When Our Hearts Are Hardened

Picking Up an Ancient Thread

"Their hearts were hardened." It’s a phrase that echoes through the ages, first whispered in the halls of Pharaoh's palace in the book of Exodus. Sometimes, we’re told God hardened Pharaoh’s heart. Other times, Pharaoh did it himself. It’s a back-and-forth, a tug between divine will and human agency. And that duality is important.

Because later, in the Gospel of Mark, this same phrase gets repurposed. But this time, it's not Pharaoh who suffers from a hardened heart. It's the disciples. These are the people closest to Jesus, the ones who've witnessed miracles, shared meals, and still—somehow—they don't get it.

The Boat and the Shore

Jesus climbs into the boat, the wind dies down, and the disciples are stunned. Rightly so. But Mark gives us a curious line: "For they had not understood about the loaves; their hearts were hardened."

Why is Mark still talking about bread when we’re in the middle of a storm story? Because for him, the moment on the water is directly tied to the miracle on the shore. The feeding of the crowd wasn't just a cool trick with fish and bread. It was a sign. A glimpse into the kind of kingdom Jesus was unveiling.

And maybe the disciples were impressed. Maybe they gathered the leftovers in awe. But they didn't quite see God in that moment. Because what Jesus did wasn't outside their imagination. It was generous, sure. But still within the bounds of what people might do.

Yet for Mark, that's exactly the point.

A Wider Imagination

You see, the heart of God isn't just found in spectacle. It's found when needs are met, when community forms, when generosity spills over from one to another. Jesus walking on water? That’s incredible. But it's not the truest glimpse of the divine. That came in the moment when everyone ate.

And so, when Mark says their hearts were hardened, I don't think he's accusing the disciples of cruelty. I think he's lamenting their lack of imagination.

Horses, Blinkers, and Faith

Have you ever seen a horse wearing blinkers? Little flaps next to their eyes to keep them focused on what's ahead. It limits their natural vision, narrows their world. But horses evolved to see wide. Their peripheral awareness is a gift, not a flaw.

And somewhere along the way, many of us inherited religious blinkers. We were taught to expect God in certain places: the sanctuary, the miracle, the mountaintop. But not at lunch. Not in the mundane. Not in the stranger offering their last piece of bread.

Mark wants to remove the blinkers. To help us see that the sacred is not reserved for the spectacular. It's in the everyday, the shared meal, the open hand. And when we start there—when we begin to recognize God in the common—we may just find we don't need God to walk on water to believe God is near.

Seeing Clearly

If you have experienced the miraculous, hold onto that. It matters. It is a gift. But let it lift your eyes to see the wider truth: God has been surrounding you all along.

The moment in the boat was never just about calming the storm. It was meant to help the disciples understand what had already happened on the shore. That when everyone was fed, when compassion multiplied into sufficiency—that was the heart of God.

So whether it's loaves, fish, or waves underfoot, let your field of view expand. Because sometimes the sacred is already there, quietly waiting to be noticed.