The Parable of the Night Ferry

The kingdom of God is like a night ferry that crosses a wide stretch of water where you can’t see the other shore.

There’s no dramatic music.
No inspirational speech before boarding.
Just a tired deckhand who checks nothing but your pulse, mostly out of habit. and waves you on.

Some passengers step aboard confidently.
They’ve read the brochure.
They’ve crossed shorter waters before.
They stand near the rail, scanning the darkness, waiting for reassurance: lights, landmarks, anything familiar.

Others hesitate at the ramp.
They ask questions.
How far is it?
How long will this take?
What if the engine fails?
Can I see a copy of the captain’s credentials? 

The deckhand shrugs.
“The ferry goes,” he says.
And unties the rope.

Once the ship pulls away, the water swallows everything.
No shoreline.
No reference points.
Just the low thrum of an engine you can’t see working.

That’s when the strategies begin.

Some people pace the deck, trying to feel progress under their feet.
Some stare into the dark, convinced they’ll spot land first if they concentrate hard enough.
Some open manuals, reviewing nautical terms, hoping information will settle their nerves.
A few start giving advice loudly, mistaking volume for certainty.

Others sit down.
Not because they’re braver.
Because they’re tired.

They stop checking the water.
Stop measuring movement.
Stop asking if they’re “doing faith right.”
They don’t feel calmer.
They just stop trying to manage what was never theirs to manage.

They trust the ferry.
Not because they understand it.
Not because they can see where it’s going.
But because they’re already on it—and no one had packed a flashlight or a backup plan.

At some point, someone asks,
“How will we know when we’ve arrived?”

And from somewhere near the engine comes a voice:
“You won’t. You’ll just find yourself there.”

That’s faith.
Not believing harder.
Not manufacturing certainty.
Not staring into the dark until God finally performs.

Faith isn’t trust in what you see—or don’t see.
It’s trusting who Jesus already is for you
when there’s nothing to prove,
nothing to measure,
and nothing you can do to make it happen faster.

Religion turns faith into a performance review:
Are you confident enough?
Certain enough?
Sure this isn’t self-deception?

Grace turns faith into a seat on a moving boat.
You don’t run it.
You don’t steer it.
You ride.

Blessed are the ones who stop scanning the horizon
and finally sit down—because freedom is found in
dependence on the unseen God
who has been carrying us, the whole time.