Who Is in Your Boat? Fear Not, When Jesus Is In the Stern of Your Ship

“A violent squall came up and waves were breaking over the boat, so that it was already filling up. Jesus was in the stern, asleep on a cushion.” (Mark 4:37–38)

The disciples weren’t wrong about the storm; they were wrong about the Sleeper. They diagnosed the weather and misdiagnosed the One in the back of the boat. Water sloshed over their ankles. Wind punched through their cloaks. The boat was taking on water while the wind roared. But they read the waves better than they read the Presence. That’s our problem, too. We are expert forecasters of panic, but amateurs at noticing God.

Imagine the chaotic scene: men bailing with both hands, voices climbing, rope burns on palms, that hard slap of cold water across the face. And in the stern, Jesus asleep on a cushion. He calmly sleeps to teach us what faith looks like when it trusts the Father. He rests peacefully so that we learn to rouse our faith rather than our fear. The sleep of Christ is not neglect or carelessness, He is sovereign and this is authority at rest. He can sleep because nothing threatens Him or the ones with Him. He allowed His humanity to do what ours does so that when we grow tired we too can rest, and to show that rest, here, as trust. The most important question we should ask when we encounter a storm and hit our limits isn’t ‘How bad is this?’ but ‘Who is in my boat?’ Fear doesn’t just rattle our nerves; it exposes our little myth of control.

These are not uncommon questions in today’s climate. How do I not fall apart when the world is unraveling? I pray, I go to Church, so why am I still terrified? Why am I angry so quickly, worried so constantly, tired of waiting for answers? The short answer: because we confuse weather with reality. The longer answer: because we forget a few deep truths that re-order a soul in the wake of life’s storms.

We put more trust in the visible dashboard—vitals, bank balances, headlines—and forget the reality of our spiritual life—our soul, our salvation, our Creator, and our God—treating the greater reality like a passing mood or a change in barometric pressure. This is spiritual nearsightedness, our noses pressed to the glass while the horizon goes unseen. Reality is thicker than what the senses report. Angels are not fairy tales; they are fellow servants who “excel in strength, doing his word” (cf. Ps 103:20). The Accuser is not a metaphor; he is the graffiti artist of the mind, a vandal of peace who would love you to believe he is merely a figment of your imagination. This doesn’t mean we should deny the waves we experience but, instead, recognize the deeper field in which they play out; the unseen stage where God is at work. Faith is not pretending the boat is dry; faith isn’t optimism with its fingers crossed; it’s locating yourself in a universe already spoken for. When you know that, you stop haggling with fear and start speaking to it with truth.

We forget that God is in control. Control is not code for “you’ll get the outcome you want.” Providence is not a vending machine; it’s the Author who knows the ending and is not panicked by the climax in chapter twelve. Control means ownership and jurisdiction. “In his hand are the depths of the earth; the heights of the mountains are his also. The sea is his, for he made it, and his hands formed the dry land.” (Psalm 95:4–5) Let Mary’s word give you confidence because it still applies over every impossible calculus: “For nothing will be impossible with God.” (Luke 1:37) Divine providence does not erase our freedom or the natural causes of wind and wave; it edits the story without stealing the pen from your hand, bending events toward ends we cannot yet see. So you can unclench your grip on the wheel; you don’t need to sit in the captain’s chair to be safe. The One asleep in the stern is the One who owns the sea and set the shoreline.

When the boat lurches, we often interpret the jolt as indifference from heaven because we forget that God loves us. We hear the waves beat against the side of our boat and feel the spray and assume the silence means He doesn’t care. We sound like Martha when she confronted Jesus: “Lord, do you not care…?” (Luke 10:40) The disciples asked the same question in the gale: “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” (Mark 4:38) These are the sentences fear writes. The reality of the cross is much greater and shreds the script of fear. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16) Love does not guarantee easy passages; it guarantees His faithful presence, “I am with you,” even when our teeth chatter. Christ did not calm the sea to prove He could—but to preview the heart that would lie still in a tomb and then rise, so your soul could finally rest without dread. He allowed death to take Him and then unlocked it from the inside, reconciling us to the Father. If the worst enemy—sin and death—has been defeated, then no lesser weather can cut you off from Him. Your peace doesn’t rest on calmer weather; it rests on bedrock—His cross and resurrection. If He conquered the worst chaos at the cross, He will not abandon you to lesser storms today.

Jesus told his disciples that God wanted them at peace now, not sometime in the distant future. These were the same disciples who were going to face unimaginable persecution, torture, martyrdom, and sacrifice. We too are called to experience peace, not later, but today. Not when the economy stabilizes. Not when the scans come back. Not when everyone in your house agrees with you. Not when the news cycle cools or your stock portfolio is at its peak. Peace is not identical with circumstance; it isn’t weather; it’s training, a habit of trust put in order. Paul writes, “I want you to be free from anxieties.” (1 Corinthians 7:32) That is not meant to be motivational fluff; it is an apostolic command animated by the Holy Spirit. God never commands the impossible; He commands what grace makes possible and then He supplies the grace. The calm of Jesus is not a personality trait—it’s a gift He intends to share, received in prayer, practiced in obedience, and given away in love.

So how do we learn His rest?

Begin by telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. When you feel the wind and you see the waterline rising, name it in prayer. Then, in the same breath, remember who is present. Speak the truth and reality of Scriptures out loud like a sailor calling bearings during a squall:

• “In his hand are the depths…The sea is his.” (Psalm 95:4–5)
  

• “Nothing will be impossible with God.” (Luke 1:37)
  

• “God so loved the world…” (John 3:16)
  

• “I want you to be free from anxieties.” (1 Corinthians 7:32)
  

Notice what happens: your mind returns from scanning the horizon to recognizing the Captain. Your pulse eases a notch, your jaw unclenches, and the room gets a little wider. Fear thrives in abstraction; it starves in adoration when God is praised by name.

Next, practice custody of attention. Anger and worry are not just feelings; they’re habits trained by what we stare at. If you feed your eyes on storm-trackers and grievances, do not be surprised when your heart becomes barometric. So set your gaze on Christ in concrete, doable ways: open the Scriptures and pray; show practical kindness to someone you can help today; meet Him in worship and the sacraments; be patient with the person right in front of you. Love is a deliberate choice—a practiced decision—for the other person’s real good: for their well-being, their growth, their salvation. Aim there and your interior weather begins to clear.

Then, remember that spiritual warfare is real and lives side by side with the ordinary and everyday. The enemy does not and cannot control creation and he cannot command your will. He can’t make you choose wrong. He can’t make you sin or make you believe a lie. He can only suggest—a nudge, a whisper, a baited thought, dropping thoughts, half-truths, and urgings at opportune moments, trying to catch you when you’re tired, hurried, or hurt. Resist him as you would resist a fraudulent invoice—do not pay attention to it. Name the lie: “God doesn’t care,” “I must control this,” “I’m alone”, and answer with what is true, good, and beautiful. Keep it to three steps: renounce, announce, and then act. Renounce the lie. Announce the truth of Christ. Act in concrete love right where you stand.

Finally, return to the boat. Christ did not call the disciples to swim for shore; He called them to stay where He is. Peace is rarely an exit strategy; it is a Presence strategy. The storm will pass or it won’t—both are secondary. Whether it passes quickly or camps out right on your porch, either way it doesn’t get the final word. What matters is that God who made the waters has chosen to dwell with you. If He rests, you may rest. If He rises to rebuke the wind, then your task is simple: be humble enough to surrender, stop talking over Him and let Him speak.

There is a grace, often only learned this way, a stubborn, weathered grace, that settles on a man who has panicked enough times to be tired of himself. He stops asking, “Why is there a storm?” and starts asking, “Who is this, that even wind and sea obey him?” The question that once accused—Do you not care?—becomes a confession of trust and a quiet thank-you. You retire as a prosecuting attorney and take up the simpler job of following. You stop accusing and start thanking; you bow your will to His; you say, “You are Lord,” and you choose to follow Him even while the wind still blows and the storm rages. And unlike panic, this new posture teaches you how to sleep.

So take up your place in the stern beside the Sleeper. Breathe. Count the breaths if you must. Say with the psalmist what is already true of the waters around you: “The sea is his.” Say with Mary what is already true of your future: “Nothing will be impossible with God.” Say with the Apostle what is already true of God’s heart toward you: “I want you to be free from anxieties.” Say with the Evangelist what is already true of the cross and your life: “God so loved the world…”

And if the waves keep coming, then you have your lesson for today: remain with Him until His rest becomes yours.