The Fleet, the Ocean, and the Four Kinds of Hearts

 

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

Matthew 13:9 (NKJV)

This morning’s reading from the Psalms set me thinking again about the difference between ignorance and wickedness. Scripture warns against arguing with the wicked, yet I often assume that people speak out of ignorance rather than malice. Most of the time, though, I can sense the difference. The Spirit gives a quiet discernment of the heart behind the words. Some people are searching. Others are resisting.

But it is not only a matter of two kinds of people. Jesus’ parable of the sower reveals four kinds of ground, and that has helped me understand the hearts I meet far better. The seed of truth falls everywhere, yet only one quarter of it bears fruit. Even so, three quarters receive something of the seed. There is often some hope, some glimpse, some chance to grow.

The Ocean and the Armada

I picture humanity as a great ocean where everyone sets sail. The ocean has its own laws, with currents, winds, and storms that cannot be ignored. Within that sea, God calls us to join His Armada, to sail under the command of Christ. Within the fleet there is real freedom in how we trim the sails and how we steer, yet the boundaries of the ocean itself remain God’s. When we sail within His course, the journey, though rarely calm, is purposeful.

Freedom without those boundaries would destroy us. Choice and responsibility are what keep us seaworthy. God does not force anyone to join His fleet, but He invites all who will to travel under His protection. Even beyond the Armada, the Captain’s voice still carries across the waves.

Four Responses to the Captain’s Call

Some hearts are hardened. The Pharisees and the leaders of the Sanhedrin were like ground packed down over time. They knew the Scriptures, yet resisted the living Word standing before them. Pride and fear had flattened their hearts. Jesus spoke truth to them plainly, but when they refused to hear, He often walked away. Truth was never shouted. It stood firm and calm.

Other hearts are shallow and impulsive. Judas may belong here, one who responded quickly but without root. The crowds who cried “Hosanna” one week and “Crucify” the next also stand on rocky soil. Jesus met these people not with argument, but with invitation. “Come and see.” He offered encounter rather than explanation, experience rather than debate.

Some hearts are crowded and distracted. The rich young ruler, Martha, and some of my clients live here. They believe, yet still try to steer their own boat. Jesus exposed their thorns gently, not to condemn but to free. He looked at them and loved them before speaking the hard truth. My calling with such people is not to yank out weeds, but to help them see what is choking growth.

Then there is the good ground. Simon Peter represents this heart. He stumbled, misunderstood, and wept bitterly, yet he always returned. Jesus taught him patiently, challenged him honestly, and restored him tenderly. This is the heart that hears, obeys, and bears fruit.

Speaking Truth Without Fighting the Wind

When Jesus encountered hardened hearts, He did not shout. He spoke once, clearly, and allowed silence to do its work. He refused to be drawn into battles of pride. He asked questions that revealed motives, and when hearts closed, He withdrew.

To speak truth without confrontation is to stand where He stood, firm, unflustered, and faithful. Truth carries its own weight. It does not need anger to make it heard. I am learning that walking away can sometimes be obedience rather than weakness.

So I will keep sowing the seed, watching the seas, and steering within His Armada. The Captain knows every current, every storm, every sailor. My task remains simple. To sail faithfully, to speak gently, and to let Him steer the rest.

“The Lord will guide you continually,

and satisfy your soul in drought.”

Isaiah 58:11 (NKJV)

Untangled, Not Replaced — Grace That Restores Responsibility

 

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.”

— 2 Corinthians 5:17 (NKJV)

I was talking recently with a client whose son, a recovered addict, had been criticising his father for not “changing.” The son was trying hard to be a different person, believing that following Christ meant leaving the old version of himself behind completely. My client and I spoke about that, and I shared something that God has been showing me for a while, the difference between being tangled and untangled.

The truth is, I am the same person I was before Christ, but my life has been untangled in relationship with Him. The thread is the same, but the knots are being loosened by His patient, loving hands.

When Paul wrote that we are “a new creation,” he didn’t mean that God replaces us with a better model. He meant that our old state of separation, our guilt, alienation, and self-reliance, passes away, and our life is now reconnected to its source. We are the same person, but now we live in Christ instead of apart from Him.

So often, though, people hear new creation as new identity in the sense of new person, and they start striving to become someone else entirely. They try to erase their past and sometimes even reject who they’ve been. It sounds holy but ends up producing something false, a self that’s disowned rather than redeemed.

And here’s where another danger creeps in: when we believe that being renewed means the old self is gone, we may also stop taking responsibility for what that old self did. We can end up using grace as a kind of amnesty for reflection, avoiding our own story rather than letting Christ redeem it.

But forgiveness doesn’t erase accountability. It removes the shame that stops us facing it. Christ’s untangling doesn’t happen to us while we sit still; it happens with us as we begin to face the knots He puts His hand on. His grace removes fear, not responsibility.

My client saw this clearly as we talked. His son’s drive to be different was understandable, but the Father’s heart is for us to be restored. When we try to become someone new, we may avoid the work of reconciliation and confession that healing requires. But when we let the same thread be untangled, we honour both grace and truth, we face what’s ours to face and trust God to do what only He can.

In reality, it’s never about becoming a different person; it’s about becoming a redeemed version of the same person, the one God always intended us to be before sin, shame, and fear knotted us up.

Without grace, responsibility becomes crushing.

Without responsibility, grace becomes cheap.

But in Christ, the two meet perfectly, grace makes responsibility possible, and responsibility makes grace visible.

Lord Jesus, thank You that You never throw away the old thread. Thank You for Your patient untangling and for the courage to face what needs facing, knowing that we do not face it alone. Amen.

Watching Jesus – How a Child Learns to Walk Steady

 

“Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.”
Hebrews 12:2 (NKJV)

I was thinking this morning about what it means to be a well-balanced adult, the kind of person who stands steady in life and becomes a safe example for a child. It is easy to make a list of qualities we imagine we need: composure, wisdom, patience, consistency. But the older I become, the more I recognise that none of these qualities grow naturally in me. They slip through my fingers when I try to hold them by myself, and they fade when I focus on performing them rather than living honestly before God.

While I was reflecting on this, I had Christian country music playing in the background. A song came on, “Watching You” by Rodney Atkins, and it caught my attention in a way I did not expect. The song tells a simple story of a father realising that his little boy copies everything he does. The child was learning not from instruction but from observation. He became shaped by what he saw. And in that moment, I felt the Lord speak into my own thoughts with a clarity that settled everything I had been wrestling with.

A child becomes steady when the adult they are watching is steady. And an adult becomes steady when the One they are watching is Jesus. It was as simple and as direct as that. Suddenly so many threads from this past month came together: the desire to be a safe presence for the grandchildren, the reflections about generational influence, the longing to help adults care for their children in a way that honours God, and the quiet prayer to be more grounded, more balanced, more whole.

The answer had nothing to do with perfecting myself. It was not about tightening my self-control or trying to hold myself together. And it certainly was not about presenting myself as an unshakable father figure. The real answer was where I fix my eyes. If I watch myself, a child ends up watching instability. If I watch my worries, a child learns fear. If I watch my frustration, a child feels the weight of it. But if I watch Jesus, something in me settles. My steps slow. My reactions soften. My balance returns. And a child watching me begins to learn not just from my behaviour but from my direction. They see where my eyes are looking, and their gaze begins to turn the same way.

This is one of the quiet miracles of discipleship. We watch Him, and the next generation watches us, and somehow they learn to watch Him too. It is not complicated. It is not heavy. It is not another pressure to carry. It is simply the daily choice to look toward the One whose balance never falters and whose steadiness becomes our own. When I follow Him, the children who follow me find their footing on firmer ground.

I am not sure yet how this insight will unfold in my wider reflections on parenting, children, and the generations to come. It may become another thread woven through the themes God has been giving me recently. But for now, it is enough to hold this simple truth. A child becomes balanced by watching an adult. And an adult becomes balanced by watching Jesus. Sometimes the clearest guidance comes in the simplest way, and sometimes it arrives through a country song reminding us that little eyes are always noticing where we look.

“Be imitators of me, just as I also am of Christ.”

1 Corinthians 11:1 (NKJV)

Speaking to the Mountain in the Storm — Relaying the Captain’s Command

 

“The words that I speak to you I do not speak on My own authority; but the Father who dwells in Me does the works.”

John 14:10 (NKJV)

When Jesus told His disciples to speak to the mountain, I do not believe He was giving them permission to command creation at will. He was not handing them independent authority. He was inviting them to carry His authority. He was calling them to become crew who faithfully relay the Captain’s orders into the storm.

The sea does not obey my voice. It obeys His. Yet when He gives the command and I repeat what He has spoken, His authority flows through my obedience. Nothing moves because of my strength. Things move because I am aligned with His voice.

To speak to the mountain, then, is not to make declarations out of determination. It is to echo what the Captain is already saying. It is faith in transmission. Hearing. Trusting. Relaying the message exactly as given.

When He says, “Peace, be still,” I carry that word into chaos.

When He says, “Fear not,” I speak courage into trembling hearts.

When He says, “Forgive,” I loosen the anchor of resentment that holds the boat back.

These commands are never random. They come through the harmony of Word and Spirit working together. The Word gives the chart, the unchanging truth of Scripture. The Spirit gives the wind, the direction for this particular voyage. As I align with both, what I speak carries the resonance of Heaven. The mountain yields not to volume but to alignment.

Sometimes the command changes in the middle of the storm. A subtle shift. “Ten degrees starboard.” I may not understand why, but obedience brings the turn that keeps us from the rocks.

And if the mountain still stands, I trust that the Captain has chosen another route. Perhaps through calmer waters. Perhaps directly across the ridge. But always toward His destination.

The mountain’s movement or stillness is not the measure of faith. Obedience is.

I am not the captain of this boat.
Nor the master of the storm.
My role is simply to hear and relay the command faithfully.
The authority is His. The echo is mine.
And when I speak what He speaks, mountains bow, storms settle, and peace returns to the deck.

“So shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth;
It shall not return to Me void,
But it shall accomplish what I please,
And it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.”
Isaiah 55:11 (NKJV)

When the Storm Becomes a Mountain — Seeing What Stands Before Us

 

“For assuredly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be removed and be cast into the sea,’

and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that those things he says will be done, he will have whatever he says.”

Mark 11.23 NKJV

Some storms rise as waves and others rise as mountains. Both can block the horizon and test whether my trust remains in the One who commands the wind and the sea. When Jesus spoke of a mountain being cast into the sea, He was not describing geography. He was revealing authority. His authority reaches over anything that stands against the purpose of God. A mountain is simply another expression of a storm. Sometimes it appears within me as fear, pride or unbelief. Sometimes it takes shape in relationships through tension or misunderstanding. Sometimes it breaks in from outside as injustice, resistance or attack.

Whatever form it takes, it becomes the same thing. It stands between my heart and His command. When my attention shifts from the Captain to the mountain, my hands tighten on the oars and I begin to row by sight rather than faith.

In the boat, the Captain never loses sight of the horizon. He knows which mountains will crumble beneath His word and which ones we will climb together. He does not ask me to analyse the storm. He asks me to remain attentive to His voice. Sometimes that voice is quiet and steady. Hold steady. At other times it comes as a small but decisive correction. Ten degrees starboard. My safety does not come from understanding the whole map. It comes from obeying the word He speaks in that moment.

Faith is not pretending the mountain is not there. Faith is trusting the Captain’s command more than my own perception. So I find myself asking: Lord, what are You showing me through this. Is this a mountain to be moved or a mountain to be crossed with You. And often I hear His gentle assurance. Keep your eyes on Me. Whether I flatten the mountain or lead you over it, My purpose will stand. The crew who obeys My voice will always reach safe harbour.

Some storms roar and others stand silent, but both reveal where my attention rests. Faith does not call me to stare at the obstacle. Faith calls me to listen for the Captain’s next word. It is obedience, not understanding, that keeps the boat on course.

I will lift up my eyes to the hills.

From whence comes my help.

My help comes from the Lord,

Who made heaven and earth.

Psalm 121.1 NKJV

When the Fog Thickens — And the Accusations Begin

 

                “Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by your name. You are Mine.”
                Isaiah 43:1 (NKJV)

There are seasons when my thoughts feel clouded, not with passing worries but with something heavier. It settles quietly, like fog on still water, and it brings questions I did not expect. I found myself wondering why I felt accused simply for being who I am. It was not personal sin. I know my faults and I ask the Lord daily to search my heart. This was something different, something that seemed to rest around me rather than rise from within.

It felt as though I was sitting in a small boat while a storm formed around me. I had not stirred the waters, yet the waves seemed to lean toward me. I listened and read and prayed, but the fog did not lift. It pressed in and made me feel as though guilt was being placed on my shoulders for a story I had not written.

In the middle of this, my thoughts returned to Laddie and Sunshine. Laddie carries himself with such faithful steadiness. Sunshine moves with joyful unpredictability, sometimes disappearing for a moment before bounding back as if her heart never left home. The other morning she ran off and my thoughts ran with her. They scattered and grew anxious. When she came back, full of life and certainty, it felt like the Lord whispering to me that He had not lost sight of me. He reminded me that I am still His.

That stayed with me. In a world that often tries to describe people by guilt, God describes me by grace. Where there is an unspoken pressure to apologise simply for being, He speaks a different word to my heart. I am forgiven to live. I belong to Him. My identity is not something the world assigns to me. My identity is something He speaks over me.

I also found myself wondering what guilt actually accomplishes when it is placed upon someone. I noticed that it does not lead to understanding. It does not lead to reconciliation. It certainly does not clear the fog. Guilt shifts weight, but it does not remove burden. It echoes accusation rather than healing. And it leaves the heart weary.

What God asks of me is very different. He does not place inherited guilt upon me. He teaches me to walk humbly, to listen with compassion, and to speak truth with grace. He invites me to look at the past with honesty but not condemnation. He shows me how to acknowledge the pain of others without denying the story He has written in my life. He reminds me that I can stand without hardness and I can listen without losing myself.

So when the fog gathers and accusation seems to seep into the air around me, I remind myself that I am not alone. Feeling accused does not mean I am guilty. Feeling silenced does not mean I have lost my voice. The Lord is my shepherd and He leads me into clarity at His pace, not mine. He steadies my steps, clears my vision, and brings me back into His peace.

                    “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
                     He makes me lie down in green pastures.
                     He leads me beside the still waters.
                     He restores my soul.”
                     Psalm 23:1–3 (NKJV)

Awakening to the Story

 

                    “And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and men.”
                    — Luke 2:52 (NKJV)

I was thinking…

What it must have been like for Jesus to grow into the realisation of who He was. To wake each morning a little more aware, not in pride or sudden revelation, but in quiet remembrance, as if something once fully known was returning gently, piece by piece.

He learned the Scriptures as every Jewish boy did, yet I wonder how it felt when familiar passages began to move inside Him, not as lessons to memorise but as memories awakening. I imagine Him in the synagogue as a boy, tracing His finger along the scrolls, sensing a warmth He could not yet explain. Words others recited as history, He heard as heartbeat. Perhaps He didn’t know why, only that something in them felt like home.

As the years passed, that sense deepened. When He read of the Servant who would bear rejection, He felt it in His bones. When He prayed the psalms of anguish and trust, they echoed a truth He somehow already lived. And one day, standing to read from Isaiah, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me”, He realised the page before Him was not simply prophecy but autobiography.

The weight of that must have been immense. To see that the story He was reading was the story He Himself would live, to feel the cross not just as destiny but as memory rediscovered. And yet He did not shrink from it. He grew in wisdom, in stature, and in favour, not by stepping around the human condition but by entering it fully. He walked each day with the patience of One who knew where the road led, yet still chose to take every step with us, feeling hunger and weariness, laughter and friendship, grief and joy.

Sometimes I wonder whether, in those hidden years at Nazareth, there were moments when He paused mid-task, a carpenter’s hand resting on the wood, sensing the shadow of the tree that would one day bear Him. Not in dread, but in quiet acceptance.

He knew the story. He had written it. But He chose, day by day, to live it. And maybe that is part of what it means for us to follow Him, to live the story He has written for each of us, not as characters trapped by fate but as souls learning to trust the Author who stepped into His own creation so He could walk with us from within it.

He did not rewrite the story from above. He entered it, remembered it, fulfilled it, and redeemed every line. And when I think of that, I find peace. Because if the Author was willing to walk His own pages in flesh and tears, then I can trust that every page of my story, too, is known, remembered, and being rewritten by His love.

                       “Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith…”

                       — Hebrews 12:2 (NKJV)