Publish the Word
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Yeshua -- 22, Storms

In the beginning. . .
was the word

 The Lord gave the word: great was the company of those that published it. Psalms 68:11

xxii Lord of Storms


Yeshua slept in the stern as frothing swells

     pummeled the hull, as scuts of bluer-green

roiled up from deeps the whiskered, blind


bottom-feeders ruled in silence, as the squall's

     mountainous black swirled western peaks,

swallowed the far shore, gorged itself, relentless.


Each successive wave buried the bow, slammed

     them sideways against the next rising wall. 

Yeshua slept, exhausted.  Fits of lightning speared


the air about them, then wind-driven rains un-

     leashed a drenching rage. The boat pitched,

listed.  Yeshua slept.  The disciples shook him.


Master!  We're about to drown!  They plunged

     into a precipice, wrenched hard.  He sat up,

steadied himself.  He addressed the fury.  Quiet!


Be still!   In moments rain abated, winds settled,

     the sea fell to gentler rocking, soon grew placid.

The churning dark thinned to smoke, to fleece tatters,


then evaporated.  A minute later the sky wore dusk's

     prismatic luster.  An oar torn from its locks

dripped silver.  The disciples trembled, awed, mute.


Who was this man?  Even storms obey,  they thought

     as one.  Yeshua said, Afraid?  Where'syour faith?

No one answered.  The water's emerald smoothness,


without wrinkle, seemed walkable.  Did the fishing

     partners or the others sting from his rebuke? Or

were their thoughts half-wrapped in terror, half undone?


Who was this man?  If faith was the substance of things

     unseen, look around, they must have thought.

Yeshua lay back down.  Wordlessly, they began to row.