Dr. William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church, Birmingham,Michigan
Scripture: Matthew 14:22-33
Two weeks ago Sunday afternoon, Kris and I opened our living room to host the reunion of our most recent trip to Israel. People came from any number of places, complete with stories to tell, pictures to pass and memories to rekindle. Also present was our Jewish travel agent, who (over the course of arranging our last couple of trips) has moved from the category of "consultant" to the status of "friend." It was she who asked the assembled tour members for their most vivid memories. For some, it was the Mount of Olives. For others, the manger of Bethlehem. Several responded to the communion experience at the Garden Tomb. One man said," Masada." Another, "the Temple of Karnak" in Egypt. But by far the greatest number sited experiences on or around the Sea of Galilee.
Which was where I was when I last worked with this little slice of biblical material. I was preaching on the open deck of a boat, in the middle of the Galilean Lake. With the engines killed, the seagulls swirling, and the waves lapping counterpoint to my words, I told this story. In reality, I tried to place my listeners into the midst of this story. Which worked.... sort of.... except for two things. Instead of being 3:00 in the morning, it was 3:00 in the afternoon. And instead of being storm-driven and tempest-tossed, the sea was as calm as glass. So my listeners had to pretend that it was dark.... pretend that it was stormy.... pretend that their arms were weary.... and pretend that their stomachs were queasy. Which probably wasn't all that hard, given that life occasionally feels that way.
Then they had to pretend (at least to the degree that they wanted to "feel" the story) that Jesus had just called one of them over the rail, literally commanding that the boat be abandoned for a walk on the wet side. As pretentions go, this was considerably harder. Because seldom, in real life, does anyone act that way. Which is understandable. I think that most of us identify more readily with life's storms and stresses, than with the possibility of walking through, over or around them.
Three weeks ago, in the first of these sermons, I talked about what it sometimes feels like at 3:00 in the morning. I also talked about what it might feel like to see Jesus walking toward your boat in the midst of a storm. You liked that sermon. A lot. Then two weeks ago, I talked about Peter leaving the boat and walking toward Jesus. You liked that sermon too. But maybe a little less. Still, it was the second sermon which inspired a note describing a personal reaction to Peter's vacating what little security the boat afforded, for the risky business of sallying-forth into waters that were murky and deep. The note read: 'When I think of the fear Peter must have felt, I am convinced that he must have had a tremendous amount of faith.... more than most of us have.... and certainly more than I have."
That's our problem with the text, isn't it? It's not that we are all hung up on the quasi-miraculous nature of the story. We aren't gathered in corners of the sanctuary, debating the kinds of issues that would excite a Baptist.... namely issues of miracle versus natural law (as in wondering how an object denser than water can remain atop the water without the aid of surfboards, jet skis, water wings or other flotation devices). We know that this text is not primarily about a one-time freakish occurrence of nature. This text is about answering a call from Jesus (which can come at any time), and remaining faithful to that call when it is late instead of early, dark instead of light, and perilous instead of promising. This text is about letting go of an old security (which is about to get swamped anyway), for a new possibility (which, when we first hear it, is as frightening as it is compelling). For we know that the Christ who comes toward us, is probably going to expect some reciprocal movement from us.
So Peter gets out of the boat. Which is nothing new. He did it a couple of years earlier. That was when Jesus said to him: 'Why not beach your boat, stay on land for a while, and join me in fishing for a different kind of catch?" And if you don't think that Peter's earlier decision (in its own way) was risky, when was the last time you gave up a relatively secure occupation in obedience to what you perceived to be a higher calling?
Now Peter is out of the boat.... again. And this time the water is deeper and the hour is darker. There he goes. Can you see him? I don't want you to miss this. Up and over. First one leg. Two legs. One step. Two steps. Then next steps. Followed by more steps. For God's sake, he's actually doing it. Let there be no question about his motivation. Neither let there be any question about his progress. Walk on through the wind, Peter, walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown. Walk on, good friend, with hope in your heart....
I'm not being melodramatic here. I'm simply trying to show you that Peter starts well. And while his jaunt is dramatic, it is not abnormal. Jesus invites. Peter executes. It is the most natural thing in the world. It is well within Peter's capacity to do what Jesus asks. We mess up the story royally when we assume that water-walking is the aberration and that sinking is the expectation. Most of us get it backwards. When Peter sinks, we say: "Of course." But we are supposed to say, "Of course," when Peter is still striding across the waters. Ah, yes. Peter starts well. And nothing could be more natural than that. Nothing.
Ever since Robert Fulghum wrote a book entitled "All I Really Needed To Know, I Learned In Kindergarten," he has been in great demand as a public speaker, especially in schools. Ironically, most of his invitations have come from kindergartens or colleges. He readily visits both, finding that (in many respects) the difference is only one of scale. It would seem that a school, is a school, is a school. The most visible disparity, he says, is in the self-image of the students.
Ask a Kindergarten class, "how many of you can draw?" And all hands shoot up. Yes, of course we can draw....all of us. What can you draw? Anything! How about a dog eating a fire truck in the jungle? Sure! How big do you want the dog?
How many of you can sing? All hands go up. Of course we sing! What can you sing? Anything! What if you don't know the words? No problem, we'll make them up as we go along. So shall we sing? Why not!
How many of you dance? Unanimous again. What kind of music do you like to dance to? Any kind! Let's dance! Sure, why not?
Do you like to act in plays? Yes! Do you play musical instruments? Yes! Do you write poetry? Yes! We're learning that stuff now.
Their answer is "Yes"! Over and over again. Kindergarten children are confident in spirit, infinite in resources, and eager to learn. Everything is still possible.
Try those same questions on a college audience. A small percentage of the students will raise their hands when asked if they draw, dance, sing, paint, or play an instrument. Not infrequently, those who do raise their hands will qualify their response with any number of limitations. "I only play piano.... I only draw horses.... I only dance to rock and roll.... I only sing in the shower." When asked the reasons for the limitations, college students answer that they do not have talent... are not majoring in the subject... have not done any of these things since the third grade.... or are embarrassed for others to see them try.
What went wrong between kindergarten and college?
What happened to: "Yes, of course I can?"
We all started well when we were young. It was easier then. Obstacles were smaller then. Storms were either brief or non- existent then. Alas, not everybody finishes well. To which Peter can certainly attest. For just when it seems that nothing can stop him, our text suggest that Peter stopped himself. He read too many negative signals and believed every last one of them. He looked at how dark it was.... how deep it was.... how windy it was.... how raw and cutting it was. None of which was new information. But suddenly he felt cause to say: "I am beyond my limit. I am over my head. I am out of my league. I am no match for this." And suddenly, he wasn't.
In this morning's Steeple Notes I alluded to water skiing. It is not something I do well. But I have done it. I can do it. And, about the time that Bill and Julie indicate an interest in sending me off to the farm, I will probably feel some compulsion to do it again. Just to make a point. My last time out.... or up.... was to impress a couple of women (my wife and my daughter). It was the year of my 50th birthday. The boat was piloted by a friend. I think it was a battleship. Anyway, I made it most of the way around the lake, until I though to myself: "Wait a minute; I can't really be doing this." Which, of course, was exactly the wrong thing to think. Because the minute I thought I couldn't be doing this, I wasn't.
This happens to all of us. Suddenly we find ourselves.... much to our surprise.... doing improbable things, In unlikely ways, at the most demanding times. Then we say: "This can't be me." And suddenly it isn't. Which is when things fall apart. We fall down, just when we were up. We fall apart, just when we were holding it together. And we take a fall, just when we were making nice forward progress.
All of which happens because we look at the wrong signs. Or we look in the wrong directions. I hate heights. I don't like ladders. I have no small number of horror stories about climbing. All of them include memories of much tentativeness, terror and teeth-clenching. Don't ever look for me to re-roof the parsonage. But if the stakes were high enough.... or if the need was great enough.... I know that I could climb a ladder tomorrow. I would never look down. I would never look back. I would never look to either side. For diverting my focus would almost certainly undermine my progress. Where ladders are concerned, the moment I stop looking up is the moment I stop going up.
Life is no different. You have to figure out what to do with your eyes. For there is plenty of negativity to look back upon. There are plenty of reasons for falling, failing, or not starting at all. What's more, we don't have to look very far outside the self to find those reasons. Everyone of us is carrying baggage from the past that is sufficient to sink us.
The problem with being a Christian is not that life is dark and stormy. The problem with being a Christian is that we are suspended between a pair of mixed signals.... one of which is a storm-shadowed Christ saying, "Come," and the other of which is a contrary wind screaming, "No way." But I would contend that Christ is every bit the wind's equal, and that others have found it so.
So if you want to believe that nobody knows the trouble you've seen, don't read biographies. Because if you do, you'll read about people who have known what you've seen, and worse.
And if you want to believe that you can't overcome whatever it is that is overcoming you, then don't turn your head from side to side in this sanctuary. Because if you do, you will see people who have faced worse, and kept going.
And if you want to believe that this is a time of peril, danger, lawlessness, laziness, depression, recession, addiction or affliction (unlike any that has gone before), then don't read history. Because if you read history, you are going to discover that worse times have existed and been surmounted.
To be sure, there is misery in the world. There is pain in your life. There is struggle all around. Stormy things that have happened to you which have crushed your dreams, wounded your heart and slowed your progress. Those things have made you unhappy. They have also made you tentative, fearful and dubious. That's understandable. If you didn't feel that way, something would be wrong with you. But there is still one thing that you have to decide. Which signals are going to command your attention? Are you going to sink under the weight of injustices done to you and grievances collected on account? Or are you going to take Christ at His word when he says that you not only have a future, but a way to get there?
But what if you sink? Well, if you sink, you sink. The story seems to suggest that sinking is regrettable, but understandable. Peter sinks. It earns him a rebuke. He is chided for his "little faith." Actually, the literal translation would suggest that he is chided for "incomplete faith," or ''half faith." But don't miss this. Peter's faith-failure is not a failure to hear Jesus.... not a failure to heed Jesus.... not a failure to put it on the line for Jesus. Rather, it is a failure to believe that he (Peter) could finish what he started for Jesus.
Over the last trio of weeks I have been using these sermons as a stewardship theme.... believing that this text, in this hour, could very well be the appointed word for this congregation. And I suppose that some of you have wondered: "Where does Ritter see us in this little tale? Does he really think that we are cowering in the bow of the boat, trying hard not to hear Jesus, and trying harder still to avoid attempting anything difficult for Jesus?"
Well, if that's what you figured, you are wrong. I don't see you that way at all. Instead, I see you as someone who (at some time in your life).... maybe a year ago.... five years ago.... fifty years ago.... or just last Sunday.... took a very real step forward for Jesus. All I am trying to do with this final sermon is to get you to take another one.... the better to turn your first step into a two-step.
Early in the sermon, I said that the world misses the point of this text when it greets Peter's sinking with a collective, "Of course....what could one reasonably expect?" Obviously, Jesus expected much more, which is why sinking drew a rebuke from the lips of the Lord.
But I would not want to close this sermon (or this series) without the subtle grace note of the text itself. For along with the rebuke, sinking also draws a rescue. For, as the text adds: "Jesus immediately reached out His hand to Peter and caught him." That, too, is the Gospel. It is preserved in a slice of ancient hymnody. I enter it in the middle (and invite those of you who know it to join along with me).
Still the Master of my fate,
heard my despairing cry,
From the waters lifted me,
now safe am I.
Love lifted me.
Love lifted me.
When nothing else could help,
Love lifted me.
Editor's note:
This trio of sermons, based on Matthew 14:22-33, were delivered as part of a stewardship emphasis at First United Methodist Church in Birmingham entitled "Water Walkers." Inspiration for the series was drawn from a sermon preached, years earlier, at First United Methodist Church in Evanston, Illinois by Dr. Neal Fisher, President of Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary. Some of the material for these three sermons originally appeared in a single sermon entitled, "Savior By Stormlight" which was subsequently quoted by Maxie Dunnam in his book: 'That's What The Man Said." Robert Fulghum's account of speaking to kindergarten children and college students first appeared in his book entitled: "Uh-Oh." The concluding thoughts about not reading biographies or looking at one's neighbors in the sanctuary come from the fertile mind of Mark Trotter and were also collected in the aforementioned book by Maxie Dunnam.
