A Sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost
The Rev. Patricia A. Gillespie
Jonah2 :1-9
Psalm 29
Romans 9:1-5
Matthew 14:22-33
"You cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas, and the flood surrounded me; all your waves and your billows passed over me .... The waters closed in over me; the deep surrounded me; weeds were wrapped around my head at the roots of the mountains.
And that is the reading I had to meditate on during my solo trip to the Boundary Waters. Perhaps like Jonah I was doing a bit of running away, but fortunately no two-hundred-pound northern came along to swallow me up. And yet there was a little storm and a bit of anxiety when the waves were as high as the canoe. Like today's reading, it was a reminder of dangerous waters. I know something about dangerous waters. I grew up next to the Atlantic. I spent years as a lifeguard. And once, long ago, like some adolescent Jonah, I did feel the waters close over me and the weeds wrap around my head. A near-fatal drowning. So I look at any body of water with great respect and awe: As a source of life . . . and the power of death. Throughout scripture we see these characteristics of water. Usually in the bible large bodies of water symbolize chaos and confusion.
It's no wonder that Peter and his friends were afraid. First their boat is battered about by watery chaos and then they see their leader looking like a ghost coming across the water. Most of them were fishermen, they knew the danger of the water and the storm. So whatever possessed Peter to step out of the boat? Was it enough that Jesus said, "Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid"? Was that simple call irresistible: "Come"? Peter, the impetuous. Peter the foolish. Peter, the Rock. He should know that rocks sink.
I know what happens when I step out of the boat in deep water. I get wet and I swim. Unless it's the middle of a Minnesota winter, I don't walk. If Jesus calls me "o'er the tumult of my life's wild restless sea" If I have the courage to go, I'm pretty sure I'll be swimming and not walking. But Peter steps out of the relative safety of the boat into the chaos and confusion of the sea. And he walks like Jesus. At least he walks until he remembers the storm and becomes frightened.
As long as Peter has his eyes and heart fixed on Jesus, he is not afraid, and he walks on water. When his attention shifts to the chaos and confusion of the storm, he sinks.
It is the fear the sinks us. Anyone who's taught swimming to adult beginners knows that tense, frightened bodies sink and the same body relaxed somehow floats. It's why I'm not still tangled in the weeds at the bottom of a Florida river. Someone said to me, "Don't be afraid."
Perhaps you know it from your own life. The fear that paralyzes. That freezes you into sinking stone. That keeps you from stepping out, from growing and changing and living. And when we begin to sink, where is even our little faith that can call out "Lord, save me."
It is the fear that sinks us. When the waters of chaos and confusion threaten, it's difficult to trust "Don't be afraid." And even harder to walk into the confusion when Jesus says, "Come."
We want to stay right here in our safe little boat. That's what this is, you know, our church is a boat. We call the part where we sit "the nave" – same root as "navy." And we sit here sheltered under the architectural version of an overturned ship. It feels safe and familiar. And maybe we don't notice the wind rising outside. Maybe we don't see the storm the church is in the midst of right now. But you know it. You see the empty pews. You see the tightening budget. You see the struggle to find clergy. You've felt the fear of closing churches.
But don't' rock the boat, much less step out of it. Hold on tight to what we have. Don't even notice that ghost over there. Surely that can't be Jesus asking us to do something different and crazy: Something that would have to be a miracle to work. Something impossible like finding people in our congregation to team up to be our priest.
We have this nice safe way of being church, maybe it's not smooth sailing, maybe it's even leaking, but it's comfortable. Why should we step out of it and try this total ministry stuff? Just looking at Jesus isn't enough. We need to watch our steps. And we don't even know what the steps are. This confusion and chaos is very scary. And we know those folks on the ministry team can't walk on water. Surely that jesus-looking ghost isn't saying to us, "Come!"
Are we ready to be foolish like Peter, to risk stepping out of our familiar church? Do we have even the little bit of faith to cry out, "Lord, save us!"? . . .
Probably many of you have heard the story of the woman who came as the new Episcopal priest to a small Minnesota town where they'd never had a woman clergy person. She worked hard at trying to gain the approval of the other local clergy, a Catholic priest and a Lutheran pastor. But somehow, no matter how hard she tried or how wonderful the things she did were, those guys found something wrong with it.
After a year of performing as super priest, she thought she'd finally made the grade because the pastor and the priest invited her on one of their fishing trips. Of course right away something goes wrong, but, thank God, this time it isn't her fault. About fifty yards from shore the guys discover they'd left their lunches in the car. Ever helpful, the Episcopal priest says simply, "That's okay. I'll get them." She steps over the side of the boat and walks across the water to the car.
The Roman priest turns to the Lutheran pastor and says, "Would you look at that! She can't even swim."
We see what we expect to see. If we expect failure, that's often what we see. And then we are blind to the miracle.