when teaching is hard
Pastor Frank Park | Founding and Senior Pastor
Scripture: John 6:60–71
John 6 ends with one of the most sobering scenes in the Gospels. Not a confrontation with Pharisees. Not a debate with skeptics. Not persecution from the outside. It ends with disciples walking away.
John is careful with his words: “Many of His disciples said, ‘This is a hard saying; who can listen to it?’” (v. 60). These were not enemies of Jesus. They were followers. People who had eaten the bread, seen the signs, and walked with Him, until the teaching pressed too deeply, demanded too much, and refused to bend.
And notice why they left: They didn’t walk away because they misunderstood Jesus. They walked away because they understood Him and didn’t like what He said. Jesus didn’t soften His words. He didn’t chase them down with clarification or compromise. He let the truth stand, even when it thinned the crowd. That alone should arrest us. Much of what passes for faith today is built on comfort, affirmation, and inspiration. But Jesus here allows offense. Not because He is harsh, but because He is faithful.
This exposes a painful reality in us: Often our struggle with truth is not an unconvinced mind - it is an unwilling heart.
We don’t reject truth because it’s unclear. We reject it because it confronts our loves, our autonomy, our control. What makes this moment even more compelling is what happens earlier in the chapter.
Before this mass departure, there was a storm. Only the Twelve got into the boat. Only the Twelve strained against the wind. Only the Twelve experienced fear, resistance, and uncertainty in the dark, and only the Twelve saw Jesus come to them on the water. They passed through the storm, and they made it to the other side. The disciples who later walked away? They never entered the storm.
There is a quiet connection here that we cannot miss: Those who endured the storm were the ones who remained when the teaching was hard. For the Christian, storms are not evidence of God’s absence. They are often the means by which God deepens trust, clarifies allegiance, and anchors faith. Storms strip us of illusions. They teach us dependence. They train us to recognize the voice of Christ when He says, “It is I; do not be afraid.” And when truth later demands surrender, those who have learned to trust Him in the dark are far less likely to abandon Him in the light.
So Jesus turns to the Twelve and asks a question that still echoes today: “Do you want to go away as well?”
Peter’s response is not polished theology. It’s desperate loyalty: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
Not, “We understand everything."
Not, “This is easy.”
But, “There is nowhere else.”
That is the dividing line of discipleship: Not whether we like everything Jesus says. Not whether the path is smooth. But whether, having seen who He is; even through storms, we know there is no other voice that gives life.
John 6 ends with one of the most sobering scenes in the Gospels. Not a confrontation with Pharisees. Not a debate with skeptics. Not persecution from the outside. It ends with disciples walking away.
John is careful with his words: “Many of His disciples said, ‘This is a hard saying; who can listen to it?’” (v. 60). These were not enemies of Jesus. They were followers. People who had eaten the bread, seen the signs, and walked with Him, until the teaching pressed too deeply, demanded too much, and refused to bend.
And notice why they left: They didn’t walk away because they misunderstood Jesus. They walked away because they understood Him and didn’t like what He said. Jesus didn’t soften His words. He didn’t chase them down with clarification or compromise. He let the truth stand, even when it thinned the crowd. That alone should arrest us. Much of what passes for faith today is built on comfort, affirmation, and inspiration. But Jesus here allows offense. Not because He is harsh, but because He is faithful.
This exposes a painful reality in us: Often our struggle with truth is not an unconvinced mind - it is an unwilling heart.
We don’t reject truth because it’s unclear. We reject it because it confronts our loves, our autonomy, our control. What makes this moment even more compelling is what happens earlier in the chapter.
Before this mass departure, there was a storm. Only the Twelve got into the boat. Only the Twelve strained against the wind. Only the Twelve experienced fear, resistance, and uncertainty in the dark, and only the Twelve saw Jesus come to them on the water. They passed through the storm, and they made it to the other side. The disciples who later walked away? They never entered the storm.
There is a quiet connection here that we cannot miss: Those who endured the storm were the ones who remained when the teaching was hard. For the Christian, storms are not evidence of God’s absence. They are often the means by which God deepens trust, clarifies allegiance, and anchors faith. Storms strip us of illusions. They teach us dependence. They train us to recognize the voice of Christ when He says, “It is I; do not be afraid.” And when truth later demands surrender, those who have learned to trust Him in the dark are far less likely to abandon Him in the light.
So Jesus turns to the Twelve and asks a question that still echoes today: “Do you want to go away as well?”
Peter’s response is not polished theology. It’s desperate loyalty: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
Not, “We understand everything."
Not, “This is easy.”
But, “There is nowhere else.”
That is the dividing line of discipleship: Not whether we like everything Jesus says. Not whether the path is smooth. But whether, having seen who He is; even through storms, we know there is no other voice that gives life.