Stay In the Boat and Keep Rowing
It was dark now, and Jesus had not yet come to them. (John 6:17)
Here are some thoughts from a then-young missionary, Max Lucado, excerpted from his journal during his first month on the mission field in Brazil. On the flight to the field, he writes: “The next time this plane touches down, I will be a missionary. To God be the glory.” The second day Max reflects, “I keep reminding myself that the homesickness is temporary — it comes with the weariness and adjustments. I must remember the reason I’m here. Not for my own joy or gain, but for the growth of God’s kingdom.” By day three his spirits are up: “God, it’s a grand blessing to serve you.” But on the fourth day, Max’s spirits begin to sag: “It’s difficult for us to think about home. We cried this morning.” On the fifth day he doesn’t rebound as he writes, “Today is not so clear. The clouds have buried the mountains. The sky is gray.”
By day six, the storm is brewing: “Yesterday was the toughest day thus far. The newness is gone. I’m tired of this language. We could hardly think of our family and friends without weeping.” On the eighth day, the waves have crested and the winds are blowing: “This hotel room which has been our home is cold and impersonal. I held my wife as she wept, and we both confessed the ugliness of the thought of spending the rest of our lives in this foreign country. We’re so far from home.” By the tenth day the gales are at full strength when Max writes, “Doggone it, I know God is guiding us, I know he has a plan for us, but it’s so hard. How will we learn this language? Lord, forgive my sorry attitude.” And just when you’d think it couldn’t get any darker he says, “I wish I could say I’m thrilled to be here. I’m not. I’m only willing to be here. My commitment to be a missionary feels like a prison sentence.”
Perhaps the disciples could have journaled the same. They only did what they were told. They didn’t question the order; they simply obeyed it. They could have objected. After all, it was evening and darkness was only minutes away, but Jesus told them to get into the boat and so they did. And what was the result of their obedience? John’s crisp description tells you: “That evening Jesus’ followers went down to Lake Galilee. It was dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. The followers got into a boat and started across the lake to Capernaum. By now a strong wind was blowing, and the waves on the lake were getting bigger.” (John 6:16-18)
That’s a pretty chilling phrase, “Jesus had not yet come to them.” They were caught in the storm of “not yet.” They did exactly what Jesus said and look where it got them – a night on a storm-tossed sea with their Master somewhere on the shore. It’s one thing to suffer for doing wrong, but it’s an entirely different matter altogether to suffer for doing what’s right. But it happens. And when the storm bursts, it washes away the naive assumption that if we do right, we will never suffer. Just ask the faithful couple whose crib is empty and whose womb is barren. Just ask the businessman whose hard and honest work was rewarded with financial ruin and bankruptcy. Or the recent story of an Oklahoma University student who received a zero on her psychology essay for incorporating Christian beliefs about gender roles, and the coed who took a chance on love and was raped. And so, the winds blow. And so, the boat bounces. And so, the disciples wonder, “Why the storm, and where’s Jesus?”
It’s bad enough to be in the storm, but to be in the storm alone? The disciples had been on the sea for about nine hours, and John tells us they had been rowing for four miles. (John 6:19) Under calm seas, they should have rowed that distance in an hour. It’s been nine. That’s a long night, and how many times had they searched the darkness for their Master? How many times did they call out his name? Why did he take so long? And like the disciples, we ask the same questions.
It reminds me of my children taking piano lessons. Many years ago, we purchased a piano and fearing that it would become just an expensive piece of furniture I told my kids that they were to take piano lessons for one year; after that, they were on their own. Even now I can hear my children playing the piano. And by the time they had begun their last six months, the teacher had upped the ante. No more rinky-dink songs; no more nursery rhymes. It was time to move on. The rhythm varied, the notes sharpened, and the key changed. I remember thinking that it would be pleasant to the ear … someday.
But the notes came slowly and the fingers dragged, and the kids would have quit if I’d given them the chance. So, was I a cruel father for urging them to continue? Was I unfair in prodding them to practice? I wasn’t oblivious to their struggles; I could hear them. And I wasn’t blind to their tears; I could see them. I knew they’d be much happier swimming, reading, or watching television. So why then did I let them suffer? Because I loved them then and love them still. And I knew their struggles then would result in music tomorrow.
Mark tells us that during the storm Jesus “saw his followers struggling.” (Mark 6:48) Through the night he saw them. Through the storm he saw them. And like a loving father he waited. He waited until the right time – until the right moment. He waited until he knew it was time to come, and then he came. So, what made it the right time? I don’t know. Why was the ninth hour better than the first or second? I can’t answer that one either. Why does God wait until the money’s gone, or the sickness has lingered? Why does he choose to wait until the other side of the grave to answer the prayers for healing? Again, I don’t know. I only know that his timing is always right. All I can say is that God will do what’s best. “God will always give what is right to his people who cry to him night and day, and he will not be slow to answer them.” (Luke 18:7)
Though you hear nothing, he’s speaking. Though you see nothing, he’s acting. With God there are no accidents. Every incident is intended to bring us closer to him. It’s like the story of Leonard Bernstein and Arturo Toscanini who attended a concert to hear the promising young soprano, Elisabeth Rethberg, sing. Toscanini commented on the purity of her voice, to which Bernstein responded, “Yes, but she’ll sing better once her heart is broken.” There are certain passions learned only by the pain. And there are times when God, knowing that, allows us to endure the pain for the sake of the song.
Either Jesus didn’t care, or he believed in prayer and you know the correct choice there. And do you know what? Jesus hasn’t changed. He still prays for his disciples. “Because Jesus lives forever, he will never stop serving as priest. So, he is able always to save those who come to God through him because he always lives, asking God to help them.” (Heb. 7:24-25) But if that’s true, where does that leave us? While Jesus is praying and we’re in the storm, what are we to do? Simple. We do what the disciples did. We stay in the boat and keep rowing. The disciples rowed most of the night. Mark says that they were “struggling hard” to row the boat. (Mark 6:48) The word “struggle” is translated elsewhere as “tormented.” In other words, it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t glamorous.
And much of our life is spent rowing. Getting out of bed. Fixing lunches. Turning in assignments. Changing diapers. Paying bills. Routine. Regular. More struggle than strut. More wrestling than resting. You thought marriage was going to be a lifelong date. You thought having kids was going to be like babysitting. You thought the company who hired you wanted to hear all about the great ideas you had in college. Then you learned otherwise. The honeymoon ended. The IRS called, and the boss wanted you to spend the week in Screamer, Alabama. Sure, there are moments of glamour and days of celebration. We have our share of feasts, but we also have our share of baloney. And to have the first we must endure the second.
Grace,
Randy
No comments:
Post a Comment