3/1/26 Sermon

Matthew doesn’t drop this story we’re about to read into the Gospel at random. It comes right on the heels of a day when Jesus has been surrounded—teaching, healing, and feeding a hungry crowd with five loaves and two fish. The disciples have just watched scarcity turn into abundance, panic turn into provision, and Jesus refuse to become the kind of messiah the crowds want him to be. And then, almost abruptly, Matthew says, “Right then, Jesus made the disciples get into the boat.” He sends them ahead into the dark while he dismisses the crowd and goes up the mountain alone to pray.

So the scene shifts: from daylight and full bellies to night and headwinds; from a miracle on land to a struggle on the water. And the disciples do what we do in real life: they row into resistance. They fight the wind. They do their best. They get nowhere. Then, in the deep hours of the morning, Jesus comes to them—not around the storm, but through it—and their first response isn’t courage. It’s fear. “It’s a ghost,” they say. Because sometimes even the presence of God can feel frightening when you’re already exhausted and overwhelmed.

This story is about faith, yes—but not the polished, triumphant kind. It’s about what happens when the wind is loud and the night is long, when you’re doing everything you know to do and still feel like you’re getting nowhere. It’s about fear—how quickly it rises, how easily it hijacks what we thought we believed, how it can make even good people misread what’s right in front of them. And it’s about the strange, steady way Jesus meets his people: not always by keeping them out of rough water, but by coming to them in it, speaking into their panic, and drawing them toward himself even when their courage wavers. So let us now listen to Matthew 14: 22-33

Right then, Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go ahead to the other side of the lake while he dismissed the crowds. When he sent them away, he went up onto a mountain by himself to pray. Evening came and he was alone. Meanwhile, the boat, fighting a strong headwind, was being battered by the waves and was already far away from land. Very early in the morning he came to his disciples, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified and said, “It’s a ghost!” They were so frightened they screamed.

Just then Jesus spoke to them, “Be encouraged! It’s me. Don’t be afraid.”

Peter replied, “Lord, if it’s you, order me to come to you on the water.”

And Jesus said, “Come.”

Then Peter got out of the boat and was walking on the water toward Jesus. But when Peter saw the strong wind, he became frightened. As he began to sink, he shouted, “Lord, rescue me!”

Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him, saying, “You man of weak faith! Why did you begin to have doubts?” When they got into the boat, the wind settled down.

Then those in the boat worshipped Jesus and said, “You must be God’s Son!”

You man of weak faith! Why did you begin to have doubts? Do you think Jesus was disappointed in Peter? I’ll be honest with you, it wasn’t ever really my father’s anger that I was afraid of. The man lost his temper so rarely that I knew I must have really messed up when he did. But it wasn’t his anger that bothered me. It was his disappointment. I would take my dad’s anger a hundred times over his disappointment. So I wonder how Peter must have felt climbing back into that boat, dripping wet, catching his breath, looking at Jesus and thinking, I blew it. Looking at a disappointed Jesus… if Jesus was, in fact, disappointed.

“You man of weak faith! Why did you begin to have doubts?”

And you know what? Maybe it’s because I’ve had a week and my patience is a little thin. But this question kind of frustrates me. I mean, come on Jesus! The guy was walking on water with you even if it was just for a little bit. That seems like a huge win. That’s better than anyone else did. That’s more than most people would even attempt. But Jesus doesn’t sound very encouraging. “Why did you doubt?” Why did he doubt? How many people do you see walking on water, Jesus? Maybe you’re being a little unreasonable in your expectations. Cut the guy some slack.

Now, there are a few ways we can look at this story. We could just take it at face value — Jesus literally walks on water, people believe, we move on. But I don’t think that’s what Matthew has in mind. Matthew gives us this story because he wants to show us something about faith — especially about faith under pressure. Faith when the wind is loud. Faith when the waves slap the side of the boat. Faith when you’re tired and you’ve been rowing and you can’t see the shore.

So let’s look at why Peter doubts. What happens here? Peter sees Jesus. He believes that if Jesus tells him he can walk on the water, then you know what, he can walk on the water. So he gets out of the boat — and he’s doing it. He’s really doing it. He’s walking on water toward Jesus. That’s huge. It’s bold. It’s faithful. It’s foolish and beautiful all at the same time.

But then the wind blows. The storms are coming. Peter sees it on the horizon, he gets scared, he takes his eyes off Jesus, and he begins to sink.

Peter sees the storm, takes his eyes off Jesus, and he begins to sink.

Why did you doubt? Well Jesus, I doubted because I saw the storm. I doubted because I felt the wind. I doubted because I suddenly realized I’m in an impossible situation. I doubted because I took my eyes off you.

And I know what that feels like. The bills are coming due and we have to decide which ones get paid this month and which ones don’t. Work feels uncertain. I don’t know what the future holds for my kids, and I spend so much time running them around and holding everything together that at the end of the day I’ve got nothing left. Why did I doubt? Maybe because people are walking into schools and houses of worship and shooting them up, Jesus. Have you seen the news lately? We’re entering into another conflict. There are storms coming.

Why do I doubt? Because cancer keeps taking people I love no matter how hard I pray. Because the world is full of suffering I can’t explain. Because it feels like everyone can name what’s wrong but nobody wants to do the hard work of healing it. Because sometimes grief doesn’t come in a neat, faithful package — it comes like a wave that knocks the breath out of you. Why do I doubt, Jesus? Because I look up and see the storm, and it makes me feel helpless, and I start to sink.

And what I want to happen in this story is for Peter to turn to Jesus and say, “Look at that storm and tell me — why shouldn’t I doubt? Isn’t it enough that I tried and was doing it, even if it was only for a little bit? Isn’t it enough that I got out of the boat?”

But what does happen is so much more interesting. Peter sees the storm, he starts to sink, and he calls out, “Lord, rescue me.” And what happens? Immediately. Immediately Jesus reaches out. Immediately Jesus grabs him. Immediately he pulls him back. Immediately he puts him back in the boat. Immediately.

How many times do we get distracted by the storm, take our eyes off Jesus, and let ourselves sink when we’ve already been shown what’s possible through him? And I use “we” intentionally, because God knows I do the same thing. I do the same thing. I will do the same thing again. This isn’t a sermon about “those people out there” who don’t have it together. This is a sermon about us. About how easy it is to forget in the moment what we claim to believe.

So was Jesus disappointed in Peter? Maybe. But here’s what I can’t get past: disappointed people don’t reach out immediately. Disappointed people let you sit in it. Disappointed people make you prove you’ve learned your lesson. But Jesus doesn’t do that. Jesus reaches.

Which makes me wonder if I’ve been hearing Jesus’ question wrong. Maybe it isn’t disappointment. Maybe it’s diagnosis. Maybe it’s the kind of question a rescuer asks while he’s pulling you out of the water: “Peter, what happened right there? What voice did you start listening to? What did fear convince you of that I never said? What did the wind start preaching to you?”

Because fear preaches, doesn’t it? Fear stands up in the pulpit of our minds and starts delivering sermons we never asked for. Fear says you’re alone. Fear says nothing will change. Fear says you’re not strong enough. Fear says you’re going under. Fear says, look at the storm, look at the storm, look at the storm. And when fear gets the microphone, it is so easy to take our eyes off Christ and begin to sink into despair, into numbness, into exhaustion, into cynicism, into that quiet decision to stop hoping because hope feels too expensive.

And when Peter starts sinking, he does the simplest, most faithful thing he could do. He doesn’t craft a theology lecture. He doesn’t compose a beautiful prayer. He doesn’t pretend he’s fine. He just cries out, “Lord, rescue me.” And that’s the sermon right there. The proof of faith is not that you never doubt. The proof of faith is not that you never get scared. The proof of faith is not that you can keep your eyes perfectly focused every day of your life no matter what winds are howling. The proof of faith is that when you start going under, you still know who to call for.

And here’s the part that is so good it almost hurts: Jesus answers that prayer. Not eventually. Not reluctantly. Immediately. Which means, if you are in a season where your prayer life has turned into nothing but “Lord, rescue me,” I want you to know: that prayer counts. That prayer is real. That prayer is enough. You don’t have to be eloquent to be saved. You don’t have to be impressive to be held. You just have to call out.

Now sometimes rescue looks like the wind settling down. Sometimes the circumstances change. Sometimes the waters calm. But not always. Sometimes the storm lingers. Sometimes grief takes longer than anyone wants. Sometimes the world stays broken in ways you can’t fix with your own two hands. But even then, rescue still comes. Because in this story Jesus doesn’t just calm the wind, Jesus puts Peter back in the boat.

And I love that detail because it tells us something about how Jesus usually saves us. Sometimes he changes the situation. And sometimes he saves us by returning us to community — by giving us a boat full of people who won’t let us drown. By giving us someone who will sit with us. Someone who will listen. Someone who will bring a meal. Someone who will pray when we can’t. Someone who will remind us who we are when fear is trying to rewrite the whole story.

Because we were never meant to fight the storm alone.

So what do we do with this? We don’t deny the storms. We don’t pretend the winds aren’t real. We don’t slap a smile on suffering and call it faith. Faith is looking the storm in the face and still saying Christ is Lord. Faith is admitting, “I’m scared,” and still praying, “Rescue me.” Faith is letting Jesus put you back in the boat—letting other people hold you up, letting the church be what it’s meant to be: not a museum for saints, but a lifeboat for the battered.

And once we’re back in the boat — once we’ve got our breath again — then we do what Jesus always calls his people to do: we pick up an oar. We pray, yes. And we act. We show up. We tell the truth. We protect life. We feed who’s hungry. We stand with who’s vulnerable. We refuse to let fear be our god. Because focusing on Jesus doesn’t mean ignoring the storm. It means we face the storm with a different center. It means we don’t let the wind tell us what is possible. It means we remember that the One who comes to us on the water is still coming.

And when we start to sink — and we will — when we feel the wind hit our face and panic rise in our chest, we do what Peter did. We call out. And we trust that the hand of Christ is still immediate. And in that moment—whether the wind stops right away or not—we discover the truth Matthew is trying to give us: we aren’t alone in the storm. We aren’t abandoned to the water. We’re held. We’re rescued. We’re brought back into the boat.

Amen.