Peace in the Storm
By James Ensor
“In Him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”
John 1:4-5
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Most depictions of Christ calming the storm emphasize the darkness. Black clouds gather, waves rise like walls, and frightened disciples cling to a boat that seems moments from destruction. In Peace in the Storm, James Ensor depicts something startlingly different. His sea still heaves and curls around the tiny vessel, but the storm is alive with luminous pinks, greens, blues, yellows and white. The little boat is nearly lost — not in gloom, but in radiance.
At first, this might seem like a misreading of the story. But perhaps it captures an eternal truth that is easy to overlook. The disciples were in genuine peril, and at the same time they were in the presence of the Light of the World. Yet they could not see it. Ensor paints something closer to what was actually there than to what the frightened men in the boat were able to perceive.
Julian of Norwich wrote of Christ’s promise, “He said not: Thou shalt not be tempested, thou shalt not be travailed, thou shalt not be afflicted; but He said: Thou shalt not be overcome.” Discipleship does not promise a life without storms. It promises that we do not face them alone. Jeffrey R. Holland taught, “Because Jesus walked such a long, lonely path utterly alone, we do not have to do so.”
The painting’s brilliant colors suggest an additional truth. Even physically, our eyes perceive only a narrow portion of the light that surrounds us. There may likewise be much more spiritual light present in our lives than we presently have eyes to see. President Dieter F. Uchtdorf put the difficulty plainly: “Spiritual light cannot be discerned by carnal eyes.” Adam Miller describes the difference as one between “seeing things in the light and seeing the light that lets me see things.” The danger is that we go “running around at noonday looking for some special thing in the light, blind to the light.” As Miller concludes, “Christ, as the light of the world, is hidden in plain sight.”
Jesus declared, “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12). Modern scripture expands that image beautifully, describing “the light of Christ” as proceeding “from the presence of God to fill the immensity of space”—a light “which is in all things, which giveth life to all things, which is the law by which all things are governed,” and which “enlightenth your eyes” and “quickeneth your understandings” (Doctrine and Covenants 88:7, 11–13).
This light is not merely something by which we see. It is woven into the life and order of creation itself. Long before Christ awakened and spoke peace to the sea, His light was already there — filling the storm, the waves, and the frightened faces of His disciples.
Christ’s light, then, is not limited to the moments when the sky has cleared. It is present in the storm itself: in strength we did not know we had, in peace that arrives before circumstances change, in truth that becomes visible only after long darkness, in the quiet assurance that Someone is still in the boat alongside us.
There may be seasons when all we can see are the waves. Ensor’s painting invites us to look again. The storm may be real. The darkness may be real. But they are not all that is there.
The Light of the World is there, too.
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