Introduction

If you’ve ever stood in a kitchen at midnight staring at a stack of bills, or sat in a hospital parking lot and felt your heart pound, you know what it is to feel like a thin boat on a thick sea. The wind rises, the waves talk loud, and worries whip across the surface of the soul like whitecaps on water. Storms come in many sizes—some blare like sirens, others whisper like “what ifs”—but they all try to do the same thing: steal our focus and shrink our faith.

Yet, tucked into a moonlit moment on the Sea of Galilee, we meet a Savior who steps across waves as if they were paving stones. He doesn’t shout from the shore; He shows up in the middle. He doesn’t wag a finger; He extends a hand. He doesn’t measure our merit; He meets us in our mess and says what every anxious heart longs to hear: “Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.”

Martyn Lloyd-Jones once said, “Faith is the refusal to panic.” That is not bravado. That is not bluster. That is a quiet, stubborn, Spirit-born insistence that Jesus is nearer than the noise, stronger than the storm, and kinder than our fears have ever imagined. Maybe your boat feels small today. Maybe the night feels long. Friend, you’re in good company—and you’re not alone on the water.

Before we read, picture the scene. The disciples are tired from a full day. Jesus sends them ahead. He retreats to pray. The wind rises. The boat groans. Hours stretch into the fourth watch. Then, in the gray before dawn, a figure appears on the waves. Their first reaction? Fear. Their second? A cry. Their third, at least for Peter? A step. And with that step, every anxious believer learns a fresh lesson: where we fix our gaze determines how we face our gale.

Scripture Passage (KJV): Matthew 14:21-28 21 And they that had eaten were about five thousand men, beside women and children. 22 And straightway Jesus constrained his disciples to get into a ship, and to go before him unto the other side, while he sent the multitudes away. 23 And when he had sent the multitudes away, he went up into a mountain apart to pray: and when the evening was come, he was there alone. 24 But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves: for the wind was contrary. 25 And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea. 26 And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear. 27 But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid. 28 And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.

Can you hear the cadence of His compassion? “Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.” That’s not a suggestion; that’s salvation spoken in a sentence. Fear floods in when our focus floats away. But as our eyes rest on the One who rules the whitecaps, courage returns. The storm may still shout, the wind may still whip, yet the presence of Jesus changes how we stand in the same squall.

So let’s open our hearts. Let’s lift our eyes. Let’s listen for His voice above the gusts and set our feet to follow Him—one simple step at a time. We’re about to watch Peter climb over the gunwale. His sandals touch what should sink him, and yet he’s held by a greater Hand. In this scene we will find a steadying word for anxious minds, a clear call to faith amid the static of distraction, and a fresh push toward a life that carries His love to a world that’s aching.

Opening Prayer: Lord Jesus, You who walk on the waves and speak peace into the wind, we welcome You. Still the storm inside us. Settle the swells of worry and the squalls of what-ifs. Fix our eyes on You—above the wind, beyond the waves, within the boat of our hearts. Father, grant us grace to choose faith over fear, trust over turmoil, and Your voice over the noise. Holy Spirit, tune our ears to the Savior’s “It is I,” and strengthen our steps to follow where He calls. Fill us with a love that leans in, a courage that carries, and a witness that whispers hope into weary places. As we receive Your Word, make us calm, make us confident, make us kind. And let every breath today echo Your promise: “Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.” In the strong name of Jesus we pray. Amen.

Fix your eyes on Jesus despite the storm

Jesus sent His friends ahead in the boat. He did it on purpose. He stayed back to pray. Evening turned into night. The wind picked up. The water rose. Their oars did little. Their strength thinned out. This is the setting the passage gives us. It matters. He is not surprised by the weather. He is not late. He puts His people in motion and then He talks with the Father. That pattern is simple and wise. He moves us, and He prays for us. When we remember that, our gaze settles. Our thoughts quit racing from wave to wave. We start to look for Him. We start to expect Him.

Notice the hour. It is the last watch before daylight. That is a weary time. Muscles shake. Eyes burn. Hope can feel small in that slot of the clock. The text tells us He comes then. He comes while the wind is still against them. He walks on what troubles them. The sea is no barrier to Him. That is the kind of detail that steadies the mind. Creation answers to Him. Distance does not slow Him. When we hold that in view, worry loses space in the heart. We look up and forward, because He is moving toward us even when we feel stuck. Focus grows when we trust His timing and His path toward us.

They see a figure across the waves. Fear kicks in. They shout. They imagine the worst. That is human. Dark hours bend the mind. We read that He speaks right away. He does not stay silent. He gives a word before the sun comes up. His voice cuts through wind and spray. The sound of His voice is part of the rescue. Attention follows sound. Hearts lift when we hear Him. So we open the Scriptures. We open our mouths in prayer. We ask Him to speak the way He did that night. We let His word set the tone, because His word carries weight over the water.

Listen to what He says in that scene. He tells them to take courage. He tells them who He is. He tells them to stop fearing. That threefold word meets three needs. Courage for the body. Truth for the mind. Calm for the heart. He still does that. He addresses courage first. He lifts heads. He brings His name near. He anchors identity before He addresses anything else. Then He presses down on fear like a father lays a steady hand on a child’s shoulder. This is how focus returns. We are not guessing who is near us. We are not left to vague hopes. He declares Himself. Our eyes settle where our ears have been led.

Peter answers Him. He does not ask for the wind to change. He asks for a command from Jesus. “If it is You,” he says, “tell me to come to You on the water.” That request says a lot. He wants closeness more than comfort. He wants a word he can obey more than a scene he can control. This is the heart of attention. We look to the Lord for a step, not for a script we wrote for ourselves. We wait for His permission before we move. We measure our steps by His voice. That is how a mind stays steady when the world shakes. A simple command from Jesus holds more weight than a thousand plans of our own.

Think about why Peter talks like that. He has watched Jesus all day. He has seen bread placed in hands until every person was fed. He has seen order in a crowd. He has seen compassion in motion. So when the wind rises at night, he turns to the same Person. He links action to presence. “Call me,” he says. This shows us how attention grows. We remember what He has done. We recall how He has cared. Memory turns our face toward Him again. Gratitude opens our ears. Then we ask for the next thing He wants. Fear eases when our will lines up like that. The eyes follow the heart. The heart follows the word.

There is also wisdom in the request itself. Peter does not test the sea. He does not check how firm the surface feels. He checks the source of the call. If Jesus is the one speaking, then the place of the step is less important than the Person we are stepping toward. That is a key detail in the passage. Location is secondary. Direction is everything. Move toward Him. Ask for a clear call. Keep your attention on the Caller. This is simple, and it is strong enough for rough water.

Notice another thread in the text. Before the boat scene, Jesus goes up the mountain to pray. He withdraws for communion with the Father. Then He comes near His weary friends. Prayer and presence sit side by side in this story. That is a quiet map for our days. We set time aside for prayer. We learn His voice in still places. Then when wind rises, the voice is familiar. The mind is trained. The heart knows where to look. Solitude with God in calm hours prepares attention for loud hours.

The wind in the story is called “contrary.” It fights their progress. Many of us know that feeling. Tasks turn heavy. Sleep is thin. Small problems pile up. The text does not hide that resistance. It names it. Attention is honest like that. We do not pretend the gusts are soft. We tell the truth about them. Then we tell the truth about Jesus. He is walking in their direction. He is speaking into their fear. When both truths sit next to each other, faith takes shape in real life. We hold difficulty and we hold His nearness, and our eyes find the better center.

Their first reaction is fear. Their next move is a cry. That is a good move. Crying out is not weakness in this passage. It is wisdom. Short prayers work in wind and spray. “Lord.” “Help.” “Here.” Simple words, repeated often. These prayers keep the line open. They keep the eyes turning the right way. They keep the heart soft. Many of us carry long lists in our heads. In rough hours, go short and clear. Name Him. Ask. Wait. Listen. That is what the boat teaches us.

We can also see how attention spreads from one person to the group. Jesus speaks to all of them. Peter speaks back. The boat hears both sides. Community matters in storms. Shared words shape shared focus. Sing together. Read aloud together. Share a promise with a friend. Send a verse in a text. The passage shows Jesus addressing a group, and it shows one person responding in faith. Both parts bless the whole boat. Eyes lift together. Courage rises together.

Finally, the passage teaches a pace. Hours pass. The fourth watch comes. Then Jesus arrives. That rhythm guards the heart against hurry. Many storms do not end in a moment. The wind often runs its full course. Waiting is part of trust. So we set small rhythms that keep our eyes turned. A psalm in the morning. A breath prayer at noon. A whispered “Jesus” when fear climbs at night. A set time to remember a past mercy from the day He fed the crowd. These small habits are like steady oars. They keep attention aimed at the One who walks the waves and speaks into the dark.

Choose faith over the noise of distraction

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