who is in the boat with you?

Yesterday we thought about peace in the noise.

Today this is different.

Because some things aren’t simply noise.

Some things really are storms.

And when somebody is in one, telling them to calm down isn’t particularly helpful.

Christian peace isn’t pretending the waves aren’t high.

It isn’t saying, “Everything happens for a reason.”

It isn’t pasting a cheerful sentence over somebody else’s pain.

Peace begins by acknowledging the storm.

Yes, this is hard.

Yes, I am frightened.

Yes, I don’t know what happens next.

And Christ is still here.

Perhaps that little word and matters.

I am frightened and God is here.

I don’t know what happens next and God is here.

I cannot fix this and God is here.

The situation hasn’t suddenly become easy.

But I am not alone in the boat.

Sometimes peace comes because circumstances change.

We pray for that.

But sometimes peace comes before circumstances change.

A strange steadiness.

Enough strength for the next step.

Enough light for today.

Enough grace to keep going.

If you are in calm waters today, give thanks.

But perhaps look around too.

Somebody near you may be in a storm.

You might be part of God’s peace for them.

A phone call.

A meal.

A lift.

A listening ear.

Sitting beside them without trying to explain anything.

And if you are the one in the storm, perhaps there is no big lesson you need to learn today.

Perhaps this is enough:

You are not alone in the boat.

Christ is with you.

Even here.

Especially here.

A question to carry

Where do I most need to remember that I am not alone?

A simple practice

Name one uncertainty you are carrying.

Don’t try to solve it.

Simply say:

“Jesus, you are with me in this.”

Return to those words whenever the worry returns today.

Prayer

Jesus,
when the waters are calm,
help me remember you.

When the storm comes,
help me remember you then too.

I bring you what frightens me,
what I cannot control,
and what I cannot yet see beyond.

Speak your peace into my fear.

And when the storm does not immediately stop,
remind me that I am not alone in the boat.

Amen.

For today: Trust the One who is with you.