There is a window in your heart through which you can see God. Once upon a time that window was clear. Your view of God was crisp. You could see God as vividly as you could see a gentle valley or hillside. The glass was clean, the pane unbroken.
You knew God. You knew how He worked. You knew what He wanted you to do. No surprises. Nothing unexpected. You knew that God had a will, and you continually discovered what it was.
Then, suddenly, the window cracked. A pebble broke the window. A pebble of pain.
Perhaps the stone struck when you were a child and a parent left home — forever. Maybe the rock hit in adolescence when your heart was broken. Maybe you made it into adulthood before the window was cracked. But then the pebble came.
Was it a phone call? “We have your daughter at the station. You’d better come down.”
Was it a letter on the kitchen table? “I’ve left. Don’t try to reach me. Don’t try to call me. It’s over. I just don’t love you anymore.”
Was it a diagnosis from the doctor? “I’m afraid our news is not very good.”
Was it a telegram? “We regret to inform you that your son is missing in action.”
Whatever the pebble’s form, the result was the same — a shattered window. The pebble missiled into the pane and shattered it. The crash echoed down the halls of your heart. Cracks shot out from the point of impact, creating a spider web of fragmented pieces.
And suddenly God was not so easy to see. The view that had been so crisp had changed. You turned to see God, and His figure was distorted. It was hard to see Him through the pain. It was hard to see Him through the fragments of hurt.
You were puzzled. God wouldn’t allow something like this to happen, would He? Tragedy and travesty weren’t on the agenda of the One you had seen, were they? Had you been fooled? Had you been blind?
The moment the pebble struck, the glass became a reference point for you. From then on, there was life before the pain and life after the pain. Before your pain, the view was clear; God seemed so near. After your pain, well, He was harder to see. He seemed a bit distant... harder to perceive.
Your pain distorted the view — not eclipsed it, but distorted it.
Maybe these words don’t describe your situation. There are some people who never have to redefine or refocus their view of God. Most of us do.
Most of us know what it means to feel disappointed by God.
Most of us have a way of completing this sentence: “If God is God, then...” Call it an agenda, a divine job description. Each of us has an unspoken, yet definitive, expectation of what God should do. “If God is God, then...”
- There will be no financial collapse in my family.
- My children will never be buried before me.
- People will treat me fairly.
- This church will never divide.
- My prayer will be answered.
These are not articulated criteria. They are not written down or notarized. But they are real. They define the expectations we have of God. And when pain comes into our world — when the careening pebble splinters the window of our hearts — these expectations go unmet and doubts may begin to surface.
We look for God, but can’t find Him. Fragmented glass hinders our vision. He is enlarged through this piece and reduced through that one. Lines jigsaw their way across His face. Large sections of shattered glass opaque the view.
And now you aren’t quite sure what you see.
The disciples weren’t sure what they saw either. Jesus failed to meet their expectations. The day Jesus fed the five thousand men He didn’t do what they wanted Him to do.
The Twelve returned from their mission followed by an army. They finished their training. They recruited the soldiers. They were ready for battle. They expected Jesus to let the crowds crown Him as king and attack the city of Herod. They expected battle plans... strategies... a new era for Israel.
What did they get?
Just the opposite.
Instead of weapons, they got oars. Rather than being sent to fight, they were sent to float. The crowds were sent away. Jesus walked away. And they were left on the water with a storm brewing in the sky. What kind of Messiah would do this? Note carefully the sequence of the stormy evening as Matthew records it:
Immediately Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of Him to the other side, while He dismissed the crowd. After He had dismissed them, He went up on a mountainside by Himself to pray. When evening came [emphasis mine], He was there alone, but the boat was already a considerable distance from land, buffeted by the waves because the wind was against it.
Matthew is specific about the order of events. Jesus sent the disciples to the boat. Then He dismissed the crowd and ascended a mountainside. It was evening, probably around 6:00 p.m. The storm struck immediately. The sun had scarcely set before typhoon-like winds began to roar.
Note that Jesus sent the disciples out into the storm alone. Even as He was ascending the mountainside, He could feel and hear the gale’s force. Jesus was not ignorant of the storm. He was aware that a torrent was coming that would carpet-bomb the sea’s surface. But He didn’t turn around. The disciples were left to face the storm... alone.
The greatest storm that night was not in the sky; it was in the disciples’ hearts.
The greatest fear was not from seeing the storm-driven waves; it came from seeing the back of their leader as He left them to face the night with only questions as companions. It was this fury that the disciples were facing that night.
Imagine the incredible strain of bouncing from wave to wave in a tiny fishing vessel. One hour would weary you. Two hours would exhaust you.
Surely Jesus will help us, they thought. They’d seen Him still storms like this before. On this same sea, they had awakened Him during a storm, and He had commanded the skies to be silent. They’d seen Him quiet the wind and soothe the waves. Surely He will come off the mountain.
But He doesn’t. Their arms begin to ache from rowing. Still no sign of Jesus. Three hours. Four hours. The winds rage. The boat bounces. Still no Jesus. Midnight comes. Their eyes search for God — in vain.
By now the disciples have been on the sea for as long as six hours.
All this time they have fought the storm and sought the Master. And, so far, the storm is winning. And the Master is nowhere to be found.
“Where is He?” cried one.
“Has He forgotten us?” yelled another.
“He feeds thousands of strangers and yet leaves us to die?” muttered a third.
The Gospel of Mark adds compelling insight into the disciples’ attitude.
They had not understood about the loaves; their hearts were hardened.
What does Mark mean? Simply this. The disciples were mad. They began the evening in a huff. Their hearts were hardened toward Jesus because He fed the multitude. Their preference, remember, had been to “send the crowds away.” And Jesus had told them to feed the people. But they wouldn’t try. They said it couldn’t be done. They told Jesus to let the people take care of themselves.
Also keep in mind that the disciples had just spent some time on center stage. They’d tasted stardom. They were celebrities. They had rallied crowds. They had recruited an army. They were, no doubt, pretty proud of themselves. With chests a bit puffy and heads a bit swollen, they’d told Jesus, “Just send them away.”
Jesus didn’t. Instead, He chose to bypass the reluctant disciples and use the faith of an anonymous boy. What the disciples said couldn’t be done was done — in spite of them, not through them.
They pouted. They sulked. Rather than being amazed at the miracle, they became mad at the Master. After all, they had felt foolish passing out the very bread they said could not be made. Add to that Jesus’ command to go to the boat when they wanted to go to battle, and it’s easier to understand why these guys are burning!
“Now what is Jesus up to, leaving us out on the sea on a night like this?”
It’s 1:00 a.m., no Jesus.
It’s 2:00 a.m., no Jesus.
Peter, Andrew, James, and John have seen storms like this.
They are fishermen; the sea is their life. They know the havoc the gale-force winds can wreak. They’ve seen the splintered hulls float to shore. They’ve attended the funerals. They know, better than anyone, that this night could be their last. “Why doesn’t He come?” they sputter.
Finally, He does.
During the fourth watch of the night [3:00 to 6:00 a.m.] Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake.
Jesus came. He finally came. But between verse 24 — being buffeted by waves — and verse 25 — when Jesus appeared — a thousand questions are asked.
Questions you have probably asked too. Perhaps you know the angst of being suspended between verses 24 and 25. Maybe you’re riding a storm, searching the coastline for a light, a glimmer of hope. You know that Jesus knows what you are going through. You know that He’s aware of your storm. But as hard as you look to find Him, you can’t see Him. Maybe your heart, like the disciples’ hearts, has been hardened by unmet expectations. Your pleadings for help are salted with angry questions.
The first section of this book spoke of stress; the second is about storms. Stress attacks your nerves. Storms attack your faith. Stress interrupts. Storms destroy. Stress comes like a siren. Storms come like a missile. Stress clouds the day. Storms usher in the night.
The question of stress is, “How can I cope?” The question of storms is, “Where is God and why would He do this?”
The second section of this book is for you if the pebble of pain has struck the window of your heart, if you’ve known the horror of looking for God’s face and seeing only His back as He ascends a mountainside.
In the following pages, you will discover hopeful chronicles to help you deal with your doubts. Let me introduce you to a few friends who learned to see through shattered glass.
- An entrepreneur, stripped of treasures, who found one treasure that no one could take.
- A father who learned of trust during a six-hour drive with three children.
- A mother superior in New Mexico who discovered that prayer — her last resort — was her best resort.
- A woodsman who taught a village the virtue of patience.
- God’s son — dog-tired and heartsore — who found strength through Heaven’s friends.
Some stories are fiction; some are fact. Some are legendary, others are biblical. Some are humorous; others are serious. But all have a message for those who know the anxiety of searching for God in a storm.
The message? When you can’t see Him, trust Him. The figure you see is not a ghost. The voice you hear is not the wind.
Jesus is closer than you’ve ever dreamed.
Excerpted with permission from In the Eye of the Storm by Max Lucado, copyright Max Lucado.
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Your Turn
Can you remember a time when pain shattered your expectations of God, when He did something that didn’t seem right to you or gave you the opposite of what you thought you should receive? If so, how did that experience affect your view of God? In what areas of your life could you trust God more, rather than questioning how He seems to be working? ~ Devotionals Daily