Sermons

Water-Walking Moments

I love telling stories. I love hearing them, too. And today’s gospel is a great one. It has everything: quiet prayer, a wild storm, fear, courage, doubt, a miracle, a rescue, and Peter showing he’s both the most frustrating and the most relatable disciple Jesus called.

It all starts with something many of us struggle with: Jesus steps away. He sends the crowds home, tells the disciples to go ahead in the boat, climbs a mountain, and prays. After feeding thousands, healing, teaching, and being needed by everyone, Jesus takes time alone with God and cares for himself.

Meanwhile… all heck breaks loose in the boat. The disciples are battling wind and waves through the night. Matthew tells us the boat is battered by the sea because the wind is against them. These are experienced fishermen. This isn’t a little inconvenience. This is the kind of storm that makes experienced sailors wonder whether they’ll make it home.

Then someone starts walking toward them. We’ve heard this story so many times that we might forget how truly terrifying that would be. You’re exhausted, soaked, and have been fighting for your life all night. Now, someone is walking across the water toward you. Of course, they think it’s a ghost. Jesus calls out, “Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.”

Peter, wonderfully impulsive Peter, says, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you.” Jesus simply says, “Come.” When Peter steps out of the boat, the waves don’t stop, the wind doesn’t calm, and the danger doesn’t go away. Faith isn’t about having no fear. It’s about choosing whom you trust while the storm is still raging. Then Peter does something amazing. He climbs over the side of the boat and actually walks. For a few steps, he finds that the impossible is possible.

But then Peter notices the wind. He remembers all the reasons this shouldn’t work. Fear convinces him that what has held him up might suddenly fail, and he starts to sink. I’ve always loved Peter for this—not because he sinks, but because he gets out of the boat. Most of us spend our lives judging Peter while we stay safe in our own boats.

At least Peter risks looking foolish. Maybe that’s one of the hardest parts of faith, not the fear of failing, but the fear that someone might laugh. My wife loves the musical Hadestown, but it’s not my favorite because I tend to judge Orpheus. I’ve seen it live and always wonder, “What would make me turn around?” I love with a lot of enthusiasm and never doubt that Michelle would be there for me. Still, when we watched the movie, it hit me. I realized I might look back and wonder if it was all a trick, or if I was being made fun of.

For me, it’s not just doubt. It’s the fear of being made a fool. Isn’t that what keeps so many of us in the boat? Is that what keeps me from doing something scary? Maybe it’s why we struggle to have faith in something bigger than ourselves. It’s not the fear of drowning; it’s the fear of being vulnerable, of trusting others, of trusting ourselves, or of God not actually showing up.

I love that idea. Maybe walking on water isn’t really about defying gravity. Maybe it’s about learning whom to trust. Maybe every day we’re invited out of our boats of certainty and safety toward deeper love, not in dramatic ways.

But in small choices. Choosing to look at what scares us, to admit, because if we do admit to ourselves and perhaps someone you trust, could you then go deeper and find something else? Could you find something to work on and choose to change by choosing forgiveness? Choosing vulnerability. Choosing friendship. Choosing generosity. Choosing hope. Choosing community.

Those are water-walking moments.

And Matthew is the only gospel writer who tells us Peter gets out of the boat. Mark doesn’t. John doesn’t. Only Matthew includes Peter. It makes me wonder if Matthew wants us to see ourselves in Peter.

Last week I said the feeding of the 20,000 is told over and over again in multiple gospels; Matthew clearly says it was Jesus’ compassion that led him to ask the disciples to feed the people. Matthew used a word for compassion that means a deep rearrangement of his being, and I suggested it would do the same for us.

This week, that same compassion shows up somewhere new. It’s no longer a hungry crowd on a hillside; it’s a group of friends afraid in a storm. Jesus moves toward people who are scared. Maybe that’s what discipleship is: learning to move toward each other’s fear instead of away from it. But I think an even bigger act of salvation has been happening all night.

The disciples have been saving each other, rowing together, bailing water, holding the boat steady, and keeping each other alive. Long before Peter reaches for Jesus, the disciples have already been reaching out to one another. As I have said before, this, like all the gospels, is a story about us. About communities trying to trust one another. About people learning to follow a good, orderly direction/a highermindedness/ a sense of the divine spark in the middle of uncertainty.

Remember who Matthew is writing to: a community living under Roman rule, without power, wealth, or protection. They survived by creating chosen family and learning to belong to each other. They discovered that faith wasn’t just believing things about Jesus, which I know works here at St. Mark’s. Rather, it meant becoming people who refused to abandon one another. Maybe that’s the real miracle beneath the miracle. Yes, Peter cries, “Lord, save me,” and Jesus reaches out right away.

I love that Jesus doesn’t lecture Peter while he’s underwater. He doesn’t say, “Well, Peter, this is a teachable moment.” He grabs him first. The questions come later. Grace comes first. Always.

But the New Testament keeps reminding us that salvation is communal. This morning, we get to see exactly what that looks like.

In just a few moments, we will baptize Harper. Harper probably won’t remember much about today. She won’t remember the words we say or the promises we make. She probably won’t remember the water or the applause or who was standing where. But we will.

Because baptism is not simply about what happens to one little girl. It is about what happens to all of us.

Today, we will promise that Harper will never have to navigate life’s storms by herself. We will promise to teach her the stories of Jesus, pray for her, encourage her when she is afraid, celebrate her joys, and remind her, again and again, that she is beloved. In other words, we will promise to become the kind of community where nobody has to drown alone.

We save each other all the time—with every meal delivered after surgery, every phone call, every class we take or teach, and every time we show up so no one has to struggle alone.

This morning, we also say goodbye to Sheridan as she begins a new chapter. While Harper is just beginning her journey with this community, Sheridan reminds us that the Church is never just about the people who are here today. It is about the people we have loved, who have loved us, and who carry this community with them wherever they go.

If we have done our work well, Sheridan leaves knowing she does not leave our love behind. She leaves carrying it with her. And we trust that the compassion she has experienced here will continue to ripple outward through her life, just as it has through so many who have called St. Mark’s home.

That, too, is what the Church does. We welcome people at the font and bless them as they are sent into the world. We hold one another for a season, and then we trust that God continues the work wherever the journey leads.

Our work this year isn’t simply about getting bigger—it’s about going deeper. This year, our work isn’t simply about getting bigger. It is going deeper. Deep enough that when a child like Harper is baptized, she grows up surrounded by people who know her name, pray for her, cheer her on, and remind her she belongs.

Deep enough that when someone like Sheridan begins a new chapter, she leaves knowing she has a family here that will always claim her and pray for her.

Deep enough that when any one of us finds ourselves in the middle of a storm, we already know whose hands will reach toward us.

Deeper into our life with the divine spark, deeper into friendship, service, and understanding ourselves and the divine spark within us. Churches and communities aren’t built mainly by successful programs.

People build them by learning to trust each other enough to step out of the boat together. Storms will come—they always do. There will be grief, conflict, illness, loss, and change.

Those things are guaranteed. The real question isn’t whether storms will come, but whether we’ve practiced belonging before they arrive. Will we have learned to love each other so well that when someone starts to sink, ten hands are held out before they even finish saying, “Save me”?

That is the church I want us to become. A place where nobody suffers alone. A place where courage is contagious. A place where assurance grows one small move at a time.

And that’s the good news, not that life gets less stormy, but that love grows stronger than our fear. When we finally step out toward those we’re called to love, we find that everything we need has been there all along.

The wind may still howl, and the waves may still rise, but there’s a hand stretching toward us, and hands reaching out from beside us. Maybe this morning’s invitation is simple: Who is helping keep your boat afloat? Whose hand has reached for you? Whose hand is waiting for yours? This morning, one of those hands belongs to Harper. She is too little to reach very far yet. So today, we reach for her.

And one day, when someone else begins to sink, I pray she will reach for them.

That’s how faith passes from one generation to the next—not only through what we believe, but through the love we practice.

In the end, I don’t think this story asks whether Peter had enough faith to walk on water. I think it asks whether we’ll trust each other enough to become a community where everyone gets home.

Amen