There are several of these “crossing” scenes in the Gospel of Matthew. The gospel is funny that way: the disciples and Jesus are always on the move, taking a path that doesn’t seem to make sense. Always traveling from here to there, crossing the Sea of Galilee only to go back again. And so these crossings seem to have a deeper, symbolic meaning. A challenging situation often awaits them on the other side—a test of some kind or an encounter that leaves them changed. And on at least two occasions, the challenge comes on the journey itself, when the disciples find themselves out on the water.
You may remember the scene earlier in the gospel, when the disciples found themselves out at sea during a storm. Only then, Jesus was down in the boat asleep. At the height of their fear, Jesus emerges and tells the wind and the waves, Peace, be still, and they were. Here, the situation seems even more dire. Jesus is not in the boat with them, but back on the shore. The disciples are out there, they feel, on their own, utterly vulnerable to the wind and the waves. To this day, weather around Sea of Galilee is notoriously unpredictable. The Sea—which is really more of a lake—is some 200 meters below sea level, with cliffs and plateaus all around it that create a kind of funnel effect to send air shooting through it from all sides. Storms, often violent, appear quickly. Fishermen that they were, the disciples would have been raised on stories of tragedy at sea.
I.
You could say there are two scenes in this passage, each with their own test. We’re drawn to the second one, where Peter attempts to walk on water—which we’ll get to in a moment—but we miss something important if we don’t pause to consider this first scene of the disciples out on those familiar, turbulent waters, when Jesus, who was thought to be back up on the mountain, suddenly and mysteriously appears there with them.[1]
To begin with, Jesus shouldn’t be there. They thought they’d left him on the shore; or really, it was he who had left them out on the sea. He’d sent them out there while he stayed back on shore to pray and have some time in solitude—something Jesus often attempts to do in the gospels. He’s sent them out there hours ago amid the wind and waves, and yet there he is, early in the morning—your translation may say “during the fourth watch of night,” which is the time between 3am and 6am. This is the darkest time of the night. It’s then and there that Jesus reveals himself to them, saying, It’s me. Don’t be afraid.
This is the fourth of seven times Jesus says these words to the disciples in Matthew’s Gospel. It must have been something they needed to hear, maybe something they couldn’t hear enough. It’s something that’s perhaps the first article of Christian faith that is itself an echo of Biblical faith handed down through the generations: Christ—God—is with us, even when he can’t possibly be. Even in the darkest night or the roughest sea, we are not alone. “When you pass through the waters I will be with you,” we hear from the prophet Isaiah some 600 years before Jesus made his way through the storm.
This was the first test of faith for the disciples that day and for the church even today: Will they remember that I’m with them when they’re out there on the water? Will they remember that I first called them from these very shores? Would they think that now, in their time of need, I would abandon them?
II.
Scene 2: the attention moves to Peter. Peter, the chief disciple—the one who speaks when the rest of them won’t. Peter, who my brother-in-law might call a “ready, fire, aim” kind of guy. Peter, the one who routinely puts his foot in his mouth, loses his temper and, eventually, his nerve. The one who will betray and then abandon, but also the one who will be redeemed. The rock upon whom Jesus will build the church. Peter, who, in the end, is a kind of stand in for us: for the church and all future disciples. Maybe especially all of us who have some potential but can’t seem to get out of our own way. Peter cries out to Jesus, Lord, if it is you, call me out to meet you on the water. Jesus, perhaps calling Peter’s bluff, says, Come.
And so, after a moment or three, as Peter realizes what he’s gotten himself into, and looks around him to crowd of incredulous faces, he then pears over the side of the boat into the churning darkness. And after a long breath, he finally takes that first, hardest step down out of the boat and into the water, where to his surprise and relief, his foot holds. He locks eyes on Jesus and begins to walk to him, on the water. The eyes of the others, and all of nature, it feels are held, in that moment, amazed, bewildered at the sight. And yet, the storm is still present. At first relieved, and then jubilant, Peter takes one step after another, but at some point along the way, as he’s walking out to meet Jesus in the water, we’re told Peter “notices” the wind.
This is the same wind we’re told earlier was “against” the disciples in their boat. Perhaps a gust blows over him, and in that split second he looks down to balance himself, turning his eyes from Jesus, and he’s reminded where he is, standing out on the water, where no human is supposed to be, and he begins to sink. He cries out, Lord, save me! And we’re told that Jesus, who must have been close enough to do so, reaches out, takes him by the hand, steadies him, and says, You of little faith, why did you doubt?
The word translated “doubt” here is different. Distazo: Dis-meaning two, and stasis: a stance. It has a sense of standing in two places, going back and forth, or wavering. It might better read as, You of little faith, why did you hesitate?[2]
Which, at face value seems pretty obvious: He’s out there in the middle of the sea, walking on water! The waves are still churning, the wind is still blowing. And it’s true this is a path Peter chose for himself. He’s the one who asked Jesus to lead him out there, and he made it so close, but at the last moment, he remembered where he was and all that was against him. He “noticed” the wind…
You know this wind. You’ve felt it pushing against you, breaking your focus just long enough for doubt to seize you and prevent you from committing fully. It’s that thrust of resistance that keeps us from doing what our heart knows needs to be done, of saying what needs to be said. And so we hesitate. It can be crushing. We feel it can be telling.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer lifted this scene as the great image for discipleship and all its harsh reality: this tension of Peter responding to the call of Jesus to come out into the storm, of taking that risk of faith, but coming up short. He writes, Peter had to leave the ship and risk his life on the sea, in order to learn both his own weakness and the almighty power of [God]. If Peter hadn’t taken the risk, he would never have learned the meaning of faith…[3]
Faith, for Bonhoeffer, begins in accepting the call of Jesus to step out into the water. Of “risking something big for something good,” as it’s been said. Taking on this risk is critical. But faith comes into form—it grows, it develops—when that risk proves true: when we face resistance or adversity and we hesitate and learn our limits. When we start to sink. When we learn what it feels like to come up short. Even to fail. This is such an essential part of faith—and life, of course. And we miss this, I think. I miss this, I’ll know.
III.
There was a time, not too long ago, I’ll confess, when I would read of Peter’s hesitation, his doubt, his wavering, and see it as nothing more than a failure—a misstep, a lapse in faith that could have, maybe even should have been avoided. If only Peter had kept his nerve—if only he’d tried a little harder or been a little better he could have made it there without a hitch—I mean, Jesus was calling him!
Does this sound crazy to you what I’m saying? Why didn’t it sound crazy to me then?
Now I hear this story, and take in that scene, and think of a hundred times I didn’t even step out of the boat. And a hundred more when I finally did, only to waver or doubt. Some of the time, thank God, I saw there was a hand out-stretched to guide me. Other times, I couldn’t look up long enough to see the hand, and sank straight to the bottom.
What I mean to say, is that now, when I imagine myself standing with Peter out there in the middle of the water, I think of his hesitation less as something he could have avoided, and more as something that was bound to happen at some point, and a hundred times over. Something that is an inevitable part of any leap of faith. Let alone any life of faith. Something that, once he dried off, he’d be better for. Stronger and wiser for. It’s funny, the Gospel of John tells of another time Jesus called out to Peter across water. It was after the resurrection, when the risen Christ appears to the disciples on the sea shore while they’re out in the boat. And Peter sees it’s him and this time doesn’t try to walk, but jumps into the water and swims to Jesus. Wasn’t worried about sinking then!
Now, I hear this story about Peter walking and sinking and I think, Thank God faith is not a beauty pageant. Thank God—despite what we’ve heard—faith is not a game with winners and losers and some great cosmic scoreboard in the sky. I think, Thank God faith is a way we hope to live. An instinct we hope to cultivate—one toward trust and imagination. A posture we do our best to take, but that is hard learned—one that’s open and ready to receive the world as it comes to us; to receive others in all their complexity. Praying we’ll be found ready when the moment comes. Trusting there’s a hand reaching out for us when we’re not. Not that we’re permitted always just to stay in the boat!
I heard a story once about the late Donald Coggan, former Archbishop of Canterbury, in the Church of England, who was traveling by train through the English countryside, when a young Anglican seminarian noticed him across the aisle. The young student was thrilled, introduced herself, and began to engage the Archbishop in conversation. They spoke for the length of the trip about life and ministry, as the student sought to soak up as much as she could. When the train reached the station, they prepared to part. They exchanged the usual pleasantries: “Dr. Coggan, she said to him, “this was such a thrill. Take care.” She turned to leave, and felt his hand catch her arm. “My dear,” he said, “Not take care. Take risk.”[4]
IV.
The church, through the generations, has done well at taking care: at being thoughtful, deliberate, engaged, empathetic—as it should. I don’t understand the archbishop to mean that taking care is not part of the life of faith; of course it is. What I hear him say is that for a Christian person, someone aiming to take on this posture of faith, taking care cannot finally be an excuse not to take risk; to never step out into the waters, to not follow the Voice when it calls us, in all the infinite ways that can be applied in your life and mine and our life together.
Take care and take risk, church. Or maybe, take care to take risk. For it is the coming together of these two that defines a life of faith fully lived; a life which must include, at least a time or two or three, a leap of faith.
Or if not a leap, at least just a step, which we may find leads to another, and then another, then another. Knowing the wind will be there, for it always is. But remembering just as surely there will be a hand outstretched before us. Maybe even considering what it would mean to offer that hand for someone else.
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[1] M. Eugene Boring, The Gospel of Matthew, New Interpreter’s Commentary, 328
2 Anna Case-Winters, Matthew, from the Belief commentary series, 196
3 Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 66
4 Many thanks to my dear friend, Alan Sherouse, for sharing this story with me.