Recently someone asked me, “Are you nautical?”
I was like, “Well, back in the eighties or nineties I had some of that clothing, for sure . . .”
The person wasn’t tracking with me. “No, I mean are you good with boats and stuff?”
I said, “Absolutely not. Why would you even ask?”
“Because you are from Seattle.”
He obviously didn’t know me well, because I’m not a handy person. I don’t really do manual things well. Basically I’m great at talking—and nothing else. Chelsea and I were talking with another couple a while back, and I think the man was under a bit of duress from his wife that he wasn’t doing enough around the house, so he started listing out all the things he does. “I do the finances, and I do quite a bit of cooking actually, and I vacuum sometimes. And I do the dishes—the dishes are my deal.”
We were supposed to be helping them work through their marriage issues, but I was starting to sweat because I’ve never done any of those things. I looked at Chelsea for support. “Babe, what do I do?”
She replied, “You don’t do anything.”
That stung. I was like, “Really? I gave you three kids. And I can give you more if you want.”
On a recent vacation, I took it upon myself to empty the dishwasher. I won’t load it—ever—because those dishes are used and dirty and have food particles encrusted on them. But I decided I could at least deal with clean dishes. When I was done, I started telling everyone about it. I was looking for affirmation or something.
My son walked by, and I said, “Hey, Zion, check it out.”
“What?”
“I unloaded the dishwasher.” I could tell he wasn’t impressed. “Man, it was packed. We’re going through a lot of dishes here on vacation.”
“Seriously, Dad?” And he kept walking.
Inside I thought, Boy, I brought you into this world and I can take you out. Anyway, that was a huge baby step for me.
All of that is just to illustrate how not handy or outdoorsy I am, so I’m definitely not nautical. That makes the following story completely unexplainable. But it happened.
A few summers ago, Elijah and Annemarie, who are two of our best friends, and Chelsea and I decided to get a boat and sail the ocean blue. I think it may have been my idea. It was not one of my better ones, in retrospect, because none of my fellow sailors were nautical either.
Annemarie found a used boat online. It was old but barely used, the lady said. And it only cost three hundred dollars, which was perfect. We went over to the lady’s house to get it. It was actually a rowboat, I found out later, but at the time I didn’t see the rowers or oars or whatever they are called, so I didn’t realize that. I talked her down fifty bucks. This deal was getting sweeter by the minute. We paid her, and for some reason she looked at us like we were idiots or tourists or something.
The max weight of the boat was 380 pounds. That was unfortunate because I’m 178 when I’m working out, and Elijah is somewhere around that as well. Our wives weigh like 95 pounds each. But it didn’t matter because this thing had cup holders. Such a good deal.
Next we found a vintage motor, which just means it was really old. Older than me, actually. But according to the seller, it also was barely used. I’m a sucker for that kind of marketing. Barely used? Vintage? I’ll take it.
Now we were ready to sail Puget Sound. We were determined to embrace our Seattle heritage and become nautical people, at least for an afternoon.
We got the boat in the water next to the shore. We still hadn’t latched on the motor yet, because we couldn’t figure out how.
Unknown to us, a barge had planned to come by at that precise moment. I didn’t know about wakes, but I learned quickly because a few seconds after the barge sailed past, the waves started rolling in and the boat filled up with water.
In case you are unfamiliar with Puget Sound, it looks like a lake, but it’s actually the ocean. I don’t think I really understood that before. But I was starting to figure it out.
When the tsunamis rolled in, Elijah and I were in the water trying to pretend we were handy enough to attach a motor to a rowboat. Then we saw the boat capsizing, and we panicked. So we did what any brawny, manly sailor would do: we yelled for our wives to help. “Chelsea, Annemarie, it’s sinking! Get the boat! That’s why we married you.” So they pulled the boat up on shore and tipped it over—what kind of husbands are we?—to drain the water.
Then we flipped it back over, pushed off from shore a bit, and all climbed in. Somehow we attached the motor and then fully pushed out from shore. There we were, four grown adults in one poor rowboat with a little motor jerry-rigged to the back. We all had cups of ice water. Why? Because there were cup holders. It was meant to be.
We started up the motor. I expected to hear a satisfying roar, the sound of a robust engine capable of braving ocean currents and keeping us out of the way of wakes and waves and whales. Instead, at full throttle, all we got was a high-pitched buzzing sound that sounded more like a band of drunken mosquitoes. I’m sure I could snore louder than that motor.
At this point our boat was exactly four inches out of the water. You think I am exaggerating, but I’m not. I do that sometimes, but not right now. We were four inches from total tragedy. Four inches from reenacting the story of Jonah. There really are whales in Puget Sound, folks. And seals and sea lions and probably sharks.
At first I was a little unsettled, but I tried to convince myself it was okay. “This is awesome, isn’t it, Elijah?”
“Yeah, it’s amazing! I’m loving it.”
And inside we were all thinking, This is not going to end well.
Another barge came rolling through town. By this time we were six hundred-plus yards off shore, at least.
I was telling this story to someone, and he interrupted me at this point. “Can’t you swim?”
I was like, “Yeah, but I don’t want to! What kind of question is that? I live on land.”
Anyway, the barge barged through, as barges do, and waves started pummeling us. I was shocked by certain passengers’ reactions to this. There were pastors on board who might have used some explicit words, and I was totally disappointed. I started talking to God, but they were saying all kinds of stuff. I was thinking, I can’t believe I even married you! Just kidding. Maybe.
The boat again started filling with water, only now we were out too far to make our wives save us. We started using the cups that we had intended to drink out of to bail water out of our boat. I was thinking, This is not right. This is not how I saw this going down. Wait—are we going to die?
We didn’t die, obviously. We spent the next four hours weaving and bobbing and dodging barges to a sound track of drunken mosquitoes. We were living the dream on a rowboat with a 1976 motor, four inches from every man for himself.
Have you ever felt four inches from disaster? Maybe you were emotionally, internally, mentally, or even spiritually four inches from giving up. Four inches from being completely submerged. Four inches from tragedy, from calamity, from saying, I’m done. I can’t handle this anymore. This is too much.
It’s not just bad things that can get you to this place, by the way. Sometimes success can take you there. The things you dreamed of, the things you worked for, the things you were passionate about—when you finally achieve that income or prominence or position you imagined, you find that it has brought you four inches from being overwhelmed.
If you can’t relate to that feeling of impending disaster—whether it’s the result of too many painful things or too many good things or a combination of both—then you must be about six years old. Because for all of us normal humans living on this painful, fragmented, broken planet, this is life.
I’m sure you know the feeling. We have all lived long enough to experience this once or twice or a hundred times. If one more barge sails by, if one more unexpected thing happens, if I get one more bit of bad news, I’m going to sink internally and emotionally. I’m going to call it quits.
As I write this chapter, news of another incomprehensible terrorist attack targeting civilians is flooding the media channels, and my heart is breaking yet again. There seems to be a constant stream of tragedy upon atrocity upon calamity in this world. I can’t process it. I can’t reconcile it. I can’t understand it. We are living in unsettled, uncertain times.
This world can be so pained and so difficult, and in almost an instant our souls can go from being buoyant to being four inches from capsizing.
In the previous chapter we talked about the surprising emotions of our souls and about how God is our souls’ source of hope. Now I want to look in more detail at how God is our souls’ source of stability. I am convinced that our inner needs for security, strength, and solidity can be met only when our souls find their homes in God.
Hebrews 6:17–20 describes this reality:
So when God desired to show more convincingly to the heirs of the promise the unchangeable character of his purpose, he guaranteed it with an oath, so that by two unchangeable things, in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement to hold fast to the hope set before us. We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf, having become a high priest forever after the order of Melchizedek.
This particular passage was written to Jewish people two thousand years ago, so it has historical and cultural references that might not immediately resonate today. But when you take a closer look, you realize God is speaking to us about an innate need that is as universal as it is timeless: the need for stability.
I read these verses recently and asked myself a simple question: Does my soul have an anchor? Because evidently my soul needs one—that’s the point of this passage.
Remember, we are defining the soul as the “inside you.” It’s your heart; your inner being; your mind, will, and emotions. If you are like me, your soul has a tendency to drift like a boat on a sea. The purpose of an anchor is to keep you from drifting. It keeps you from being carried by every wake and current that swirls past. Ultimately, it keeps you from capsizing.
In retrospect, our rowboat could have used an anchor. And a real motor. And a better crew, for that matter. But hey—we had cup holders.
An anchor is an agent of stability. It is an agent of security. It is an agent of steadiness. You tether yourself to it, and no matter how unpredictable or challenging the elements become, you remain stable.
There is a reason we find this passage in a letter to the early Jewish Jesus followers. It was written to people who heard and believed that their long-awaited Messiah, their Savior, had indeed come, and his name was Jesus Christ of Nazareth.
The moment these Hebrews believed in Jesus, their lives dramatically changed. Because of religious persecution, many of them lost family members, friends, businesses, and jobs. They were hurting. They were suffering economically, financially, emotionally, and physically because they had decided to follow Jesus.
The author of Hebrews wrote to two main groups of people. The first group was composed of people who were four inches from giving up. These people were thinking, I’m done. This is too difficult. This is too painful. Following Jesus has cost me in so many areas. I’ve lost friends and loved ones. Jesus isn’t worth this. So the writer told them, “Don’t give up on Jesus.”
The second group were those who wanted to just add Jesus to their conglomeration of spiritual concepts and ideas. They wanted to believe in Jesus, but they also wanted to keep the Law and the Ten Commandments. They had a hybrid spirituality that tried to mesh faith in Jesus with other spiritual paths. The author wrote to tell them, “Jesus is enough.”
Hebrews uses seafaring imagery to refer to Jesus. I am qualified to explain this, in case you were wondering, because I am nautical now. Four hours of experience makes all the difference.
That brings us to our passage in Hebrews 6. The author used the familiar imagery of a boat and an anchor to remind these ancient Jesus followers that when they felt overwhelmed, they needed to hang on to Jesus. Jesus was enough for them; they just needed to hold on to the hope of their souls, regardless of the tumult and torrent around them. The writer painted a beautiful portrait of the hope and security and stability we have in Jesus. He said, “We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul.”
Then he referenced the Jewish priesthood and temple, which were essential components of Israel’s belief system that were incredibly rich in symbolism and metaphor. The writer was reminding these Jesus followers that the history, the miracles, the writings and prophecies, the spiritual principles and religious ceremonies they had cherished and followed for centuries—all of this ultimately pointed to Jesus. Their hope wasn’t in a religious system or set of commandments, but in a person. Jesus was the immovable, eternal anchor of their souls.
We need to be reminded of the same thing. Two thousand years later, not much has changed in human nature. We still find our souls overwhelmed at times, and we still need an anchor.
When I asked myself, “Does my soul have an anchor?” that instantly triggered a related question: “What is my anchor?” In other words, where do I turn when I feel overwhelmed? When I feel like I am drowning inside? When I need an escape?
I’ve heard all kinds of answers to that question over the years. Some people say, “Well, I’m debt free. That’s the key. My house is paid off. I have a plan for retirement. I have money in the bank. I’m set for life.” Ultimately the anchors of their souls are their jobs, their education, their connections and prominence, or their cleverness.
I’m all for financial stability and career planning. But let’s be honest—that approach has holes. Life isn’t neat and tidy and controlled. It’s not predictable. We prepare for the worst and hope for the best, but we are still subject to the whims and whimsy of time and chance.
The bottom line is that things that do not have souls cannot aid people who do have souls. Your car will not help you when you are discouraged. It will not sustain your soul, even though it has heated seats and GPS and a plethora of cup holders. It can’t help you because it doesn’t have a soul, and you do. Your house does not have a soul. Your job doesn’t have a soul. Your social prominence and position do not have souls. By definition and by nature, these things do not have the ability within themselves to aid you in your mind, your will, or your emotions.
Some people might answer this question by saying, “My anchor is my man. He is godly, he is strong, he is brave.” Or maybe, “My anchor is my girl. She is beautiful. We are perfect together. We can conquer anything.” Someone else might say, “I’m a family guy. My anchor is my kids, my grandkids, my family. Nothing can separate us. We are here for each other no matter what.” Some people anchor themselves in their friends. “We are BFFs. We’ve been through hell and high water. As long as I have him or her in my life, I’m good.”
Yes, people have souls. So this answer is definitely a step up from tethering your security to your 401(k) or that property you bought on the lake. I’m all for friends and family. Natural family, spiritual family, church family, friends close by and friends far away—our relationships really do make a difference.
But even this answer has holes in it, because that person you are counting on has a soul that is just as fragile and fragmented as yours and mine. He or she will be there for you sometimes, but not all the time.
Many people go into marriage thinking that their spouses will be their source of stability. But they end up hurt and frustrated because they let each other down. So they complain, “You’re never there for me.” And the instant reply is, “Well, you aren’t there for me either.” It turns into an old-fashioned Western standoff where neither party will lower their gun first. “Well, I feel like you just don’t care. And you don’t listen to me. You don’t meet my needs or my expectations. I’m not happy and I’m not sure I even love you anymore.”
The problem isn’t lack of love. It’s impossible expectations. It’s the belief that our souls can find ultimate satisfaction and strength by anchoring themselves to another human soul. But person after person lets us down because their souls are hurting too. We tie ourselves to each other, then we both end up nearly drowned by the storms of life.
We squabble and complain, “Why haven’t you saved me yet?” And the other yells back, “I don’t know! I thought you were going to help me!”
The problem is, we can’t save each other. We can’t anchor each other. So what is the solution?
We need somebody with a soul. It needs to be a soul similar to ours, a soul that knows our plight and condition. But at the same time, it needs to be a soul that is profoundly different, a soul that is flawless and perfect and whole. That is the only soul that can fix us, because it doesn’t have to fix itself.
That’s where Jesus comes in.
I’m sure you knew I was going to say that. I always end up there because I’m convinced it is true. Jesus is the anchor our souls long for.
Maybe you say, “I’m not really a Jesus guy. I’m not really into church and religious stuff.”
That’s okay. That’s your decision to make. But let me just appeal to you for a moment. If it’s not Jesus, then all I’m saying is you need to find another divine, perfect being who is completely familiar with humanity, someone who has lived among us and yet lived sinlessly and perfectly. Find a being who has a soul that is flawless but who can totally relate to our souls; someone who transcends us and yet is completely involved with us; someone who is intimately aware of our fragility and depravity but yet is unconditionally and unswervingly in love with us; someone who can rescue us and save us in every high and low of life. All I’m saying is, if not Jesus, just find someone a lot like him.
Jesus is the sure and steadfast anchor of our souls. But to be honest, I wish the writer of Hebrews hadn’t said anchor. I read this and thought, I wish it said helicopter of my soul.
When I’m in a storm, I’d much rather have a helicopter than an anchor. An anchor implies that I am going to stay right where I am. But I’d like to escape, actually. I’d like a helicopter with some well-trained Navy SEALS on board who can hoist me up and fly me away from my reality.
People sign up for helicopter Jesus all the time. I cannot wait to follow Jesus, they think, because he’s my heavenly helicopter. Get me out, Father! Hoist away, Jesus! Beam me up, Scotty!
I think I just inserted Star Trek into the Trinity. Sorry about that.
Storms hit, and we say, “Jesus, I don’t want to stay here. I don’t like this at all. It’s windy. It’s rainy. The waves are big. Where is my heavenly helicopter?”
And Jesus replies, “I’ll be your anchor.”
We want out. We want an escape. We want someone to remove us from the storm, but Jesus wants to be our strength and stability in the storm.
The Gospels record a couple of different incidents involving Jesus, the disciples, and boats caught in storms. One of these is found in Matthew 14. Jesus tells his disciples to get in a boat and cross the Sea of Galilee. Not as impressive as Puget Sound, but still a big deal.
“Where are you going?” they ask.
“To climb a mountain. And pray. I’ll meet you on the other side.”
“Wait—how are you getting there?”
“Don’t worry about it. Bye.”
So they start rowing, and everything goes wrong. Night falls, the wind is blowing so hard they can’t get anywhere, and the waves are starting to scare even these seasoned fishermen. At this point, what do they want?
They want a helicopter.
Actually, I’m pretty sure they didn’t think exactly that, since this was a couple of millennia before humans figured out how to fly. But you get the point. They want out. They want to be on the other side, but they can’t seem to make any headway.
Then Jesus comes strolling out to meet them. This is the same Jesus who can calm the wind and the waves. But he doesn’t. Instead, he scares them nearly to death because they think he’s a ghost.
Jesus says, “Calm down, everyone. It’s me.”
I told Chelsea to calm down once, and it almost ended up being the last thing I ever said. So I can’t imagine Jesus’ statement being particularly reassuring for these poor guys. It’s about three in the morning, they are cold and wet, and now Jesus is going all Ghostbusters on them. Apparently he has a sense of humor.
Peter says, “If it’s really you, tell me to come to you.”
Think about the logic behind that. Frankly, there is none. I have no idea what Peter was thinking. If it wasn’t Jesus, this was not going to end well.
Jesus says, “Come.”
People say all the time that Peter walked on water. That’s not entirely accurate. He walked on waves. That’s taking water-walking to another level. I read this and think, Jesus, why the waves? It would be impressive enough if he walked on normal smooth water. Why do you have to make it even harder?
You have to give Peter credit. He takes a few steps. But then he sees the wind and waves and starts to sink. It reminds me of those Road Runner cartoons they had when I was a kid where the characters always ran off cliffs but never actually fell until they looked down. I always wanted to yell at the screen, “Don’t look down! Just turn around and walk back slowly!”
Peter looks down. He starts to sink. Jesus reaches out and grabs him. Then he has the gall, the nerve, and the audacity to call Peter out. “Peter, bro—why did you doubt? Why so little faith?”
If I were Peter, I’d be like, “Uh, why am I doubting? Are you serious right now, Jesus? I’ll stop doubting when you turn off the wind machine.”
Do you ever read the Bible like that? With actual emotion and normal human responses? Sometimes we read these stories and we make them so picturesque and Renaissance. I’m sure Peter at that moment did not feel like a saintly figure in a medieval painting. He was cold, wet, terrified, and intensely human. And Jesus says, “Why did you doubt?”
If we’re honest, we’ve all had moments like that. We read scriptures that encourage us to trust in God and they sound great on paper, but then we look around and we get overwhelmed. I’ll tell you exactly why I’m doubting, we think. Have you seen the wind? The waves? Did you hear the diagnosis from my doctor? Do you read the news? How can I not doubt? I’m sinking right now, and I have no idea what to do.
Jesus is saying something with this question. By the way, he is always saying something when he asks a question. Jesus’ questions are absolutely rhetorical. They are sneaky statements designed to help us reflect and learn.
Jesus doesn’t want Peter to list out the reasons he panicked. “Well, Jesus, since you asked, here are the four things that are freaking me out right now . . .”
That’s not what he is saying. He is reminding Peter, “You really have no reason to doubt, because I am here. I am with you. I am caring for you. I am your anchor and your rock and your God.”
In the middle of our storms and waves, God asks us the same thing. Why do you doubt? He’s not asking that in order to condemn us or mock us, but to remind us that we really have no reason to doubt. Jesus is with us.
Before you get too hard on yourself for not trusting God at times, consider this. The physical, tangible, visible Jesus was right in front of Peter, and Peter still had trouble keeping his eyes on Jesus because the waves were so big.
We don’t have that luxury. Jesus isn’t physically here. When you lost your job, Jesus didn’t appear in his robe and sandals and well-groomed beard to say, “Here, let me help you pack up your cardboard box.” It doesn’t happen that way, does it? We are asked to trust in a Jesus we can’t see.
But here’s the thing about anchors. An anchor does its best work where it is never seen. An anchor plunges through the depths of the sea until it settles and wedges itself into the ocean floor. Meanwhile, back on the surface, in the boat that is your soul, you continue to be buffeted by the elements of life. All you can see in the moment are the wind and waves. But under the surface, you have an anchor.
Jesus asks us all: “Why do you doubt? The anchor is set. The work is finished. My love is for you and toward you. I am near. I will care for you in this life and the life to come.”
Notice that Jesus asks Peter this question while they are still hovering above the depths. They aren’t in the boat yet. The wind and waves are bigger than ever. Jesus wasn’t being mean to Peter. He wanted him to think about his reaction. Peter needed to realize that Jesus is just as trustworthy in the storm as in the calm.
The parallel to our lives is clear. It’s easy to have faith when we are safely in the boat—when the wind is gone and the stars are out. But can we trust Jesus in the midst of the storm? Because that is when we need him the most.
To conclude the story, let me point out one more thing. The apostle John recorded this same story, and he mentioned an interesting detail. He said that when Jesus got into the boat, “immediately the boat was at the land to which they were going” (John 6:21).
That’s just like Jesus. One moment you are in a storm and you are terrified and confused and alone. But then suddenly, somehow, you are where you wanted to be. You hardly know how you got there. There was a time not too long before when you thought you’d never make it, that the storms and waves were going to win. But you held on, and God got you through.
People come up to you and say, “You are an overnight success! You are so lucky. Everything just works out for you.”
And you’re like, “You have no idea . . .”
I’ve noticed that God often takes us from point A to point B in a way that is simultaneously exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Not because he wants to torment us, but because he wants us to realize that the point is not really crossing the lake—the point is simply being with Jesus. It is living our lives from a place of trust and rest that comes when we truly know him.
Do you feel a bit overwhelmed right now? Are you four inches from drowning? Are you fending off crazy, bizarre feelings and ideas? I’m going to leave, I’m going to run, I’m going to be done. I can’t do this anymore.
Tether yourself again to the only true security in life, the only true anchor: Jesus. I can’t promise you that the wind will instantly cease or the waves will immediately calm. But I can promise you that he will keep you safe in the midst of the storm. He is everything you need. And when you get through the storm, you will find yourself in a place of stability, faith, and fruitfulness that can come only from him.
Whatever you do, don’t give up. You have a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, and he will see you safely to the other side.