After & Before

After: 

You are sitting with your upper back resting against the gunwale of Simon Peter’s fishing boat; you have your head tipped back, against the rail, and are looking up into the night sky. The moon is just on the wane from its fullness: its bright-white light flickers atop the waters; it illumines everything of the seaside as far as your eyes can see. The hills and gullies and folds of the earth are all a mixture of shadows and white light. Even still, there are plenty of stars overhead to watch with wonder. Some seem to pulse and twinkle. Others are just pinpoints of steady light. 

The air around you is warm and comfortable: that exact perfect temperature where it feels soft and sweet against your skin. All  else is perfectly still. No breeze; not a breath. The only sound from the sea is when movements in the boat stir the hull. The sail was dropped well over an hour ago—in the middle of the storm—and so the mast stands stark, silhouetted, against the moonlight. Everything is just… perfect.

Ringing the rim of the boat are the other eleven of the disciples of Jesus—all leaning against the gunwale—and, at the prow, sits Jesus, resting His head on the forward notch. He too is looking up into the starry, moonlit sky, enjoying the quiet peaceful air. You can see how He breathes slowly and smoothly. It looks like He’s almost falling off to sleep.

Then… He leans forward. 

Beneath the calm of the night, your eyes meet. 

For a moment, it is as if He is studying you. 

Then… so lovingly… eyes wrinkling… He smiles.​

*     *     *     *

Before: 

You are alternatingly throwing yourself to your knees—bailing water from the hull of the boat—and jumping to your feet to throw those buckets of water overboard. The moonlight only serves to faintly light the whole scene: of all twelve of you either desperately bailing, or trying to get the sail down and stowed, or violently retching over the edge of the boat. You have never experienced winds like these winds. What had started as moonlit whitecaps had progressed to sizable rollers had eventually become the scene around you: mountains of Galilean stormswells. The boat, from all directions, keeps lifting upon one wave and then--so suddenly—tumbling and flying down the other side… only to be picked up again and heaved in another direction. Land, it would seem, is entirely out of sight. All you can see are the summits and valleys of these endless successions of windtossed waves. All you can hear are your friends’ screams and the raging howl of the wind.

Amidst the rapidly growing certainty that, in a very few minutes, you will all be in the water, drowning, you are also thinking one other desperate thought: If only. If only you had not left Jesus on land—left Him to say goodbye to the crowds—He would be in the boat right now. If only you could make your way to the stern, wake Him up like last time, He would rise to His feet and calm the storm instantly. If only Jesus was somehow here, and not up on the mountainside, looking down at you, you would be alright. Oh… If only…

A massive wave then rises above the portside. You lean with the others as it seems to suck you upward, passing over and beneath you. The boat, sideways, then tumbles along its back edge. You are all holding on for dear life.

And then… in the valley between that breaker and the next… before another wave is ready to come pummel you… you see something. No, you see Someone. Lit up by the milky moonlight, steadily standing amidst the waves, there is a Person balancing His weight—atop the waters. He is looking right at you. By the light of the moon, He nods His head; smiles. ​