What is it about storms in the evening? They are so much more frightening than storms in the middle of the day. Our creaturely vulnerability takes over at sundown, I guess. With daylight gone, we put down our strength and obey our fatigue. We reward ourselves with food and drink, wrap company and shelter around us. We just want rest, comfort, security.

Jesus certainly has that impulse in Mark’s Gospel. Since his baptism in the Jordan and his temptations in the wilderness, Jesus has traveled, taught, and healed all over: in Galilee, in Capernaum, in the grain fields, in the synagogue, by the sea where crowds press in upon him, up on the mountain, back in Capernaum again, back again at the seaside teaching parable after parable to the crowds. No wonder that when evening comes he escapes by boat. No wonder he falls asleep!

But they’re heading for Gentile territory. It’s night after a long day, and the disciples are on duty without their master. The water becomes choppy. Wind howls, raising ever-taller waves that begin to swamp the boat. The disciples shout, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” Though they are able fishermen, their trust is instantly gone, as if Jesus has abandoned ship. They don’t ask for his help; they leap to blame him for infidelity: “Don’t you even care about us?”

A little fear, and they’re angry. A little fear, and they act as if Jesus has betrayed them. A little fear, a little darkness, and they act as if the storm threatens them alone, not their sleeping rabbi. In a storm of fear and darkness, their love—our love—disappears.

But when Jesus commands our storm to stop, could it be that we are more terrified? Perhaps we wanted rest, comfort, security—not the Almighty beside us in the darkness, on the deep.