Luke chapter 6. Therefore, leaving the principles
and the doctrines of Christ, let us go on. Welcome
to the semi -seminary. Pull up a chair on this
porch where we let scripture breathe into the
dark places of life. Today we're stepping into
a storm, the kind that swallows stars, bends
oars, and makes even seasoned fishermen cry out.
It's in John 6 where the disciples are bone weary.
The sea won't quit. The most haunting line is
this. It was now dark. Jesus had not yet come
to them. And that's where many of us live, between
miracle and mystery, between feeding on grace
and wondering if grace will ever show up again.
So lean in, let the waves spray your face and
the thunder shake your ribs. The word still walks
on water and the voice of Jesus still splits
the storm. And if this journey stirs your soul,
share it, subscribe, help us spread a little
bit more porch light into the dark. I'll see
you on the other side. A few weeks ago. We sat
with Jesus in a synagogue in Capernaum, and he
was teaching about bread. Not the kind you pick
up at the market or knead with your hands, but
the bread that comes down from heaven. And he
said, I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to
me will never be hungry, and whoever believes
in me will never be thirsty. And it was a hard
word. It wasn't just poetry. It wasn't a metaphor
to be filed away in the back of your mind. It
was scandalous, even offensive. Because he was
claiming to be more than manna, more than Torah,
more than tradition. He was claiming to be life
itself. And if you remember that story, not everybody
could stomach that teaching. The crowd thinned
out. The disciples looked around at one another,
unsteady, when Jesus pressed this question upon
them. Do you also wish to go away? Some left,
some stayed, but everyone felt the sting of that
moment. Then, if you were with us last week,
we turned to the hillside where 5 ,000 people
gathered. And the same Jesus who said, I am the
bread of life, put that into action. He took
five barley loaves, two fish, gave thanks and
broke them and fed the multitude until all were
satisfied. It was a sign. A wonder, a miracle,
the kind of thing that turns heads and stirs
up shouts of revolution. And people did what
people always do when power shows itself. They
tried to seize him, crown him, make him the kind
of king they wanted. But Jesus slips away. He
wouldn't be pressured into their plans. He would
not let their hunger for bread distract his deeper
call on his life. And that, friends, is where
today's story picks up. We've seen the hard teaching
that cost his followers. We've seen the miraculous
feeding that gained that swelling crowd. comes
next is not about the masses. It's not about
that crowd. It's not about thousands on a hillside.
It's not about bread and baskets or arguments
in synagogues. It's about 12 men in a boat. Today's
story takes us into the in -between. The space
between the miracle and misunderstanding, between
feeding and fleeing, between revelation and rejection.
This is a story of what the disciples experienced
while that crowd is still buzzing about their
full bellies and would -be kingships. They're
caught between the glory of a sign and the pain
of a hard saying. And honestly, that's not a
bad description of discipleship. We live most
of our lives in the in -between. We have moments
where God's grace is undeniable. When the bread
multiplies, when the prayers are answered, when
the crowd sings hallelujah. Moments where the
teaching cuts deep. When the crowd scatters.
When Jesus seems more absent than present. And
in the in -between moments, we row. And that's
where we find the disciples on this night in
the story, this morning. That's where John places
us, out on the water, in a storm. Between miracle
and mystery. Evening falls fast in the Galilee.
Not like here, where we can watch a sunset drag
out slow. Orange bleeding into red, red into
violet, violet into indigo until the porch light
flips on and you think, well, that's that. No.
On the Galilee, dark drops like a hammer. One
minute the lake is silvered with the last streaks
of sun. The next, it is a black bowl, stars strangled
by the clouds. It's not the kind of dark we know
in our world today. We have streetlights humming,
headlights flashing, neon signs buzzing. In the
diner window are microwaves. They glow green
with digital clocks. But in the first century,
When John says, it was now dark, he means the
kind of dark that swallows you whole. The kind
of dark that makes you forget your name. A dark
thick enough that the only thing louder than
the wind is your imagination. And into that dark
they row. And the disciples had already had themselves
quite a day. plus women and children, fed on
a hillside. Not just fed, but stuffed. They watched
Jesus break barley loaves until the baskets overflowed.
They saw fish multiply like grace itself. They
heard the crowd laugh, sing psalms, whisper to
each other that this was it, the prophet, the
king. The one we have been waiting for. They
should have gone home riding on a high. They
should have ended the day with smiles wide and
songs still ringing in their ears, but it turns
sour real quick. The crowd wanted more than bread.
They wanted a revolution. They wanted a king.
They wanted Jesus to grab a sword, rally the
hungry, and march on Rome. They wanted him to
be the kind of Messiah they had dreamed of, not
the kind he came to be. And Jesus slips away.
One moment surrounded, the next vanished like
mist curling in the hills. Gone before they could
crown him, gone before they could twist him into
their image. So now the disciples are left to
row. The crowd is dismissed. The teacher is absent.
The boat shoved off into the water, both familiar
and terrifying. At first, the rhythm is steady.
Oars dip. Backs pull. Breath matches the slap
of the water. Their muscles, remember, calluses
fit the wood on the... paddles like old friends,
but Galilee is no friend. She is a trickster.
It's shallow, ringed by mountains, open to desert
wind, and she can turn on you faster than a rattlesnake.
And sure enough, the breeze stiffens. The lantern
flames flicker than gutter. Clouds roll down
like bruises spreading. And the water changes
its tune. No longer whisper, but more slap, slap,
slap. The boat shudders and the men know what's
coming. They've seen it before. Fishermen lost,
boats splintered, storms swallowing whole families.
They've seen mothers on the shore staring at
the water that never gave back their sons. They
know this lake's moods, and tonight she's mean.
And then John writes the line that makes your
bones go cold. It was now dark, and Jesus had
not yet come to them. The storm is one thing.
The night is another. But this, the absence,
that's the sharpest ache. Isn't that always where
storms hit most? Not just in the waves, but in
the waiting. Not just in the chaos, but in the
silence. When Jesus has not yet come. That's
where we find them. That's where we find ourselves.
Out on black water, storm rising, and the absence
heavier than the wind. And maybe that's where
you are right now. You've got storms in your
own life, bills stacked on the counter, a diagnosis
hanging over you, an empty chair at the table
where someone you love used to sit. You know
the ache of absence. You've whispered those words
to Jesus has not yet come. But hold on. Because
not yet is not never. The story doesn't end with
absence. The story bends towards presence, and
we are about to see it. So now, beloved, before
we let the storm break loose, before the winds
howl into our bones, before the sea climbs the
sides of our boat, let ourselves be stilled.
We are about to hear the word that walked, the
word that did what no word should do, became
flesh, took steps across chaos, strode steady
where feet should sink. And that word does not
whisper comfort like a lullaby, but bellows courage
into the gale. It is I. Do not be afraid. So
now, church, walk with me into the reading of
Holy Scripture. John chapter 6, beginning verse
16. When evening came, his disciples went down
to the sea, got into a boat, and started across
the Sea of Capernaum. It was now dark, and Jesus
had not yet come to them. The sea became rough
because a strong wind was blowing. When they
had rowed about three or four miles, they saw
Jesus walking on the sea and coming near the
boat, and they were terrified. But he said to
them, It is I. Do not be afraid. Then they wanted
to take him into the boat, and immediately the
boat reached the land towards which they were
going. The next day, the crowd that had stayed
on the other side of the sea saw that there had
only been one boat there. They also saw that
Jesus had not got into the boat with the disciples,
but that his disciples had gone away alone. But
some boats from Tiberias came near the place
where they had eaten the bread after the Lord
had given thanks. So when the crowd saw that
neither Jesus nor his disciples were there, they
themselves got into the boats and went to Capernaum
looking for Jesus. That's the story of the I
am the bread part. And now, beloved, the words
have been spoken. turned to sound ancient letters
lifted off the page and into our very hearts
the storm has begun to swirl around us the waves
lap at our ankles the oars are heavy in our hands
we cannot stay standing outside this story we
cannot fold this page and walk away untouched
for the reading has ended and the living of it
has just begun the boat rocks hard Wood creaks
like an old man's knees. Twelve men pack tight,
shoulder to shoulder, every muscle straining
against the oars. Their breath comes ragged,
their backs scream. Spray stings their eyes,
salt burns their lips. Robes cling heavy with
water, and above all, darkness. Ancient, choking,
horizonless. They've rowed three or four miles,
the middle of the lake, the worst place. Too
far to turn back, too far to reach shore. Stuck
in chaos's belly. For them, the sea is not a
playground. It is a graveyard. Genesis said God
tamed it. Exodus said it swallowed Pharaoh. Job
said God treads on the waves. The Psalms sang
of Leviathan thrashing, Isaiah thundered, nations
roar like seas. Sea is more than water to them.
It is symbol, myth, and memory. Every child raised
in synagogue would have known by heart Psalm
77. Your way was through the sea, your path through
the mighty waters, yet your footprints unseen.
Every rabbi. Taught Isaiah 43, when you pass
through the waters, I will be with you. And every
fisherman feared Job's God who tramples the waves
of the sea. So, when the storm rages, they aren't
just battling wind. They are wrestling with cosmic
chaos. This to them is more than weather. This
is every force of disorder, every Leviathan of
the deep, every empire roaring like the surf.
And here they are, tiny men in a tiny boat and
swallowed up by it. And then, through spray,
through night, they see it. A figure, upright,
calm, striding. Their hearts. lurch into their
throats. They gasp, and the word they use, phantasma.
Greek for ghost. Death walking. But then, a voice
splits the storm. It is I. Do not be afraid.
Let me camp out here for a second. Greek. Ego
emi. Ego emi. I am is what that means. And it
is I am that should echo back to your memory
of God in the Old Testament, right? The burning
bush voice, ego, Emmy. The Isaiah temple voice,
the Job voice that tramples the seas, and suddenly
they see the one, capital O, the one walking
toward them. And the one walking toward them
has made the water under his feet. The I am now
in flesh striding across the chaos. And just
like that, the bolt jolts shore. Knees hit sand.
Deliverance not rode but gifted. And what is
more, notice this. The text says immediately
they reached the shore. It's as if time bent,
as if geography folded, as if grace carried them
in a way no compass could chart. One moment,
chaos. The next, very next moment, solid ground.
Now here's where it lands, church. We row too,
don't we? We row when barrages unravel. We row
when bills outrun paychecks. We row when the
doctor says, I'm afraid I've found something.
We row when prayers echo like static and we whisper
John's line, Jesus has not yet come. That's the
ache, not yet. But hear the gospel message again,
friends. Not yet is not never. He comes. He always
comes. Maybe not how we scripted it. Maybe not
when we ask, but he comes. And when he comes,
the storm doesn't always end. John never says
the wind quit. Never says the waves lay down.
The miracle isn't silence. The miracle is presence.
Christ in the boat, soaked, shivering with us,
whispering, it is I. Do not be afraid. So what's
your boat? A diagnosis? A wandering child? Debt?
Loneliness? Chaos under your sandals? Hear me.
The storm that drowns you is sidewalk under his
feet. And sometimes deliverance looks like survival.
Knees hitting the ground you never rode to. Resurrection
is not tidy. Sometimes it's shivering. Soaked,
but alive. He isn't a charm. Not a rabbit's foot.
Not a genie. He is. I am. And his promise isn't
no storms. His promise is no storm alone. Gospel
is not a stormless life, but it is storm -proof
presence. So don't measure your faith by the
calmness of the water. Measure it by who's in
your boat. And maybe you've heard this preached
as a neat little moral tale. Keep your eyes on
Jesus and you'll walk on the water too. But John
doesn't tell this story like Matthew. In John's
story, there's no Peter climbing out here. There's
no lesson about your level of faith. Because
John wants you to see something deeper. That
this is the exodus all over again. This is God
splitting the chaos. to deliver his people. This
is Yahweh showing up in its flesh, announcing
his name and carrying his people to the shore.
Which means the good news is not be brave like
Peter. The good news is God has already come
striding over your chaos and he will never let
you drown. And that, beloved, is why this story
still stings. Because every one of us rose. Every
one of us fears. Every one of us knows absence.
And every one of us is met by presence. So let
this story preach itself into your bones. Storms
do not define you. Absence does not last forever.
And grace will carry you further than oars ever
could. So now the boat is quiet. The oars are
still. The storm hasn't ended, but your feet
are on sand. Survival itself is grace. Every
one of us knows the jolt of unexpected ground.
A diagnosis not as grim as feared. A friendship
that held together when you told the truth. A
morning when you thought you couldn't rise, and
yet you did. That's shoreline grace. You didn't
row there. You were carried there. The crowd
chased bread. Disciples received presents. Bread
feeds for a day. Presence anchors you for eternity.
So the lightning question flashes. Bread? or
presence. Your storm may be loneliness or debt
or guilt you've named as your own or silence
that feels like absence. But hear it. The same
I am still comes walking and still says to you,
it is I. Do not be afraid. And when your boat
jolts, when knees hit ground you'd never thought
you'd see, Will you whisper it back? Not as politeness,
not as agreement, but as surrender, as reckoning,
as truth deeper than any storm. Because if you
do, you will discover this. Storms may not quit,
but you know what? Neither does grace. Chaos
may rage, so does love. Absence may ache, but
presence... breaks through the night is darkness
but it is not endless the storm is fierce but
it is not final the waves are high but they are
not higher than the one who walks upon them so
what do you say church we let that word settle
in your chest will you let the presence climb
into your boat will you let the grace that should
carry you to the shore even though you've never
could have rode there on your own? Will you accept
presence over bread? Amen. Amen. Storms do not
ask permission. They do not check your schedule,
your bank account, or your strength. They come
in the night and they whisper absence. But the
gospel truth is this. Storms don't get the last
word. Grace does. Disciples learn that chaos
is real. Fear is fierce and absence aches. But
Christ comes striding across it all, naming himself
with the name that first spoke at creation. I
am. Do not be afraid. And that same presence
walks towards you. Not a promise of calm waters,
not an escape hatch from pain, but presence that
does not abandon. Miracle is not always that
the storm stops. Miracle is that Jesus shows
up and gets you to the shore you never could
have rowed to by yourself. So here's the reckoning.
Will you choose the bread that fills for the
moment or the presence that steadies forever?
Will you settle for absence or cling to the one
who makes chaos his sidewalk? If this word has
met you in the middle of your own storm, don't
keep it to yourself. Share it with someone else
who's rowing hard in the dark. Subscribe so you
don't miss the next Voice of Grace breaking through
the static. And join me again here on the semi
-seminarian where the storms are real, but so
is the Savior walks upon them. I'll see you next
time. Therefore, leaving the principles of the
doctrine of Christ, let us go on.