sink or stride

 

SERMON PREACHED AT 

St AIDAN’S, ALEXANDRA

and ST JAMES’, ROXBURGH

TWENTY FOURTH ORDINARY SUNDAY

(September 13^th) 2026

 

READINGS 

 1 Kings 19:9-18 
Psalm 85:8-13
Romans 10:5-15 
Matthew 14:22-33

 

                                   

Immediately he made the disciples get into a boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. ²³ And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, ²⁴ but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. ²⁵ And early in the morning he came walking toward them on the sea. ²⁶ But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, “It is a ghost!” And they cried out in fear. ²⁷ But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

²⁸ Peter answered him, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” ²⁹ He said, “Come.” So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus. ³⁰ But when he noticed the strong wind,^[b] he became frightened, and, beginning to sink, he cried out, “Lord, save me!” ³¹ Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” ³² When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. ³³ And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.”

 

Perhaps I can begin with a confession? I am not one who slides through life with a deep sense of the tangible presence of God. Despite being a convert Christian I have to admit that much of my life of faith is based in thoughts and intuition, based more on a questioning brain cell then the pumping of the heart. I was often in trouble for that when I mixed in strongly charismatic circles, yet it has stood me in good stead in the years since. I can only hope it will continue to until the day the lights go out, one way or another.

This is not to say that what we call the heart has no role in faith. Emotions, for that surely is what we mean by heart, are a critical dimension of what it means to be human. Not actually uniquely human. Ask my dog, out there sulking in my car! For the more advanced forms of animal carry emotions too. In fact I am advised that even some species of ant are sentient – you can Google that claim later! But as Matthew sat down to record for posterity his account of the Jesus event, he ensured that his brain was fully engaged. He expected that his listeners, for that is what we were meant to be, would engage their brains too.

I say all that in the context of what are called the nature miracles. Those who first heard Matthew’s gospel account certainly had to believe that God, as God is revealed in Jesus,  has the whole world in his hands, as some of you may have sung in Sunday school.

The nature miracles, such as stilling a storm, had to be consistent with the deep sense of God that believers experienced in their lives of worship, lives of study of the scriptures, of fellowship, and even of nature around them. “The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament proclaims God’s handiwork,” announces the Psalmist in Psalm 19.

But generally God does not revise the laws of nature on a whim, or to entertain Christian believers, or to create a neon spectacular. To place that responsibility on the shoulders of God makes mockery of the horrendous events of Nepal just a fortnight ago, or the drowning of 14 souls (to use aviation language) when a ferry capsized in the Mediterranean late last month, or 39 souls in a Philippines ferry fire just days ago.

The vagaries of nature are fierce. These are sometimes aided by human irresponsibility and sometimes not. Evils perpetrated by humans on each other are equally or more horrifying. Yet these remind us that all life hangs by a fragile thread. Yours and mine too. The gospel is us that divine love, resurrection hope, transcends even the breaking of that thread. Sometimes it’s hard to believe, and when we can others can for us, bizarre though that sounds. When we pray we are often praying on behalf of those who cannot.

I was not on the shores of the lake nearly 2000 years ago, as Peter had a panic attack while striding on the surface of the water. I was not there moments before this when Jesus strode out to meet his closest followers.

I have no idea what happened or if it happened at all, though I suspect it related closely to some deep experiences of those first followers of Jesus. But I do know that there are moments in our living and in our dying in which the firm hand of God transcends all expectation, all fear, all darkness.

This is not to say that we won’t experience fear or darkness in our living and our dying, but it is to say that the experience of those first followers of Jesus can be our experience too. They grew to believe that the heartening touch of God as revealed in Jesus is greater than even the deepest darkness or what I might call the scaredest scaredness. “In our darkness there is no darkness to you O Lord; the deepest night is clear as the day” as the Taizé chant puts it n its adaptation of Psalm 139.

John Bell’s translation of a Spanish affirms the same message: “Both in our living and in our dying, we belong to God.” That is the gospel we have, as we sung in our first hymn, and we have it to proclaim it. We have a gospel to proclaim, indeed, though sometimes we may struggle to believe it.

This interpretation of the events on the lake applies personally, in times of deep uncertainty in our lives.

It applies globally as we face enormous uncertainty, political and ecological, across the face of the globe.

It applies cosmically, too. That is what the author of Revelation made clear in his recitation of God’s promise of a new heaven and a new earth.

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. ² And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. ³ And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,

“See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them and be their God;
⁴ he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.”

 

However unlikely and incomprehensibly far off as that universal extinction may seem, even further away than global extinction, that is nevertheless an essential part of the journey of God’s creation and redemption.

For me this does not mean that I stride into personal, global or cosmic events with studied nonchalance or overconfident indifference. This does not mean that when I see sick little pictures posted on the internet by the president of perhaps the world’s most powerful nation, depicting himself nuking his perceived enemies, that I don’t feel a visceral twinge of horror and even doubt. There is probably a Peter in all of us.

But the scene on the lake challenges me to ensure that despite the uncertainties that surround me, I must do my best to help others on their journeys through doubt, through life and through death to resurrection. So must we all.