Below, for your consideration and reflection, is the sermon from Bethel's August 7, 2005 Sunday worship service.

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Wind, Waves, and Water

Matthew 14:22-33

Bethel 8/7/05

Rev. Marc Sherrod, ThD

To a landlubber like myself, and perhaps we all would be in the same boat, I can’t even begin to imagine the sheer terror of being in a small, probably crude, first century fishing vessel when there’s a fierce storm on the lake, with a wind that keeps blowing you back out, no matter how hard you struggle for shore.

Storms in the Bible are always formidable, and they always teach a lesson. Think of the storm that brought the flood in Noah’s day, or the wind that blew back the sea for the Israelites to cross over and that then threw the water back and crushed Pharaoh and his army, or think of the whirlwind that blew through Job’s life when he lost everything. The storm is another name for primordial chaos, what the German theologian Karl Barth called Das Nichtige, that crushing, irresistible force of disorder as yet untamed and set loose in the world.

The storm is the recurring place of the disciples; it is the place of the church; it is the place where we all live at one time or another. Who hasn’t known the storm of grief, the torment of conflict in the family, the anguished cry of a lonely or an aching heart, vocational uncertainty, the dark night of the soul in whatever form? Will there be faith when the storm rises, when efforts to get to shore seem for naught, when even the Lord himself seems absent?

Here, in Matthew, the storm’s wind, waves, and water, have become simply too much for the disciples.

And Jesus wasn’t there. At least at first. The disciples, that is, the church, was on its own, without him, facing this storm. He was on the land. He was not far away. He intended to pass by and walk around the lake to the other side. He seems not too much concerned. But he was not there in the boat with them.

As the storm raged toward early morning light, they looked up, and there he was, coming across the troubled sea. Only they didn’t know him. The story suggests that it can be hard for storm-tossed disciples to recognize Jesus, to identify him for who he really is.

At first, in our story, there is a mistaken identification. The disciples claim, “it is a ghost!” The Greek word is “phantasma.” They think it is a phantom, an apparition, coming at them, walking on top of the water. Given the dark, the stormy sea, the adverse headwind driving them away from the shore, even hardy Mediterranean fishermen could get scared. “It is a ghost!”

Next, as the figure draws closer and says, “take heart; it is I, don’t be afraid,” there comes, in response, a tentative, hesitant identification from Peter, who is, of course, the every-ready spokesman for the group. Peter says, “if it is you, command me to walk to you on the water” Give me some proof. It is faith that wants to say “yes” to the Lord, but holds back, not quite sure if Jesus is really worth the risk..

Finally, the story resolves the question of the identity of Jesus with a statement of faith. Peter has tried water walking and has lived up to his name, that is, he has sunk like a cephas, the Greek word for rock, he has been rescued by Jesus and gently chastised for doubting, after which this boatload of amazed disciples worship Jesus, confessing, “truly you are the Son of God!” It is the climax of the story, for the soul’s struggle in uncharted waters has found a safe harbor.

The disciples, no less than you and I, struggle to see Jesus. It is the leitmotif of the gospels. At first, they think he is a ghost. They see, but they don’t see. They think they understand, but really, they don’t. In this case, blame it on squinting eyes, the waves, the wind, the water, the treachery of the churning lake, their own fear and insecurity. Blame it on Jesus who ordered them to get into the boat in the first place while he went off by himself to pray. Blame it on whatever we want, but the disciples are slow to get it. They struggle to see, really see, the face of Jesus, and their faith is shakey and often shaken.

Despite his acts of healing, his calming of an earlier storm on the Sea of Galilee when he had fallen asleep in the boat with them, despite the feeding of the 5000 just a day or so before . . . when they first see Jesus walking on the water, just before daybreak, they react with terror and fear, as if they don’t even know him.

But, thank goodness, Peter summons the courage to speak. “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” He’s asking Jesus, “do you want me to risk my life, tempt death, step from the boat onto the dark, swirling, threatening sea?”

Well, as a matter of fact . . . replies Jesus.

William Sloan Coffin, retired from ministry at the Riverside Church in New York City and a noted social activist, once quipped: “I love the recklessness of faith. First you leap, and then you grow wings.” (Credo) We all know about Peter’s impetuosity, his penchant for speaking first and thinking later, but here, he receives permission to do the ridiculous, if not the ludicrous.

Peter, caught up in the moment of seeking to come to Jesus even through the stormy sea, throws caution to the wind, as it were, choosing the kind of reckless faith that leaps first, trusting that Jesus is who he says he is. Yes, he doubted, and was rescued, but because he wanted to see, truly see, Jesus, he took the risk of listening to the voice that said, “take heart; it is I; have no fear.”

Stepping outside the boat and coming to Jesus is paradoxically the easiest/hardest thing we ever do. It’s one thing to stay and splash in the shallow waters where faith is hardly tested at all, quite another to risk it all out where it’s deep.

What stretch of sea stands between you and Jesus, between you and the kind of faith that, as scripture says, moves mountains, the kind of faith that, like the tiny mustard seed, grows into a bush much bigger than anyone expects, the kind of faith that even walks on water?

Who commands you to leave the safety of the boat, to step into the sea, to test the waters, and show what your faith is made of?

Who would dare to call an ordinary, not very spectacularly faithful person like you to such risk, to such struggle, to such faith?

I think you know who.

Let us pray. Lord, call us forth. Call us to that life of risk and holy adventure, that life called discipleship with you. Amen.