Get out of the Boat

I say "lake" instead of "sea" because that’s what the Sea of Galilee is – a freshwater lake roughly 13 miles long and 8 miles wide. When you hear today’s Gospel story, don’t think "the Gulf at St. George Island." Think "Lake Talquin before somebody pulled the plug."

It was a lovely spring morning – sunny and warm, but in the span of two minutes or so we found ourselves in a storm. (I’m not kidding.) The wind came swooping off the Golan Heights, the rain started pelting down, and the water got decidedly choppy. I can’t say that the waves came crashing over the sides of the boat, but I will say that I checked to see where the lifejackets were stored.

We preachers pulled out our rain gear and huddled together on a bench in the open boat, and I’m sure every one of us was thinking, "Wow! It really happens just like that! Wait till my sermon on Matthew 14:13-21."

"Take heart! It is I! Do not be afraid," the apparition shouts.

In Matthew’s gospel particularly, it’s Peter who represents the disciples in moments like this. "If it’s really you, Lord," he cries to the approaching figure, "Command me to come to you on the water."

Is it just me, or does that seem to you like a strange thing for Peter to say? I’d have expected him to say something like, "If it’s really you, stop this storm!" or "If it’s really you, get in the boat with us." Or at the very least, "If it’s really you, hand me a Dramamine."

I think I’d have said something of the sort. I can say with authority that when you’re in a storm on the Sea of Galilee, a brisk stroll on the breakers is not the first thing that comes to mind.

The only explanation I can come up with is that Peter is more or less willing to join Jesus out there on that scary water, but he isn’t going to put so much as his big toe over the side of that boat without hearing a command from Jesus.

"You give them something to eat," he said.

"With what?" they replied. "All we’ve got is two sardines and five soda crackers."

Then, as you recall, Jesus took those two fish and those five loaves of bread and fed the entire crowd with plenty left over.

I think Matthew is telling us that Jesus commands what seems impossible --"You give them something to eat" -- but with his will comes a way. Or to put it another way, whatever Jesus commands, Jesus makes possible.

Perhaps that’s why Peter says to Jesus, "Lord if you command me to come, I’ll come. Otherwise, I’m going for the lifejackets."

We all know what happens next. "Come," Jesus says. (In Greek the word is "Elthé, which sounds more dramatic.) Peter, being Peter, immediately throws both feet over the side and starts walking on the water toward Jesus. He makes it a few feet when he notices just how hard the wind is blowing, and just how dangerous this scenario really is, and he starts to sink like a skier who has just let go of the rope.

Scared out of his wits, he cries out "Lord, save me!" Right away Jesus reaches out his hand and catches him, and although this is not in the text, I imagine that Jesus breaks out laughing and says, Oligópiste, which the NRSV renders "You of little faith," and I translate as "You knucklehead, why do you doubt?"

As I said, Peter functions as the prototypical disciple in Matthew’s Gospel. When he’s good he’s very, very good, and when he’s bad he’s just like the rest of us. Perhaps that’s why I love him so, and why I find him such an embarrassment.

Whatever else this story might be about, it’s clearly about obedience, fear, and doubt. Peter’s fear is overcome so long as he’s obeying Christ’s command: "Come." But as soon as he takes his eyes off Jesus, those waves get bigger and bigger, and he’s no longer Peter, the model disciple, but Peter, the lead balloon.

I told you how this scene in Matthew’s Gospel looks after a stormy outing on the Sea of Galilee. A trip to San José, California, a few weeks ago for a meeting of the Presbyterian General Assembly also affects how I see this story.

That gathering of more than 900 commissioners was a boatload of nervous Nellies if ever there was one. Some of those sailors were threatening to jump ship even before the meeting started. Others kept urging us to stay the course and, for God’s sake, don’t rock the boat. Others were warning that the church is already heading straight to hell in a hand basket, and there is very little any of us could do about it.

In other words, the storm inside the boat was a whole lot scarier than anything out there in the open water. Then something quite remarkable happened. We took a vote regarding ordination standards and discovered that a majority of the commissioners at that General Assembly weren’t going to settle for more of the same. They’d heard the voice of Jesus.

They’d heard enough fear talk, enough threats, enough of being told that the time isn’t right to tear down the diving wall of hostility that separates gay Presbyterians from straight Presbyterians. The rules aren’t working, they decided. We used to think the rules were what Christ commands. Now we realize that we’ve been so busy making rules that we’ve lost sight of our Lord and Savior.

He’s not in the boat. He’s out there, beckoning us to come. He’s calling us to not to be less faithful, but to be less obsessed with rules. He’s calling us to make ordination decisions based on a person’s gifts for ministry and fidelity to Christ’s call.

This much I can tell you: I wouldn’t have voted to change the rules if I hadn’t heard Jesus’ command to do so. I’m too much of a coward to do that kind of thing on by own. I love order too much. I hate conflict too much. Left to my own devices, I’d have put on a life jacket and played it safe.

Scripture is clear on this point: you can’t obey Jesus without taking a risk. "Unless a definite step is demanded," wrote Dietrich Bonhoeffer, "the call vanishes into thin air, and if [people] imagine that they can follow Jesus without taking this step, they are deluding themselves like fanatics." (The Cost of Discipleship, p. 53.)

"Come," Jesus says. "The water out here isn’t what you’d call calm, but neither is the water in that leaky old boat called the Good Ship Presbyterian. Take a few steps beyond your comfort zone. You won’t drown. You won’t die. Here is my hand to hold you. I am still your Lord and Savior and I am still the Head of my Church."

Peter got out of the boat. Then he got in it again, and so did Jesus. The wind died down. The sun came out. "And those in the boat worshipped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God.’"

Truly Jesus is just that. And truly he calls his Church to throw fear to the winds, and obey him. It’s not the safest way to proceed, but if we keep our eyes on Jesus, we won’t drown.