“Jesus may not make the storm go away, as he did for Peter and the disciples. The cancer may still be there. The spouse may still be gone. But Jesus is riding it out with us, and somehow that makes the storm less terrifying. That is part of what the Christian’s spiritual life is about. Feeling Jesus’ presence with us enables us to be calmed, even if the storm is raging all around us.”

Rev. Adam Hamilton, “Simon Peter: Flawed but Faithful Disciple”

I grew up on Lake Erie, which is much larger than either the Sea of Galilee or the Lake of the Ozarks which Rev. Hamilton so often references in our chapter this week. My father owned a twenty-four-foot sailboat which, as we read, is about the length of the boats from the time of Jesus. We would sail regularly as children, especially after my mother passed away. Grief is a tough thing and my father did what he had to do to survive difficult days while coping with the loss of his wife.

In our chapter this week, Rev. Hamilton writes about how comforting it is to know that Jesus is there with us when the storms rise. It reminded me of a popular song about Jesus taking the wheel of life as we go down the road of life. It is a beautiful and catchy song, but it differs from my experience of things in recent years.

A few years ago my life fell apart. Within a year and a half a pandemic struck, my disease hit a critical point, what was left of my marriage disintegrated, and I became more of a thing than a person in my own home. I once was given the opportunity to have a say in my own life, but was treated like a wounded animal that needed to be put down instead of as a human being with rights and a family. It isn’t pretty to say, but it does help to point out and normalize the conversation that these things happen to people of every gender, age, educational level, and station in life.

To be honest, it would have been the perfect time to have Jesus take the wheel of life. The problem is that the wheels on the car kept driving straight towards oblivion. I wanted to let go: don’t answer the mail, don’t go to work, don’t answer the phone, and certainly don’t tell people what was happening in my life. If Jesus had the wheel then personal responsibility was meaningless. It would have been great to just let go, but what would happen if I didn’t do what needed to be done next? I would probably be dead from either a resurfacing of my disease that I had spent years seeking to overcome or from being thrown out of my home for not doing the work I am called to do with my life.

As a kid on that boat, I was once going out with my father into a storm to ride on the winds and waves. We were going to go bow-first into the waves so that the winds wouldn’t toss us off course. My father went below deck for maybe five seconds. I moved the tiller a little to one side and we nearly capsized. In a moment the already frightening situation went from scary to terrifying. I thought we were going to die. To be honest, it is impressive that nobody was hurt or killed.

It is dangerous to let go of the tiller or to treat it as anything less than a critical piece of machinery upon which your life can depend. It is equally dangerous to just let go of the wheel and hope it will point down the road.

For me, one of the most important things in this chapter is the fact that Rev. Hamilton points out that Jesus is in the boat with us in the middle of the storms of life. Jesus’ presence does not mean that the storms will always cease or that there won’t be moments of chaotic fear, but it does give us the hope that we are not alone. Even as we gingerly hold the tiller, we do not need to face the storms alone.

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Our church is offering a short-term Bible study for the season of Lent. While many studies for the season traditionally focus on spiritual practices or on the stories of holy week, this year we are reading “Simon Peter: Flawed but Faithful Disciple” by Rev. Adam Hamilton. The idea of the study is that we might consider how we follow Christ in our lives while considering the life of this flawed follower. These blog posts are designed with a principle I have learned from recovery work: “We identify with the stories of others and try not to contrast.” We grow more and live with greater serenity when we look for what we share in common with someone with whom we might otherwise disagree.