When the wind doesn't stop
A reflection on Matthew 14:22-33 (written with a particular ageing congregation in mind)
“We cannot attain the presence of God because we’re already in the presence of God. What’s absent is awareness.” (Richard Rohr)
Matthew pieces the Gospel narrative together carefully so it’s worth revisiting the context. At the end of the last chapter, Jesus was totally rejected by the people of Nazareth. Rejected in his own home town. And then, in the very next passage, Jesus learns that John the Baptist had been beheaded by Herod, the King of Israel. Jesus withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But the people found him, seeking healing for loved ones. And then he feeds the 5000 (that’s only counting the men) with two fish and five loaves of bread. He would have been exhausted - emotionally and physically.
He sends the disciples ahead of him on the Sea of Galilee. And then the spirit of chaos disturbs the night, and they are left clinging to the side of the boat for dear life. No doubt, especially scary for those who had no experience as seafarers.
There is something both beautiful and terrifying about the ocean during a storm.
The waves pound relentlessly. The wind seems to come from every direction.
You realise very quickly that nature is far more powerful than you are.
Peter knew that already.
He wasn’t a tourist looking out from a lookout.
He was a fisherman who knew the sea.
This wasn’t the first storm he had encountered.
He knew the Sea of Galilee and its sudden squalls.
He knew what boats could and couldn’t do.
I’m sure we’ve all heard this Gospel story many times.
If we’re honest, this story has often been preached
as though Jesus is encouraging us all to become daredevils for God.
Take bigger risks. Dream bigger dreams. ‘O ye of little faith’.
If you have enough faith, you’ll walk on water too.
We might imagine Peter was impulsive,
almost reckless for stepping out of the boat.
But I wonder whether we underestimate him.
This is not a young man seeking adventure.
This is an experienced fisherman who understands exactly what stepping out of that boat means. And yet, somehow, he does.
Was Peter brave? Or was he foolish? Perhaps neither.
Perhaps he simply trusted the voice that called him.
That changes the whole story.
Because Jesus never says, “Peter, prove your faith.”
He simply says, “Come.”
The invitation is not to perform.
The invitation is to trust.
Many of us have weathered enough storms already
Some know what it is to live with illness.
Some are carrying grief.
Some have buried lifelong friends or beloved partners.
Some wonder what the next years will bring.
Some are learning, perhaps unwillingly,
that life asks us to let go of abilities we once took for granted.
You don’t need me to encourage you to seek out more storms.
Life has already provided enough.
And Jesus’ invitation to us remains the same, “Come”.
Notice where the drama in the Gospel story begins.
The disciples are already in trouble.
The boat is battered by the waves.
The wind is against them.
They have spent the whole night struggling.
Remember, in their ancient minds, this is synonymous with the god of chaos wreaking havoc around them. They are in a spiritual battle here. Chaos seems to be winning.
And into the storm, Jesus appears.
He says, “Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.”
Notice what Jesus does not say.
He doesn’t say, “The storm will disappear.”
He doesn’t say, “You’ll never struggle again.”
He doesn’t even promise that the wind will stop immediately.
Instead, he offers something much deeper. His presence.
Perhaps that’s the real miracle.
Not that storms disappear. But that we are not alone within them.
Then Peter asks the astonishing question.
“Lord, if it is you, command me to come.”
I’ve often wondered, why would a fisherman risk life and limb?
He knew what happened to people who went overboard.
Perhaps Peter simply wanted to be where Jesus was.
Not because the water was safe. But because Jesus was there.
Perhaps faith is not believing impossible things.
Perhaps faith is as simple as moving towards the One who calls us.
Perhaps that movement looks different at different stages of life.
When we’re young, faith often sounds like this:
“What great thing can I do for God?”
As we grow older, the question quietly changes.
“Can I trust God with what I can no longer control?”
That may in fact be a much deeper faith.
Then, Peter begins to sink. Poor Peter.
He gets remembered for sinking.
Yet he is the only one of the disciples who even got out of the boat.
And, in that process, he discovers something none of the others discovers.
He learns how quickly Christ reaches out.
Perhaps that’s the heart of the story.
Peter sinks. But he doesn’t drown.
His fear is real. His faith wavers.
But Jesus’ hand is stronger than both.
I wonder if that is one of the greatest gifts of growing older.
After a lifetime of faith, we gradually realise that our security has never depended upon the strength of our grip on God.
It has always depended upon God’s grip on us.
There is a profound difference.
I recognise all too well that the courage of old age is different from the courage of youth. When we’re young, courage often looks dramatic.
Climbing mountains. Changing careers. Travelling the world. Taking bold risks.
I’m so grateful for those kind of opportunities in my life.
The courage of later life is quieter.
It is accepting help.
It is attending yet another medical appointment.
It is saying goodbye to dear friends.
For many, it is learning to live alone.
It is forgiving old hurts.
It is continuing to pray
even when life has become more complicated than the prayers we learnt as children.
And finally, after Jesus and Peter climb into the boat, the wind ceases.
Notice the order. Jesus does not calm the storm before Peter trusts him.
His presence comes first. Peace comes later.
That may be the deepest promise in this story.
Christ does not wait for our storms to end before coming to us.
He comes into the middle of them.
And sometimes that is enough.
Because the good news of this story is not that faithful people never sink.
The good news is that there is no depth to which we can sink where Christ’s hand cannot still reach us.
And perhaps, after all these years, that is what faith has always been about.
Not walking on water. But discovering, again and again, that we are held.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
