Divine Deliverance

Divine Deliverance

John 6:1-15

In May of 1940, Britain was desperate for hope. Germany had swept across Europe. Poland had fallen. France was collapsing. The British army was retreating toward the English Channel. Morale was fragile, fear was widespread, and the nation was looking for a new prime minister to say the right thing at the right moment.

When Winston Churchill took office, people expected reassurance. They wanted confidence. They wanted a promise of quick victory and decisive strength. This was the moment for comforting words and hopeful predictions. Instead, Churchill stood before Parliament and said the unexpected. On May 13, 1940, he told the nation:

I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I can say: it is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: Victory. Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.

He did not promise relief. He did not minimize the danger. He did not offer escape. He told the truth. Deliverance, if it came, would be costly. The road would be very long. Victory would not come by avoiding suffering, but by enduring it together. Churchill redefined what leadership looked like in a crisis. 

Similarly, Jesus in John 6 redefined the expectations of the Messiah. The crowd has just been fed. Thousands are satisfied. Hope is high and expectations are clear. This is the moment when an earthly leader would step forward and claim the crown. This is when a leader usually says what people want to hear. But instead Jesus withdraws from the applause.

Later, when his disciples are struggling in the dark, straining against the wind, he comes to them and says something even more unexpected: “It is I. Do not be afraid.” Literally, “I AM.” Jesus does not promise an easy road, but redefined leadership expectations revealing his identity. And in doing so, he shows that true deliverance does not come by avoiding the storm, but by truly knowing the Lord who rules in the midst of it. 

These two well-known stories in Jesus' life may seem randomly placed together but God is not random. As we look at these two events, I pray God will reveal himself as the only one who can bring us deliverance. 

Divine Compassion (John 6:1–13)

John is very intentional about how he frames this miracle. He wants us to see Jesus through the lens of Israel’s story, and especially through the story of Moses. Nearly every detail presses us in that direction. John 6:1–13,

After this Jesus went away to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, which is the Sea of Tiberias. And a large crowd was following him, because they saw the signs that he was doing on the sick. Jesus went up on the mountain, and there he sat down with his disciples. Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was at hand. Lifting up his eyes, then, and seeing that a large crowd was coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread, so that these people may eat?” He said this to test him, for he himself knew what he would do. Philip answered him, “Two hundred denarii worth of bread would not be enough for each of them to get a little.” One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish, but what are they for so many?” Jesus said, “Have the people sit down.” Now there was much grass in the place. So the men sat down, about five thousand in number. Jesus then took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated. So also the fish, as much as they wanted. And when they had eaten their fill, he told his disciples, “Gather up the leftover fragments, that nothing may be lost.” So they gathered them up and filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves left by those who had eaten. 

John begins this scene by drawing our attention not first to the crowd, but to Jesus. He tells us that Jesus went away to the other side of the Sea of Galilee and that a large crowd followed him because they had seen the signs he was doing on the sick. From the beginning, John is honest about the crowd’s motives. They are drawn by what Jesus can do, not yet by who he is. And yet Jesus does not turn them away. Divine compassion does not wait for perfect understanding or pure motives. It meets real need where it exists.

Jesus then goes up on the mountain and sits down with his disciples. In Scripture, mountains are places of revelation. Moses went up the mountain to meet with God. Here Jesus goes up the mountain not to meet with God, but to reveal himself as God. John then adds a crucial detail. The Passover, the feast of the Jews, was at hand. That single sentence frames everything that follows. Passover recalls deliverance, redemption, and God sustaining his people in the wilderness. John wants Moses in our minds before Jesus ever speaks. Remember Jesus’ words to the Jewish leaders in the previous chapter, John 5:45–47, 

Do not think that I will accuse you to the Father. There is one who accuses you: Moses, on whom you have set your hope. For if you believed Moses, you would believe me; for he wrote of me. But if you do not believe his writings, how will you believe my words?” 

John 6 is a living picture of how Jesus is greater than Moses. Before we walk more in the details of the stories let's zoom out to see how John is using these stories to frame Jesus’ identity. 

John is not subtle about what he is doing here. He is intentionally placing Jesus in the story of Moses, and he does it detail by detail. Just as Moses once led a great crowd through the wilderness, John tells us twice that Jesus is now leading a large crowd toward him in verses 2 and 5. Just as Moses performed signs in Egypt, John tells us again and again that Jesus is performing signs here, in verse 2 and then explicitly in verse 14. Just as Moses ascended the mountain to meet with God and instruct the people, Jesus goes up on the mountain in verse 3, not receiving revelation from God but to reveal himself as God. Just as the Exodus was remembered and celebrated through the Passover, again John tells us plainly in verse 4 that Passover was at hand. And just as Israel was tested in the wilderness under Moses, John uses that same language in verse 6 when he tells us that Jesus tested Philip. The people once received manna from heaven under Moses, and now the crowd receives bread in abundance from Jesus in verse 11. And just as Moses led the people safely through the waters, through the Red Sea and later the Jordan, so Jesus will soon walk upon the sea as if it were dry ground. John is stacking the evidence intentionally. He is showing us that Jesus is not merely another Moses. He is the greater Moses, the true Shepherd, the divine Deliverer who does not just point to God’s salvation but embodies it himself.

With that in mind, let us return to the narrative in verse 6. When Jesus lifts up his eyes and sees a large crowd coming toward him, he turns to Philip and asks, “Where are we to buy bread, so that these people may eat?” John immediately explains that Jesus already knew what he was going to do. The question is not for Jesus’ information, but for Philip’s formation. This is often how divine compassion works. Jesus exposes our limits before revealing his abundance. Philip responds the way most of us do. He calculates. Two hundred denarii would not be enough. 

Philip hears Jesus’ question and immediately starts doing what we all do in a crisis. He starts running numbers. I picture him like a project manager staring at a spreadsheet. “If we had this budget, if we had that many volunteers, if we had this many hours, then maybe we could make a dent.” And you know what spreadsheets are great at? They can tell you what you cannot do. They can expose limits. But they cannot create bread.

That is where Jesus often brings his people. He presses us into the place where the math does not work so we stop trusting the math. He brings us to the end of our resources so we finally look up and say, “Lord, if you do not act, nothing happens.” Philip’s calculation is not wrong. It is simply incomplete. It leaves Jesus out of the equation. Even if every resource were exhausted, even if everything were given, it still would not solve the problem. How often do we limit our obedience to what feels manageable instead of what faithfulness requires? How often do we decide something cannot be done before we ever place it in Jesus’ hands?

Andrew speaks next, and his response feels slightly more hopeful but still hesitant. He notices a boy with five barley loaves and two fish. Barley loaves were the bread of the poor. This is not impressive provision. And Andrew knows it. “What are they for so many?” Even our best faith often feels small when we look at the size of the need. And yet Jesus does not dismiss the offering. Divine compassion never despises small faith or modest resources. It simply asks that we use what we have for his glory.

Then Jesus says something quietly remarkable. “Have the people sit down.” John adds that there was much grass in the place. This is not a throw away detail. It is springtime. Passover season. Green grass. And picture what this would have looked like. Thousands of people, scattered across the hillside, sitting down in the spring green grass. Sitting. Waiting. Resting. This should bring Psalm 23 to your minds, the Lord is my Shepherd who “makes me lie down in green pastures.” John is communicating to his readers throughout this story that Jesus is the Shepherd. Jesus is Yahweh.

Beloved, some of us cannot receive from God because we will not sit down. We are always standing, always striving, always anxious, always rehearsing worst-case scenarios. But the Good Shepherd commands rest because he is about to provide. The posture of faith is not frantic. It is seated. Are we willing to rest when Jesus tells us to sit down, or do we insist on striving before we see how things will work out?

Jesus then takes the loaves, gives thanks, and distributes them to those who were seated. John does not describe the mechanics of the miracle. The bread simply keeps coming. The focus is not on how the miracle happens, but on who is doing it. This is where the Moses comparison sharpens. Moses prayed, and manna fell from heaven. Jesus gives thanks and gives bread himself. Moses was a mediator. Jesus is the source. Moses was a servant in God’s house. Jesus is the Son over it.

Everyone eats, and John tells us they are satisfied. Divine compassion is not stingy. It does not merely keep people alive. It fills them. Jesus came to bring life and life more abundantly. And when the meal is finished, Jesus instructs the disciples to gather the fragments so that nothing may be lost. That command is not about leftovers as much as it is about testimony. Twelve baskets are gathered, one for each disciple, as if Jesus is saying, “You thought there would not be enough. Look at what remains.” How often do we overlook the evidences of God’s past faithfulness because we are already anxious about the next need?

I have seen this in my own life more times than I can count. In the moment, all I can see is what I lack. I am thinking, “How will we make it?” “How will we get through this?” “What if the need grows?” But then, later, when I look back, I realize God left evidence behind. Not just that he provided, but that he provided with margin. The leftovers are a sign for us. They are a memorial. It is as if Jesus hands each disciple a basket and says, “I want you to carry your lesson with you. I want you to feel the weight of my sufficiency.” Some of us would have more peace today if we would stop rehearsing tomorrow’s fears and start remembering yesterday’s baskets.

This sign reveals Jesus as the true Shepherd, the greater Moses, the compassionate provider who feeds his people in the wilderness. This sign also exposes a misunderstanding of the crowd.

Distorted Kingship (John 6:14–15)

In the wake of miraculous provision, the crowd’s excitement exposes not their faith, but their desire to reshape Jesus into the kind of king they want. John 6:14–15

When the people saw the sign that he had done, they said, “This is indeed the Prophet who is to come into the world!” Perceiving then that they were about to come and take him by force to make him king, Jesus withdrew again to the mountain by himself. 

John tells us that when the people saw the sign Jesus had done, they began to say, “This is indeed the Prophet who is to come into the world.”

At first glance, that sounds like faith. It sounds biblical. It even sounds correct. Deuteronomy had promised a prophet like Moses, and here was a man feeding the people in the wilderness at Passover. But John immediately shows us that something is off. Because what the crowd says with their mouths is not what they believe in their hearts.

We need to feel the weight of the moment. This takes place at Passover. Passover was not merely a religious observance. It was a national memory. It was the annual retelling of how God humiliated Pharaoh, crushed an empire, and led Israel out of slavery with power and judgment. Passover stirred gratitude, but it also stirred expectation. Passover had a way of making hearts swell. You can imagine fathers telling children the old story again. “We were slaves, and God crushed our oppressor. We were powerless, and God brought plagues on the mighty. We walked out with spoils. We crossed the sea.” And when you tell that story under Roman occupation, you do not just feel gratitude. You feel anger. You feel urgency. You start looking at Caesar to be defeated as Pharoah was before.

So when Jesus makes bread appear in the wilderness, the crowd does what crowds often do. They try to turn a miracle into a movement. They see a sign and immediately think strategy. “If he can feed an army, he can lead an army.” They want Jesus not as Savior, but as symbol and a way to get what they want.

Now place this miracle in that context. A massive crowd is gathered in a desolate place. Bread appears in abundance. Hunger is removed. Leftovers remain. The echoes of Moses would have been unmistakable. Moses gave manna. Moses confronted Pharaoh. Moses led the people out. And now Jesus stands before them, providing bread without effort. The conclusion feels obvious. If this man can feed us, he can free us. If God is clearly with him, then surely this is the king we have been waiting for.

This is where naturalistic pride begins to surface. The crowd takes a true sign and presses it into a worldly agenda. They are not denying Jesus’ power. They want to harness it. John tells us that they were about to take Jesus by force and make him king. Jesus is not invited. He is seized. They are not submitting to his authority. They are attempting to define it. This is not worship. It is an attempt to control Jesus for their own purposes.

And this is where Jesus does the unexpected. This is one of those “He said… what?” moments. At the height of enthusiasm, when any leader would step forward and accept the crown, Jesus withdraws. He refuses applause. He walks away from power. He does not do what the crowd expects, because he is not the kind of king they want.

Why does Jesus refuse? Because they want a king who will change their circumstances, not their hearts. They want deliverance from Rome, not deliverance from sin. They want bread for today, not life for eternity. They want a king who will affirm their instincts, not confront their rebellion. They want the benefits of God’s power without the cost of repentance.

Jesus knows that accepting this crown would mean abandoning his mission. He did not come to overthrow Rome. He came to conquer sin and death. He did not come to lead a political revolt. He came to lay down his life as a ransom for many. And that kind of kingship cannot be seized or shaped by human expectation. It must be received on God’s terms.

This moment exposes a danger that is not limited to first-century crowds. It presses on us as well. We may not be trying to crown Jesus with political power, but we are often tempted to reshape him according to our preferences. We celebrate his compassion, but resist his authority. We want his provision, but hesitate at his demands. We are happy for Jesus to meet our needs, but uneasy when he defines our lives.

Here are some questions this text quietly asks us to sit with. When Jesus provides for you, does your trust deepen, or do your expectations harden? When prayers are answered, do you grow more submissive, or more entitled? Are there ways you have assumed that Jesus exists to support your plans rather than reorient them? And perhaps most searching of all, if Jesus refused to be the king you wanted or to give you what you wanted, would you still follow him as the king you need?

The crowd misunderstands Jesus not because they lack enthusiasm, but because they lack true faith. And so Jesus withdraws, not in rejection, but in mercy. He refuses a false crown so that he can reveal his true kingship in a way they did not anticipate. And that revelation will come next, not on land in celebration, but at sea in the midst of chaos.

Disciples in Chaos (John 6:16–19)

John moves us from the crowd on land to the disciples at sea, and the transition is deliberate. This is not a disconnected miracle tacked onto the story. Remember Scripture is never random. John 6:16–19

When evening came, his disciples went down to the sea, got into a boat, and started across the sea to 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 frightened. 

John is doing theology through narrative. The same Jesus who feeds the crowd now sends his disciples into the storm, and those two scenes interpret one another.

As evening comes, the disciples go down to the sea, get into a boat, and begin crossing toward Capernaum. John adds a simple but heavy line: “Jesus had not yet come to them.” Darkness has fallen. The wind rises. The sea grows rough. Progress is slow. And the one who fed thousands is nowhere to be seen. 

This is often where Jesus asks his people to live. The disciples are not disobedient here. They are not running from Jesus. They are doing exactly what they have been told to do. And yet obedience has led them into chaos. Faith has not produced ease. It has brought them to a situation of fear.

That alone should correct a shallow understanding of the Christian life. Following Jesus does not exempt us from storms. In fact, it often places us directly in them. The same Savior who provides bread on the hillside sends his disciples into the dark on the water. John tells us the disciples have rowed three or four miles. They are exhausted. They are straining. They are making progress, but not enough to feel safe. 

And then they see Jesus walking on the sea and coming near the boat, and they are afraid. That reaction is significant for they have seen miracles. They have passed out bread. They have gathered baskets. And still, fear overtakes them. Faith does not erase fear automatically. Sometimes it exposes it.

Many of us know what it is like to live between provision and peace. We have seen God work. We have stories of his faithfulness. And yet, when darkness falls and circumstances turn chaotic, fear rises again. We strain. We row. We calculate. And we wonder why Jesus feels distant. But John wants us to see the storm is not merely a hardship, but as a revelation. Throughout Scripture, the sea represents chaos, danger, and forces beyond human control. In the Old Testament, only God treads upon the waters. Only God rules the deep. So when Jesus walks on the sea, John is not merely showing us power. He is revealing identity.

And this is why this scene is inseparable from the feeding of the five thousand. The crowd wants bread. The disciples need assurance. And before Jesus explains himself in the Bread of Life discourse, he shows who he is. Let me ask you, “Where is Jesus asking you to trust him right now without explanation? Where has obedience led you into uncertainty rather than comfort? Are you assuming that chaos means abandonment, or are you open to the possibility that chaos is the setting for revelation?” Think of Paul’s words in  2 Corinthians 1:8–10.

For we do not want you to be unaware, brothers, of the affliction we experienced in Asia. For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. He delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will deliver us again. 

Believer, our storms are meant to lead us to rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead and silences the storm.

This passage also speaks to unbelievers, especially those who feel overwhelmed by the storms of life. Many people live with a constant sense of instability. Financial pressure. Broken relationships. Anxiety about the future. Fear of illness. Fear of loss. Those storms are real. And Jesus is not indifferent to them. But John is also clear that there is a deeper storm every person must face. 

The greatest danger in this passage is the reality of standing before a holy God under the weight of sin. Most people live as if the greatest problem is a lack of resources, a lack of peace, a lack of control. And those are real struggles. But Scripture says the deepest problem is not outside of us. It is inside of us. Sin does not just disrupt our lives; it places us under God’s righteous judgment. The storm is not merely what might happen to you tomorrow. The storm is what you already deserve before a holy God today.

That is why self-improvement cannot save you. That is why distraction cannot save you. That is why success cannot save you. You cannot row your way out of guilt. You cannot outwork your condemnation. You need rescue from above. You need mercy you did not earn. You need a Savior who can speak peace not only to waves, but to the justice of God against your sin.

You may never face a storm at sea. You may never go hungry. But every person will face the storm of God’s righteous judgment. Scripture teaches that God’s wrath is not random or cruel. It is the settled opposition of his holiness against sin. And that storm cannot be rowed through. No amount of effort, morality, or religion can bring you safely to shore.

The crowd wanted bread. The disciples feared the storm. But the greater crisis is separation from God. And if Jesus is only your provider or a helper for earthly needs,  he cannot save you from God’s wrath. That is why this scene prepares us for what comes next. Before Jesus speaks about being the bread of life, before he calls people to eat his flesh and drink his blood, he reveals himself as the one who rules the chaos. The one who can carry people safely through the storm they cannot survive on their own.

And that brings us to the moment when fear meets faith, when chaos gives way to clarity, and when Jesus finally declares who He is.

Declared Kingship (John 6:20–21)

Everything in the story turns on a single sentence. As the disciples strain in the dark and fear grips their hearts, Jesus comes near and says, John 6:20–21, 

But he said to them, “It is I; do not be afraid.” Then they were glad to take him into the boat, and immediately the boat was at the land to which they were going. 

Those words seem gentle, but they are full of power. In the original language, Jesus does not simply say, “It’s me.” He says, “I AM.” This is no mere reassurance, but a revelation.

With those words, Jesus identifies himself as Yahweh, the covenant God of Israel, the one who spoke from the burning bush, the one who parted the Red Sea, the one who alone rules the chaos. The same God who once led his people through the waters now walks upon them as if they were dry ground. The disciples are not merely being rescued. They are encountering the living God.

This is why both these stories are put together. John is theological. On the hillside, Jesus reveals divine compassion by feeding the crowd. On the sea, he reveals divine identity by walking on the water. The crowd wanted a king who could give bread. The disciples need a Lord who can control the chaos of the sea. And before Jesus ever explains the Bread of Life, he shows that he is the I AM who alone can save. 

John then tells us that the disciples willingly receive Jesus into the boat, and immediately the boat reaches the shore to which they were going. There is no description of the storm calming. There is no explanation of how the distance is covered so quickly. The point is not technique. The point is presence. When Jesus is received, the journey ends safely.

That is not just a historical detail. It is a picture of salvation. The disciples do not conquer the storm. They do not row harder. They do not gain control. They receive Jesus. And the one who rules the chaos brings them home. That is how deliverance works in the kingdom of God. It does not come by mastery, but by trust. It does not come by effort, but by surrender.

This moment also corrects the crowd’s misunderstanding. Jesus does not declare his kingship by taking a throne. He declares it by revealing his name. He is not crowned by people. He is confessed by those who recognize who he truly is. His authority does not come from public acclaim. It flows from his divine identity.

And this is where the gospel becomes clear. The greatest storm humanity faces is not hunger or hardship or fear. It is the storm of God’s righteous judgment against sin. That storm cannot be escaped. It cannot be avoided. And it cannot be survived apart from the I AM. But the good news of the gospel is that the one who rules the storm is also the one who steps into it. Jesus does not stand at a distance and shout instructions. He comes near. He takes on flesh. He walks into our chaos. And ultimately, he enters the greatest storm of all at the cross, bearing the full weight of God’s wrath against sin so that those who trust him might be brought safely to shores of his heavenly kingdom.

For the Christian, this passage calls us to renew our trust. Where are you still trying to row when Jesus is inviting you to receive him? Where are you assuming that faith means control rather than dependence? The call of this text is not to fear less, but to know Christ more deeply.

And for those who are not Christians, the invitation is urgent and gracious. You may be trying to manage the storms of your life through success, morality, or self-reliance. But none of those can carry you through the storm that ultimately matters. Only the I AM can save. And he does so not by demanding that you calm the waters, but by calling you to receive him as LORD.

Jesus declares his kingship not by force, but by presence. He does not say, “Do not be afraid” because the storm is gone. He says do not be afraid because I am here. And when the King who rules the chaos is received, the journey ends in safety. Jesus is the only way you can cross the other side of the sea. 

That is why this scene calls to mind the closing moments of The Pilgrim’s Progress. As Christian and Hopeful approach the Celestial City, they are told there is still one final obstacle before them. They must cross the River of Death. Bunyan describes the river as deep and terrifying, and when Christian steps into it, he begins to sink. Panic overtakes him, and he cries out, “I sink in deep waters; the billows go over my head; all his waves go over me.” The problem is not that the river is impassable, but that fear overwhelms him.

Hopeful, standing beside him, speaks words of truth and reminds Christian of the King’s promises. And slowly, something changes. Bunyan tells us that Christian suddenly says, “I feel the bottom, and it is good.” The river does not disappear. The crossing is not removed. But remembering the promises of the King, steadies Christian’s steps and carries him safely through to the other side. That is exactly what is happening here in John 6. The disciples do not conquer the storm. They do not outrow the sea. They do not gain control. They receive Jesus into the boat, and the one who rules the waters brings them home. 

And for Christians, this moment presses an often-neglected responsibility. Notice that in the boat, and later at the river, faith is sustained not only by the presence of the King, but by the words of promise spoken aloud. Hopeful reminds Christian of what the King has said. He does not minimize the fear. He does not deny the depth of the water. He simply brings God’s promises back into the moment. That is one of the great gifts God has given the church. We are not meant to face storms alone, relying only on our private strength or silent prayers. We need brothers and sisters who will stand beside us and speak truth when fear makes us forget it. Sometimes the most loving thing a Christian can do is not offer solutions, but to say, “Remember what the Lord has promised.” In storms, faith is often sustained through borrowed courage, shared hope, and promises spoken by another voice when our own voice is shaking.

In May of 1940, when Winston Churchill stood before a frightened nation and said, “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat,” he shocked the crowd because he refused to promise an easy road. He told the truth. Deliverance would come, but it would be costly. The path forward would be long. Victory would not come by escape, but by endurance. Jesus does something similar in John 6, but on a far deeper level.

He feeds the crowd and refuses their crown. He sends his disciples into the storm and then reveals his name. He does not promise an easier life. He reveals who he is. And that is precisely what his people need. The truth is, following Jesus is not a sprint. It is a long obedience. There will be seasons of abundance and seasons of fear. There will be moments when God’s provision feels obvious and moments when the wind is against you and progress feels painfully slow. And in all of it, Jesus does not offer a life free from storms. He offers himself in the midst of them.

That is why identity matters more than explanation. Before Jesus ever explains the Bread of Life, before he calls people to eat his flesh and drink his blood, he shows them who he is. He is the I AM who rules the waters. He is the Shepherd who leads his people through green pastures and across dark seas. And knowing him prepares us not just for a moment of faith, but for a lifetime of obedience.

For the Christian, this passage calls us to settle something deep in our hearts. We do not follow Jesus because he always makes life easier. We follow him because he is Lord. We trust him not because we understand the storm, but because we know the one who commands it. And when the seas are rough, faith does not mean pretending we are not afraid. It means receiving the King into the boat again and again.

For those who are not Christians, this passage offers a gracious but serious invitation. You will face storms in this life no matter what you believe. Suffering is unavoidable. Chaos will come. And beyond that, every person will one day face the storm of standing before a holy God. The good news of the gospel is that the one who will judge the world is the same one who stepped into the storm to save it. Jesus bore the full weight of God’s wrath at the cross and was raised from the dead so that all who receive him might be carried safely home.

The crowd wanted a king who would give them bread. The disciples needed a Lord who could bring them through the storm. And we need the same Savior today. Jesus does not promise a life without blood, toil, tears, and sweat. But he does promise his presence. And when the I AM is in the boat, the journey, however long and hard, ends in safety. That is the hope that carries us through every storm and brings us safely to the shores of his heavenly kingdom.