Sea

Fear

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“It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.

Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that’s where the river will know
it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean” (Khalil Gibran).

I’ve learned over the years that all fear is just looking at the future and seeing the mountain but not the Mountain Mover. It’s seeing the stormy waves but not seeing the One who walks on water. It’s basically looking at life’s problems and eliminating God from the equation.

I’ve also learned that 98% of what I worry about never happens. That dreaded scenario never takes place. I find that when I get to the place where my fear is greatest . . . and take one more step, that’s when God’s strength shows up in my weakness. God’s faithfulness shows up in my obedience, regardless of whether my motives are wholly pure or not.

“Jesus Christ is like a vast ocean, He is too immense to fully explore, and too rich to fathom. You are like a bottle. The wonder of the gospel is that the bottle is in the ocean, and the ocean is in the bottle” (Jesus Manifesto, Leonard Sweet and Frank Viola).

Sleeping in a Storm

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I was recently reading over a very familiar passage in Matthew 8 where Jesus calms the storm. I’ve actually lost count of how many times I’ve either read that story or had it read to me.

The scene opens with Jesus and the disciples crossing the Sea of Galilee in a boat. It’s a calm sea, nothing unusual or unexpected. Suddenly, out of nowhere, hurricane winds start rocking the boat and the disciples start majorly freaking out. Like I would probably have done. I’m sure there was some hyperventilating and breathing into paper bags.

They find Jesus sleeping in the boat. I guess that’s not hard to imagine, since Jesus is likely exhausted from a very full day of ministry and teaching. Plus, He undoubtedly has been up all night praying.

What gets me is what I read today in a commentary. It said that one of the signs of true trust in God is being able to sleep in the midst of trouble. Like Jesus slept in the storm.

Jesus more than anyone modeled perfect trust and faith in His Heavenly Father. That allowed Him to sleep in the midst of crashing waves and strong winds.

I think the point of the story isn’t how Jesus keeps His children out of storms, but how He is with them during these storms. And just like the disciples, we end up finding out that Jesus really is in control of the wind and the waves and our lives.

I’m sure that if I got the easy, comfortable life I’ve often longed for, my faith would be weak and worthless. I’d never have front row seats to see how Jesus has faithfully come through for me in every crisis and storm and trial.

So I guess I’m thankful even for those storms. That’s where I learned just how close Jesus is to those who cry out to Him.

Storms Revisited

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“Never dread any consequence resulting from absolute obedience to His command. Never fear the rough waters ahead, which through their proud contempt impede your progress. God is greater than the roar of raging water and the mighty waves of the sea. ‘The Lord sits enthroned as King forever’ (Psalm 29:10). A storm is simply the hem of His robe, the sign of His coming, and the evidence of His presence.” (F. B. Meyer)

Wow. I never thought of storms that way. Either literally or figuratively.

I always thought of God going before the storm, being with me during the storm, and waiting for me after the storm. I never thought of the storm itself being a sign of His presence.

I’m wondering something else. Whenever I picture a storm, I see grieving parents hovering over the coffin of their dead child or a father holding foreclosure papers in his trembling hands. But maybe storms come in less noticeable ways.

Could a storm be that dull dread day after day that never seems to depart? Could a storm be the rut you’ve been stuck in for years that never seems to alter or change?

Some storms come and wipe off the land. Some come and go with no evidence they were ever there. But they are felt just the same.

Storms end. Dark clouds give way to sunshine. The waters eventually subside. Yet God remains.

I had some grand way I was going to tie all this together so that you would think me ever so wise, but it never materialized. All I know is that for every storm that comes, God is just as present. And He’ll still be there after the storm leaves.

These are not the most profound words I’ve ever written, but maybe someone out there who is holding on for dear life or merely dreading the monotony of the next day, these words will be something to cling to. I don’t know.

I know God is bigger than any storm. He still speaks and the winds and waves still have to obey. That’s all I know for now.

An Evening Prayer on the Last Day of August

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“O God, I thank You for this day of life
for eyes to see the sky
for ears to hear the birds
for feet to walk amidst the trees
for hands to pick the flowers from the earth
for a sense of smell to breathe in the sweet
perfumes of nature
for a mind to think about and appreciate
the magic of everyday miracles
for a spirit to swell in joy at Your mighty presence
everywhere” (Marian Wright Edelman)

Thank you, God, that you woke me up this morning and gave me good health and a body capable of enjoying your creation in all of its splendors.

Thank you for another day or grace and forgiveness and peace and joy.

Thank you that You don’t treat me a I deserve or according to my manifold sins and weaknesses, for I could never then hope to even catch a glimpse of Your face.

But now I see it everywhere.

In the last blooms of the last flowers before the autumn chill sets in.

In the laughter of old friends gathered together.

In the gentle breeze that blows where and when it wills.

In Van Morrison singing about Tupelo Honey in the airwaves above my head.

In the pink remains of yet another artful sunset.

In my own contented and peaceful heart.

Thank you for being here with me and being everything I need in this moment.

“Dear Lord,
be good to me…
The sea is so wide
and my boat is so small.” (Irish Fisherman’s Prayer)

“Lord, I don’t ask for a faith
that would move yonder mountain.
I can take enough dynamite and move
it if it needs movin’. I pray, Lord,
for enough faith to move me” (Norman Allen).