(The Storm Whisperer)
Part 1 – John’s El Niño
The weather report on the way into the office said hot and dry—
pack a lunch, stay hydrated, expect nothing out of the ordinary.
That’s the forecast we like: predictable, manageable.
But life doesn’t always read the forecast.
Storms change our plans.
We got in the boat rehearsing all the Messianic prophecies,
convinced that if we could just coronate Jesus,
we could usher in the kingdom.
He can provide food just like Moses and the manna.
He just needs our help to get to the place we want Him to be.
It isn’t “Do you have Jesus?”
It’s “Does Jesus have you?”
They had just finished a seaside, three-day revival—
the Grow Your Personal Kingdom Conference
with motivational speaker Rabbi Yeshua.
Attendance? Over 5,000. It was yuge.
They collected all the leftover pizza for later.
Cousin Herman brought an old theatrical crown,
and Malachite offered purple curtains from his mother’s house.
They already started collecting palm branches
for the coronation parade down date-palm-lined Joshua Boulevard.
It had been a long time since anyone had seen
a genuine king-making parade in Israel.
They even joked they could use a Burger King crown if necessary.
We decorate thrones;
Jesus prepares hearts.
But then Jesus commands them—“Get in the boat.”
No explanation. No royal announcement. Just obedience and oars.
And as they rowed, the sky turned.
We thought we were riding into the sunset—
the kingdom coming,
the last stanza of “Will There Be Any Stars in My Crown.”
James kept practicing the sound of it:
> “Secretary of State James, Son of Thunder.
Can’t wait to get that past the church board.”
Bartholomew bragged, “I’ve got eight stars already.”
John grinned, “I’ve got nine.”
We were about to become riders in the storm.
But then, the harsh wind drowned out our song
and sent shards of shivers to the core of our being.
This wasn’t a passing squall.
> “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood …”
The most terrifying moment many ever face in life
is the one where you realize—I am alone.
---
Part 2 – Storm on Cue
Half of the men in that boat had grown up on the sea.
Fishing wasn’t a hobby—it was their livelihood.
They knew the Sea of Galilee like the back of their hand:
where the sandbars hid, where the sudden gusts rolled down from the cliffs,
and how fast a calm night could turn violent.
Nathaniel — the honest disciple — even carried a bar of soap,
just in case somebody needed their mouth washed out
for using non-Biblical language
when the nets tangled or a sudden squall threatened to sink the boat.
He said it was “for spiritual hygiene.”
We laughed — but we’d need more than soap before the night was over.
The wind arrived like a slap.
One moment the water shimmered under the moonlight—calm, glassy, promising.
The next, it twisted and snarled, breaking into whitecaps that slammed the bow.
Oars flew from hands, the sail cracked like a whip,
and the laughter that had filled the boat only minutes earlier died in a single gust.
This wasn’t just weather—it was warfare.
And heaven seemed silent.
We shouted into the wind until our throats burned,
but no answer came.
The waves mocked our faith with every crash.
It felt as though the storm itself had intent —
as if hell was trying to keep us from reaching the other side.
Then it hit me:
this wasn’t punishment; it was a proving ground.
Jesus had sent us into the storm not to destroy us
but to teach us that even the power of the enemy
still answers to the voice of God.
We thought we were rowing toward triumph; we were really rowing into training.
Hours passed. The boat creaked and moaned. Salt stung our eyes.
We were cold, tired, and hopeless—
and this was only a couple of hours after we’d eaten from the Celestial Diner.
Twelve baskets of leftover pizza on the shore,
but out here in the dark, it felt like we had nothing at all.
And then—somewhere beyond the reach of our lantern light—
a figure began to move across the surface.
At first it looked like part of the night itself — a darker shape inside the darkness.
Then lightning flickered, and for a heartbeat we saw Him—
walking, unhurried, utterly calm.
The storm bowed beneath His feet like a beaten enemy.
The sea, that symbol of chaos and rebellion, became a carpet for its Creator.
What terrified us obeyed Him.
The very elements that threatened to drown us were holding Him up in worship.
We saw but couldn’t believe.
We saw but didn’t recognize our Savior.
We were blinded by our own agenda —
too busy imagining crowns and counting stars in our heavy crowns
to recognize the Creator who wore none.
We were fighting for survival when suddenly we realized—
Jesus didn’t need the boat to get to the other side.
The waves that blocked our progress carried Him forward.
We didn’t have a DayTimer
where the miracle of the day was penciled in between wind gusts and water panic.
We were just trying to survive—
and He was already walking on top of what was sinking us.
> “It is I; don’t be afraid.”
Every syllable hit like thunder wrapped in tenderness.
Ego eimi — I AM.
He wasn’t just saying, “Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?”
He was saying, “The same voice that spoke from the burning bush is speaking from the storm.”
The God of Sinai was standing on the sea.
The One who commanded Moses to speak to the rock
was now talking to the wind.
What am I missing here? Right — no big deal.
The Creator had just stepped into His creation.
They weren’t seeing a ghost; they were seeing God — and they didn’t even know it yet.
The most terrifying moment many ever face in life
is the one where you realize — I am alone.
That’s the storm the disciples were really in.
But when Jesus walked into their chaos,
He brought the presence that fear cannot survive.
---
Part 3 – Revelation and Response
I once heard about two office furniture movers who were told to get rid of an old refrigerator from a break room.
They both grabbed hold of it — one from the front, the other from the back — and started pushing.
The problem was, they were pushing with equal strength … in opposite directions.
Back and forth they strained, sweat pouring, the old icebox rocking but going absolutely nowhere.
Finally one of them stopped, panting, and yelled,
> “Man, I don’t think we’re ever gonna get this thing out of the room!”
The other dropped his end, wiped his forehead, and said,
> “Out of the room? I thought we were trying to get it into the room!”
They just stood there, looking incredulously at the other guy —
a pair of Push-me, Pull-yous locked in a stalemate of effort and misunderstanding.
Sometimes I think that’s how we are with God.
He’s trying to move us forward, and we’re pushing just as hard in the opposite direction —
arguing with His purpose, resisting His lead, working up a sweat while standing still.
And in the dark, Jesus is whispering,
> “You can stop pushing now. I already have this.”
---
And speaking of working against the plan —
a couple of ants were once watching a semi-pro golfer at the driving range.
He took a big swing and left a deep gouge in the turf.
The ants barely escaped.
Then he wiggled his shoulders, adjusted his grip, and took another swing —
another gouge, another near-death experience.
One ant looked at the other and said,
> “If we’re going to get out of this alive, we’d better get on the ball!”
Sometimes the safest place you can be
is right in the middle of God’s swing.
---
The wind stopped.
Not faded — stopped.
As if creation itself took a deep breath and whispered, “Peace.”
And in that hush we began to understand Who was standing before us.
Every wave, every gust, every drop of rain obeyed at once.
All creation heard God’s voice —
except the disciples, who weren’t comfortable and cried out with fear.
We were still shaking, still clutching the sides of the boat,
while the sea itself had already bowed in worship.
He is Jehovah Shalom — the Lord is Peace.
Not merely the bringer of calm, but calm itself.
Every wave that crashed at our feet bowed to His divine Creator authority.
He is Elohim Moshiah — God our Deliverer.
The One who reached down through the water and caught Peter
before the sea could swallow him whole.
The God who still rescues the sinking and restores the weary.
And He is Yahweh Tsabbaoth — the Lord of Hosts,
Commander of the storm,
Captain of creation,
the God whose whisper stills what thunder cannot.
When He spoke the word peace,
He wasn’t giving a polite greeting;
He was speaking shalom — the same word that still echoes as salaam.
From shalom aleichem to as-salamu ?alaykum,
the meaning is the same:
> “Peace be upon you.”
It’s heaven’s language breaking through human chaos.
When Jesus said “Peace,” He was restoring what was broken,
re-creating the world inside every frightened heart.
The water didn’t just calm; it reflected.
For the first time that night we could see our own faces in it —
tired, salt-streaked, but somehow new.
The storm had not changed Jesus; it had changed us.
Peter wiped his eyes, half-ashamed, half-amazed.
He would later tell this story, not as a fisherman’s legend,
but as a reminder: the wind that once terrified him
became the breath that carried him into ministry.
When Jesus said, “It is I,”
He wasn’t announcing His location — He was revealing His identity.
He was saying, “I am still here in your storm,
still God in your darkness, still peace in your chaos.”
The night ended where it began — in a boat —
but now the boat carried men who would one day change the world.
Not because they rowed harder,
but because they rested deeper.
Not because they had mastered the storm,
but because they had finally met the Master of the storm.
Maybe that’s where faith begins for us too —
not when we walk on water, but when we rest in the One who does.
So when your own sea rages and the waves refuse to listen,
remember this:
He’s still the Storm Whisperer.
And if you listen closely, above the noise,
you’ll hear the same voice saying to you —
> “Peace. Be still. I got you, babe.”
The truth is —
He was there all the time.
Waiting patiently,
watching the waves that terrified us,
waiting for the moment when faith would finally look up instead of out.
We thought we were alone in the dark,
but He was already walking on what we feared most.
He’s still there — not late, not distant —
just waiting for us to see Him as He is.
> “He was there all the time…
Waiting patiently in line.”
