Jesus In Our Boat

“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 dead calm.”

—The Gospel of Mark

By Ken Woodley

I really can’t blame the disciples.

The Sea of Galilee is the lowest freshwater lake in the world and the second lowest lake of any kind on Earth.

Because it is so far below sea level and surrounded by mountains, it is notorious for the ferocity and sudden onslaught of its storms. The surrounding mountains, in fact, can focus the force of the wind in a particularly frightening way. 

Peace one moment, then the lake feels like it has gone to war against you, torpedos and depth-charges exploding all around you.

Had I been in that boat with Jesus, I would have been freaking out. No question. 

My voice would have joined the panicky chorus of the other disciples.

“Hey!” I would have shouted, shaking Jesus by the shoulders with both hands, “don’t you care that this storm threatens my very existence?!?!”

We’ve all been there, experiencing a sudden difficulty that rises up over the top of our lives and threatens to swamp and sink us.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to sleep through the sudden storms in my life and simply wake up when the passing trouble—whatever it might be—had gone.

How comforting were we able to rebuke the wind and say to the sea—and have the wind and waves listen and obey—“Peace! Be still!”

If only we could be like Jesus, I think to myself, before realizing that we do have the ability to shush the wind and end the storm.

Sort of. In a way. 

We simply need to recall one vital fact.

We just need to remember that in every circumstance Jesus is in our boat. Wherever our boat is and even if our own Sea of Galilee is acting like the scariest special effect Hollywood can muster.

And if Jesus is in our boat then we cannot sink. But even if we do sink then Jesus will raise us up.

Remembering that, of course, is not always so very easy for us. Worries about so many different things come calling and we often invite them in and make them really comfortable.

When we do that it has the very same effect as the mountains and the very low sea level of the Sea of Galilee: we focus the force of our worries until they become storming anxieties in a particularly frightening way.

We make them so strong that we can’t make them leave. They stay right where they are and take up residency in our lives. We start getting their mail and answering their phone calls.

We ask them what they want for dinner, what game they want to watch on TV. We talk to them more than we talk to our own spouses.

“Sorry, sweetheart, not right now. I’m having a really deep conversation with my anxieties.”

We are often most vulnerable when anxieties wake us up in the middle of the night and toss us with their waves.

But sometimes our anxieties over-do it: a really big wave of anxiety washes over us, nearly tossing us overboard, but that gets our attention.

We finally remember that, oh, yeah, Jesus is in our boat.  And we need to keep that thought centermost in our mind. Sometimes I will literally tell myself “Jesus is in my boat” and then focus on how real that feels inside me.

When I do, I feel a gradual, deepening peace.

I feel the wind dropping and the waves growing smaller and smaller.

Soon enough there is a gentle calm all around.

Even if the waves remain, however, I just don’t feel them as strongly.

Or fear them.

At least not until the next storm.

The skies lighten. Birds begin to sing. I feel a rainbow inside me.

The rainbow of Jesus in my boat.

Together we reach the shore that I’d been searching for and sailing towards before the storm rushed over the mountains like an army of dragons.

We reach the other side of the sea even though, physically, we haven’t moved an inch and aren’t even really in a boat.

That is because the most important journeys are deep down inside us and the storms can’t reach that far.

Only God’s love can find those deepest places.

Maybe that was what Jesus was hoping the disciples would learn for themselves that day. 

Perhaps at some point all the ruckus actually, and quite naturally, woke him up and he was only pretending to remain asleep, waiting for one of them to say: 

“Wait a minute, Jesus is in our boat and God’s love is the life-preserver of our souls.

“So let’s not be afraid. Storms will come and storms will go. But  we’re going to keep on sailing our boat, knowing that we’re never alone as we cross these sometimes troubled waters

“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 dead calm.”

—The Gospel of Mark


By Ken Woodley

I really can’t blame the disciples.

The Sea of Galilee is the lowest freshwater lake in the world and the second lowest lake of any kind on Earth.

Because it is so far below sea level and surrounded by mountains, it is notorious for the ferocity and sudden onslaught of its storms. The surrounding mountains, in fact, can focus the force of the wind in a particularly frightening way.

Peace one moment, then the lake feels like it has gone to war against you, torpedos and depth-charges exploding all around you.

Had I been in that boat with Jesus, I would have been freaking out. No question.

My voice would have joined the panicky chorus of the other disciples.

“Hey!” I would have shouted, shaking Jesus by the shoulders with both hands, “don’t you care that this storm threatens my very existence?!?!”

We’ve all been there, experiencing a sudden difficulty that rises up over the top of our lives and threatens to swamp and sink us.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to sleep through the sudden storms in my life and simply wake up when the passing trouble—whatever it might be—had gone.

How comforting were we able to rebuke the wind and say to the sea—and have the wind and waves listen and obey—“Peace! Be still!”

If only we could be like Jesus, I think to myself, before realizing that we do have the ability to shush the wind and end the storm.

Sort of. In a way.

We simply need to recall one vital fact.

We just need to remember that in every circumstance Jesus is in our boat. Wherever our boat is and even if our own Sea of Galilee is acting like the scariest special effect Hollywood can muster.

And if Jesus is in our boat then we cannot sink. But even if we do sink then Jesus will raise us up.

Remembering that, of course, is not always so very easy for us. Worries about so many different things come calling and we often invite them in and make them really comfortable.

When we do that it has the very same effect as the mountains and the very low sea level of the Sea of Galilee: we focus the force of our worries until they become storming anxieties in a particularly frightening way.

We make them so strong that we can’t make them leave. They stay right where they are and take up residency in our lives. We start getting their mail and answering their phone calls.

We ask them what they want for dinner, what game they want to watch on TV. We talk to them more than we talk to our own spouses.

“Sorry, sweetheart, not right now. I’m having a really deep conversation with my anxieties.”

We are often most vulnerable when anxieties wake us up in the middle of the night and toss us with their waves.

But sometimes our anxieties over-do it: a really big wave of anxiety washes over us, nearly tossing us overboard, but that gets our attention.

We finally remember that, oh, yeah, Jesus is in our boat. And we need to keep that thought centermost in our mind. Sometimes I will literally tell myself “Jesus is in my boat” and then focus on how real that feels inside me.

When I do, I feel a gradual, deepening peace.

I feel the wind dropping and the waves growing smaller and smaller.

Soon enough there is a gentle calm all around.
Even if the waves remain, however, I just don’t feel them as strongly.
Or fear them.

At least not until the next storm.

The skies lighten. Birds begin to sing. I feel a rainbow inside me.
The rainbow of Jesus in my boat.

Together we reach the shore that I’d been searching for and sailing towards before the storm rushed over the mountains like an army of dragons.

We reach the other side of the sea even though, physically, we haven’t moved an inch and aren’t even really in a boat.

That is because the most important journeys are deep down inside us and the storms can’t reach that far.

Only God’s love can find those deepest places.

Maybe that was what Jesus was hoping the disciples would learn for themselves that day.
Perhaps at some point all the ruckus actually, and quite naturally, woke him up and he was only pretending to remain asleep, waiting for one of them to say:
“Wait a minute, Jesus is in our boat and God’s love is the life-preserver of our souls.

“So let’s not be afraid. Storms will come and storms will go. But we’re going to keep on sailing our boat, knowing that we’re never alone as we cross these sometimes troubled waters