Scripture can be found here…
I guess it’s time to talk about fear.
I know. You may be really tired of talking about fear by now, because… well, all this.
At the beginning of January, World War III seemed imminent. I would not be surprised if you’ve forgotten this, because…
In February, Australia was in fire.
In March, COVID-19 sent us all to our rooms.
And in April… I think it was Murder Hornets?
In May, our Black siblings’ broken hearts sent them pouring out into the streets to say, ENOUGH.
By June, we realized we were in a worse economic and unemployment crisis than the Great Depression, as entire industries and livelihoods disappeared.
Now, it’s August, and this morning I just saw an article titled: For Sale: A Cold War Bunker and Missile Silo in North Dakota.
And I thought, Hmmmm!
I mean, it is a lot. There is a lot of fear in our world right now.
In this morning’s reading from the gospel according to Matthew, we continue with the text, picking up right after Jesus’ enormous, extravagant picnic of last week. Jesus is, finally, taking the time he needs after everything that has happened. The death of John the Baptist. His own grief and, yes, fear, unrelieved as he continues to pour out his energies and compassion in healing all those who come in need, and then, feeding them, too.
But immediately after that, Jesus knows he has reached his limits.
I’d like to take this opportunity to point out that, if Jesus has limits, so do we. Generosity and compassion are beautiful and a part of our calling, but so is sacred Sabbath, holy rest, and time in prayer and connection with the One who made and who called us in the first place.
Jesus has reached his limits, and so he climbs a mountain to pray. (I know.)
His friends get back in their boats, and pull away from shore. Soon they are beset by a storm. A terrifying storm. People who know the waters they are in generally know the storms, too.
There’s something about the Sea of Galilee, though. It’s not really a sea, and it’s known by many names—Matthew and Mark actually call it Lake Genessaret. In modern Hebrew, it’s Lake Kinneret, which comes from the word “harp,” because the lake itself is harp-shaped. It’s fed by underground springs, and the Jordan River, and it figures so prominently in the Jesus story, some have called the lake itself the 5th gospel.
More crucial to our story, it’s known for sudden, violent storms, due to its geographic location and the interplay of the surrounding mountains with winds and tides.
One of these storms comes up, and Peter and Andrew and the others are stuck in its weather patterns, rowing against it for the better part of a night.
This next part feels almost as if it had been dropped into the gospel from some other place—or some other time. It feels as if Jesus’ friends are seeing him in the future. They wonder whether Jesus is a ghost, and cry out in fear. It feels like… resurrection, because there’s something about the story that is stirring and frightening.
Then Peter does something absurd. He asks Jesus to ask him to come to Jesus on the water, and when Jesus says, “Come,” he steps out of the boat and into the water. Which, as you know, doesn’t generally hold people upright when it is above 32 degrees Fahrenheit.
And Peter tries, and before too long, he becomes afraid, and begins to sink.
And immediately Jesus reaches out his hand and catches him, and brings him into the boat, into safety, into the arms of his brothers and friends.
I have a real problem with what Jesus says. In fact, I will go as far as to say, I don’t believe Jesus said it. It’s a Matthew thing, mostly. Matthew has Jesus saying “you of little faith” five different times in this gospel, which suggests to me there was an ongoing conversation in Matthew’s community about faith, and what it meant, and what was enough, and what was too little.
But generally, that’s not how Jesus talks about faith. In fact, he contradicts himself, right in this gospel, telling his friends at one point, all they need is faith the size of a mustard seed. That is a very small, tiny, beginner portion of faith.
I agree with preacher Nadia Bolz-Weber. She told her congregation, “having a preacher tell me that the solution to my problems is to just try and have more faith – so I can make my way to Jesus never sounds like good news to me. It reminds me of The Simpson’s episode where square jawed newscaster Ken Brockman made a set of motivational tapes called “get confident stupid!”. In the end, I just don’t know how helpful is to say “get faith sinner”. It doesn’t work.”[i]
I don’t think the point of this story is Jesus chastising Peter because he sank like a stone when trying to walk on water. The point isn’t what Peter does at all. The point is what Jesus does. Jesus comes toward him.
Jesus comes toward us.
Jesus comes toward us when we are sinking fast, even if we don’t particularly take notice. Jesus reaches out his hand to grab us.
Jesus comes toward us when we are overwhelmed by fear. Jesus does not leave us alone with our most dire thoughts and imaginings.
Jesus comes toward us when we are in terrible situations, whether of our own making or entirely out of our control. Jesus draws near.
Fear is real, and at times, fear is warranted. There are all kinds of things we can do to keep ourselves safe, and often they work and sometimes they do not. But the love of Jesus, the love of God is more powerful by far than our deepest fears. The love of God is more powerful than death, which is, why, in the end, I still suspect this is a resurrection story.
The love of God means that God comes down, God comes to be among us in Jesus, comes toward us. The love of God means that Jesus comes toward us, in life, in death, and yes, in our moments of fear. Jesus comes toward us, and grasps our hand, and lifts us up, and never lets us go.
Thanks be to God. Amen
[i] Nadia Bolz-Weber, “Jesus Walking on Water—A Sermon Sarcastic and Serious,” Sarcastic Lutheran Blog, Patheos, August 4, 2011.
https://www.patheos.com/blogs/nadiabolzweber/2011/08/hello-world/