Standing In The Storm

There are storms we prepare for, and there are storms that arrive without warning.

Some give us time. We see the clouds gathering. We hear the forecasts. We sense the pressure building in the air.

Others come suddenly—without courtesy, without explanation, without asking whether this is a convenient season.

A phone call interrupts an ordinary day.

A medical report shifts the ground beneath your feet.

A relationship fractures.

A loss arrives that no amount of faith vocabulary can soften.

What is striking is how often we assume that storms are the exception rather than the rule.

We speak of them as interruptions—detours from the life we were supposed to have. But Jesus does not treat storms that way. When He closes the Sermon on the Mount, He does not speak hypothetically. He does not say if storms come. He says when.

“The rain descended, the floods came, and the winds blew…”

This is not pessimism. It is realism.

Jesus ends His most comprehensive teaching not with a blessing, but with a test. Not with a promise of ease, but with a warning about collapse.

The test is not theology, not sincerity, not enthusiasm. It is endurance.

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What remains standing when the storm has done its work?

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That is the question beneath this passage.

What makes this teaching unsettling is how ordinary the scene is. Two people. Two houses. One storm.

From a distance, the houses likely looked the same. There is no indication that one was smaller, cheaper, or less carefully designed.

Jesus gives us no description of poor workmanship or lazy construction. The difference is not obvious—until the storm arrives.

That should give us pause.

Because much of life looks stable—until it isn’t.

Faith communities can look strong. Families can look intact. Personal lives can appear orderly and grounded. But appearances are not the same as foundations. And Jesus is not interested in how a house looks on a calm day. He is interested in how it holds when the ground begins to move.

This passage is especially sobering because both builders hear Jesus. Both listen to the same sermon. Both are exposed to the same truth. There is no ignorance here. No lack of access. No excuse of distance.

The difference is not what they heard.

The difference is what they did with what they heard.

That distinction cuts close to home, because we live in a time saturated with words. Sermons, podcasts, devotionals, books, discussions. We know how to listen. We know how to agree. We know how to admire truth without allowing it to rearrange us.

Jesus draws a line that is both simple and severe:

Hearing alone is not building.

Agreement alone is not foundation.

The storm exposes what daily life conceals. What you believe about God on calm days matters—but what you have built your life on is revealed when everything shakes.

Storms have a way of clarifying what really holds us. They strip away illusion. They test not intentions, but construction.

This is not a message meant to frighten faithful people. It is meant to steady them.

Because Jesus is not only warning us about collapse—He is inviting us to security.

He is telling us that standing is possible. That endurance is not accidental. That there is a way to live now that holds later.

Before we go any further, we need to hear this clearly:

The storm is not the enemy in this story.

The storm is the revealer.

And what it reveals depends entirely on the foundation beneath our lives.

--- The Storm Is Certain

I used to sing a song with my young boys. The words were a little different...

Simple. Familiar. Almost instinctive.

“The rains came up

And the floods came down…”

We sang it with motions. Little hands going up, little hands coming down. A smile in the room. Laughter. It was one of those songs that felt harmless, almost playful—something you sang before moving on to more “serious” things.

And yet, that song is built directly on the words of Jesus.

It is remarkable how early we introduce this truth, and how easily we forget it later.

Beneath the simplicity of that song is one of the most realistic things Jesus ever said: storms are not optional.

Jesus does not describe an unusual event. He describes a certainty.

“The rain descended, the floods came, and the winds blew…”

There is no moral sorting here. No distinction between the deserving and undeserving. No hint that one builder had warning while the other did not.

The storm does not ask who built wisely. It does not negotiate. It does not delay out of courtesy.

It comes.

This matters, because many people quietly believe that faith exists to prevent storms. That obedience is a kind of insulation. That if we do the right things, believe the right things, attend the right gatherings, then life should cooperate.