Follow me, he says.
And they do.
Mental assent, emotional connection, practical getting up and going, they follow.
Let’s go over to the other side, he says.
They push out into the water and plot their course.
Surely, this can be called nothing less than obedience, surrender, following.
They did it all right. We did it all right.
And then, the storm.
A furious squall.
And where was Jesus? Where is Jesus?
No. No. No. That can’t be right.
Shouldn’t he be out here fixing this?
Shouldn’t You be out here fixing this?
Somebody go get him! He says he’s the Messiah—make him act like it!
Don’t you care, they asked.
Don’t you care that we’re about to die?
Don’t you care that this is not what we prayed for?
Don’t you care that my baby is screaming when I tell her that her friends’ daddy is gone?
No. No. No. This can’t be right.
And then, a word,
The storm is over. The fight is over.
Calm. And a rebuke.
Why are you so afraid? Where is your faith?
Oh, Jesus. It’s here.
Right here in this battered boat.
Right here in my baby’s bedroom.
Right here with You.
It’s right here.