Jesus, I Have Follow-Up Questions.
“That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, ‘Let us go over to the other side.’”
Mark 4:35 (NIV)
It’s one of those verses I’ve read more times than I can count.
Simple.
Ordinary, even.
Jesus gives a destination. The disciples get in a boat. They start sailing.
Except somewhere between “the other side” and actually arriving there, they encounter one of the biggest storms of their lives.
Jesus never mentioned the wind.
He never mentioned the waves.
He never mentioned the panic.
He simply said, “Let’s go to the other side.”
That alone has been sitting with me all morning.
Because if I’m honest, I would’ve had questions.
Who’s all gonna be there?
What time is it over?
How long is this going to take?
Is there another route that doesn’t involve almost dying?
If you’re anything like me, you probably laughed a little because those questions sound ridiculous. But they’re also incredibly revealing.
Those aren’t just preferences for me.
They’re the foundation I’ve often built my sense of security on.
I like details.
I like plans.
I like schedules.
I like knowing exactly what’s coming before I take the first step.
God, however, doesn’t seem nearly as interested in giving me an itinerary as He is in teaching me to trust Him.
And while I sat with this passage this morning, one phrase kept replaying in my head…
“Can You Stand the Rain?”
No… not New Edition.
Although now it’s probably playing in your head too.
But I think Jesus is asking a much deeper question than the song ever did.
Not whether I can enjoy the sunshine.
Not whether I’ll praise Him when everything makes sense.
But whether I’ll still trust Him when obedience leads me into a storm.
I’ve been realizing something lately.
How I manage one problem often determines whether I’ll have more problems.
Not because God is punishing me.
But because every problem is an opportunity to learn something about Him and something about me.
If I refuse to learn what this storm is teaching me, I usually end up taking the class again.
Different people.
Different circumstances.
Different season.
Same lesson.
I’ve repeated enough classes in life to know I’d rather learn the lesson the first time.
I also realized that the questions I ask determine the conclusions I draw.
If I constantly ask, “What if this falls apart?”
I’ll eventually conclude it’s going to.
If I ask, “Why is this happening to me?”
I’ll probably convince myself God has forgotten me.
When I ask fear-filled questions, I usually arrive at fear-filled conclusions.
But when God asks questions, He isn’t looking for information.
He’s looking for transformation.
God has never asked a question because He didn’t know the answer.
He asks because I usually don’t.
One of my favorite examples is found in Matthew 9.
Two blind men begin following Jesus, crying out for mercy.
Jesus turns and asks them,
“Do you believe that I am able to do this?”
Matthew 9:28 (NIV)
He wasn’t discovering whether He could heal them.
He already knew.
The question wasn’t revealing His ability.
It was revealing their belief.
God’s questions have a way of exposing what’s hidden inside of me.
They invite self-examination instead of self-preservation.
Then another thought stopped me in my tracks.
The disciples weren’t in that storm because they missed God.
They were in the storm because they obeyed Him.
Jesus literally told them to get into the boat.
Sometimes I’ve interpreted storms as evidence that I’ve taken a wrong turn.
Maybe they’re evidence that I’m walking exactly where God asked me to walk.
That’s incredibly freeing.
Because obedience doesn’t mean I won’t experience storms.
It means God has taken responsibility for my welfare while I’m in them.
The wind still blew.
The waves still crashed.
The water still filled the boat.
The storm was real.
But so was the One sleeping in it.
I’ve spent a lot of my life believing faith was measured by how big it was.
Now I’m wondering if that’s not the right question.
Maybe it’s not about how big my faith is.
Maybe it’s about how broad it is.
For years I had no problem trusting God with my physical health.
Multiple surgeries?
He’ll carry me.
Autoimmune disease?
He’ll sustain me.
Menopause before I expected?
He’ll be with me.
I could trust Him there.
But somehow I struggled trusting Him with my emotions.
With rejection.
With disappointment.
With relationships.
With the places no one else could see.
Apparently my faith wasn’t small.
It was compartmentalized.
I trusted God in certain rooms of my life while keeping other doors locked.
Jesus isn’t asking for bigger faith.
He’s inviting broader faith.
Faith that reaches every room.
In Matthew 9, the blind men answered Jesus,
“Yes, Lord.”
That word “Lord” carries incredible weight.
It points us to Jehovah.
The covenant-keeping God.
The God who binds Himself to His promises.
The God whose character doesn’t fluctuate with my circumstances.
I’ve realized the strength of my faith has very little to do with me.
It has everything to do with the credibility of the One I’m placing it in.
Faith isn’t confidence that life will always make sense.
Faith is confidence that Jehovah will always remain faithful.
He cannot stop being who He is.
Then I noticed something I’ve somehow overlooked every other time I’ve read this story.
The storm wasn’t the destination.
It was the hallway.
Because Mark 5 begins with Jesus arriving on the other side.
Waiting there was a man possessed by a legion of demons.
A man isolated from society.
Living among the tombs.
Bound by chains that couldn’t hold him.
Everyone else had given up on him.
Jesus hadn’t.
Imagine if the disciples had turned the boat around.
Imagine if fear had convinced them to retreat.
Imagine if they had interpreted the storm as permission to quit.
That man would’ve still been waiting.
The disciples thought they were fighting to survive the storm.
Jesus knew He was traveling to save a man.
They were focused on the waves.
He was focused on the assignment.
And isn’t that just like me?
I’m praying for calmer water…
…while God is preparing someone on the other side of my obedience.
The enemy wasn’t trying to stop a boat.
He was trying to stop freedom.
Maybe that’s why the resistance feels so intense sometimes.
The warfare isn’t always about where I am.
It’s about keeping me from where God is taking me.
I also couldn’t help but notice something else tucked into the beginning of Mark 4.
Before Jesus got into the boat, Scripture says they left the crowd behind.
Mark 4:36 (NIV)
That challenged me more than I expected.
Sometimes God asks me to leave behind the crowd because I’ve become too dependent on them.
Sometimes I’ve wanted everyone to come with me.
Everyone to approve.
Everyone to understand.
Everyone to cheer me on.
But there are seasons where the only voice that has to make it into the boat is His.
Because the Word I hear on the shore is the same Word that carries me through the storm.
As I closed my Bible this morning, I felt like the Lord asked me one simple question.
Can you stand the rain?
Not because He enjoys watching me struggle.
Not because storms somehow earn His love.
But because He already knows what’s waiting on the other side.
I’m still the girl asking who’s gonna be there.
I’m still the girl asking what time it’s over.
I’m still the girl who secretly wishes Jesus would email me the itinerary before asking me to leave the shore.
But He rarely does.
Instead, He gives me enough light for the next step.
Because He isn’t building my dependence on a plan.
He’s building my dependence on Him.
Maybe that’s what endurance really is.
Not running faster.
Not having perfect faith.
Not pretending storms don’t scare me.
It’s simply continuing to walk when I already know Who told me to get in the boat.
The rain will come.
Jesus already promised that.
The question was never whether the storm would arrive.
The question has always been…
Can I stand the rain?
Because if Jehovah said there is another side…
There is another side.
And if the One making the promise is the covenant-keeping God…
Then I can trust His character, even when I don’t understand His route.