Following Jesus Into the Storm
I was once caught in a bad thunder and lightning storm while leading a group of teenagers on a canoe trip across a large sound in eastern North Carolina. Our group was comprised of several girls, all 15 or 16 years old, two leaders, and a passel of aluminum canoes. Most of the canoes held three girls; this was helpful because the expanse of water we were crossing was wide and the canoes were weighed down with lots of gear and food. Although it could be awkward, we at times needed three paddlers per craft, especially since the girls varied in physical strength.
We had spent the few days prior traversing the southern edge of the Great Dismal Swamp (in Virginia) before being picked up and driven to the tip of Ocracoke Island, a tiny gem in the island-bracelet chain of North Carolina’s Outer Banks. From Ocracoke, we had canoed to an old, abandoned village, Portsmouth, situated on the end of another barrier island. Portsmouth was fun to wander through, minus its horrendous mosquitoes that were capable of carving holes in human flesh in nanoseconds. We had camped near the village that night and were set to cross over to the mainland the following day.
I grew up in this part of the world and spent a lot of time on the water in my youth. My father was a harbor pilot, someone who knew our part of the coast well. He set me loose in a small sailboat at a young age, but with certain caveats, including one he repeated every single time I left the house: Keep your eyes on the southwest. Why? Because during the summer, thunderstorms, with their menacing, anvil-shaped clouds towering overhead, almost always race in from the southwest, rising to incredible heights before dumping torrents of rain, lightning and wind. Typically, these storms do not last long. Regardless, you don’t want to be caught unawares in one, especially not when you are in an open boat and are one of the highest things around.
The morning our group was set to cross over dawned calmly enough. I felt confident we would get to the mainland without much difficulty if we ate breakfast and broke camp quickly, loaded our canoes and headed out without delay. As I had been taught, I kept turning to look at the southwestern sky. Timing was important because we had a long way to go and because we had to contend with the tide. We were close to an inlet that led into the Atlantic Ocean. We needed to paddle across while the tide was coming in; an outgoing tide could pull us seaward, no matter how hard we stroked. Also, summer thunderstorms are more common in the afternoons. They grow larger and become more dangerous as the day heats up. As far as I was concerned – and the decision was mine to make – the earlier we got underway, the better.
We ate. We packed. The girls got enough of their grumbles out so as to be able to face the work ahead. The tide was right and the sky looked good. If all went well, we would be on the mainland around noon, ahead of any chance of foul weather.
But our departure did not go well. Just as we were getting far from shore, a huge thunderstorm roared up out of nowhere. It was terrifying. First, the wind started whipping us. We could not stroke against it and return to the shore we had just left and we could not get to the other side; the wind was simply too strong. There were, however, some tall wooden poles sticking out of the water, poles net fishermen use to string their nets across at certain times of the year. I yelled for the girls to lay as flat as possible in their canoes while grabbing hold to one of the protruding poles, to keep from being blown toward the inlet. The wind increased, the sound of thunder drew nearer, the waves grew. I remember I started screaming into the wind some Scripture I had been memorizing, each word snatched viciously from my mouth. No one could hear me. I couldn’t hear myself.
We were in a dangerous situation and there was nothing we could do to stop it. I knew I might be struck by lightning. Even worse, one of the girls in our charge might be struck. And if one girl was hit, the electrical current would most likely go through the canoe and strike everyone on board.
Every time I remember this event, I think of the gospel story of Jesus calming the waters. You know, that often-repeated account of Jesus falling asleep in the stern of a boat, a storm blowing up out of nowhere, and the disciples waking their leader with shouts of fear and utter despair.
To my ears, this story is more than an encouragement to be people of greater faith. For starters, many of the disciples were seasoned fishermen. They knew a thing or two about living and working on the sea. They knew wind and storm patterns, how to look at clouds, how long it should take to get from point A to point B given particular weather conditions, how heavily loaded their boat should or should not be.
I imagine some of the disciples who were with Jesus that day, who heard him tiredly and benignly say, “Let’s go over to the other side,” thought the timing might be off. Perhaps they looked at the sky, considered what experience had taught them, and said, “How about let’s wait a few hours? I’ve got a feeling now isn’t a great time to head out.” They knew they might regret it before all was said and done. At the very least, they might get soaked, and there is nothing worse than being both tired and wet.
But Jesus asked, and precisely because the disciples trusted him, they followed him onto the boat (Matthew 8:23). Jesus went first. The disciples followed. The seasoned sailors took over the work they had spent years learning to do. They got the boat underway and began the journey to the other side. They were probably not surprised Jesus fell quickly asleep, calmed by the soothing rhythm of the waves. Everything was going to be alright.
But the weather began to change. I am sure everyone on board (except sleeping Jesus) noticed the rising winds and rising seas. At some point, they probably realized it was going to be a big blow before it was all over. Still, they knew what they were doing. Until they didn’t. Until the magnitude of the danger they were facing forced them to cry out to Jesus to save their lives.
Who of us has not followed Jesus into a situation we thought might be a little difficult, but not life-threatening? Trying, but not impossible? We thought, Hmm, OK, this might make for a tough set of circumstances – this move, this marriage, this job, this financial cliff, this health scare or chronic illness. My isolation, my jealousies and insecurities, my fear of being irrelevant when everyone around me seems so in charge of their lives. My fear of never being loved.
“Hey Jesus, didn’t you tell us to cross over to the other side?” we cry out. Don’t we deserve some credit for wanting to be obedient, for wanting to be people of faith, for wanting to do the hard thing, even when our instinct and training told us the timing might be off? We didn’t think it would be easy, but we never thought it would require every ounce of our strength and wit and fortitude to simply stay alive. We thought we would make it. We thought we could navigate the treacherous circumstances of our lives.
Didn’t we follow you, Jesus, into the boat?
The fact is, we carry who we are with us onboard. And who we are is never enough. Jesus did not rebuke the disciples personally; he rebuked the situation that was threatening their lives. He called out to the storm and stilled it. To them, he said, “Where is your faith? Are you trusting me, or yourself – what you know, what you can do? I had you follow me onto the boat and into the storm that I might show you where your faith must rest if you are to survive: In me. Not in your ability to save yourself, but in my ability, in my presence, in my words, in my spirit.
I am the way to the other side. You are going to get there only by shouting out to me your terrors and fears and misgivings, your angers and jealousies, pride and vanity. I am interested in the real you. Give me yourself. I will quiet the storm within you just as you saw me quiet the storm without. I am the only one who can do it.”
The girls I was canoeing with across Pamlico Sound that day many years ago all made it. No one was struck by lightning. The hammering, black clouds passed. We bailed out our canoes, which had taken on inches of rain, and began anew the long journey across the water. But I had a new respect for how powerless I was to control my own life, much less anyone else’s. Try as I might, I was not capable of saving any one of us, not even myself. I could not hear myself shouting into the wind. I could not hear the girls. But we were heard. Of that I am certain.