The Boat Beside His

Michael Andres

May 13, 2025

Reading

God spoke: “Let us make human beings in our image, make them
reflecting our nature
So they can be responsible for the fish in the sea,
the birds in the air, the cattle,
And, yes, Earth itself,
and every animal that moves on the face of Earth.”
God created human beings;
he created them godlike,
Reflecting God’s nature.
He created them male and female.
Genesis 1:26–27 (The Message)

Reflection

When I was 24 or 25, I was discerning a call to ministry. I was in seminary and walking through the United Methodist ordination process—with a mentor, a spiritual director, and a psychological evaluation in the rearview (which revealed more questions than answers, honestly). I never finished the degree, and I didn’t pursue ordination. But I was searching, trying to make sense of calling, of God, of myself.

I had always imagined God as powerful, cosmic, and righteous. It felt good to follow a God who would wipe out armies just to be my God—to protect me, to free me. I’m not sure I was interested in the love part. Maybe I just liked the conjugations of “to smite.” (Smote, anyone?) That God made sense to me. That God didn’t ask me to sit too close. If I did, a mountain might go up in smoke.

One day, my spiritual director invited me into an imaginative exercise. I was on the shore of Galilee. Just me and Jesus.

“Picture the water,” she said. “The sky. The dark dirt between your toes. Now imagine Jesus extending a hand, asking you to get into the boat with him.”

I said no.

I told her I wouldn’t mind getting in a different boat—close to his, near enough to hear him, maybe even put my hand on his boat’s railing—just not in the same space. Not where I’d feel trapped. I wasn’t ready for that kind of proximity. I didn’t trust that kind of presence. And I didn’t know what it meant to be seen by someone who carried both power and tenderness.

All these years later, I still remember that moment. Not because I regret my answer—but because it was true. I didn’t want to be in the same boat as Jesus. I didn’t yet believe he would row gently or calm the storms in my soul. I didn’t know if he’d welcome my silence or my shame. I needed space. And I think Jesus let me take it.

Over time, I found myself inching closer. I became more comfortable with the idea that the image of God could be something other than fierce and ferocious. I found nurture and mercy, justice and grace. And I found myself drawn to the person of Jesus—even as I still clung tightly to his divinity.

I’ve spent a long time carrying around images of God that were mostly power and distance—ones that left little room for tenderness, hospitality, or the kind of love that could look me in the eye. But over time, those images have softened. And they’ve expanded.

And I’m not in a separate boat anymore. It’s still awkward at times, and I’m still learning. Most days, I think I’m rowing with him now. There’s something about trusting Jesus not just to call me out—but to share the work, steady the rhythm, and point toward shore. Maybe that’s part of healing too—learning not just how to say “yes,” but how to stay close without always needing an escape plan.

Maybe following Jesus means noticing who’s in the boat with us—or beside us. Maybe it’s simply seeing the image of God in someone we’ve overlooked. Including ourselves.

Prayer
I’m here, Jesus.
I’m here.
This is as close as I can come—
right now.
In this space, in this time,
I’m here.
Help me see you, God.
Let me see your eyes as yours meet mine.
Turn and tilt my head so I can see.
I’m here, Jesus.
I’m here.
And so are you.
AMEN.