Don't ask God for more faith if you expect he's going to let you stay in the boat
There are some Bible
stories that completely flummox you, and then there are some that
have a seemingly open-and-shut case to be made which can be picked
out and applied in your life like reposting an indispensably
encouraging picture on your preferred social media site.
Then there are others
which come like an ice pick to the temples, and have you sheepishly
cowering before a throbbing conscience.
Peter is usually the
reason for this. I usually like watching all the disciples hopelessly
toddle after Jesus in what we condescendingly look on as pure
ignorance, but Peter always is the wild card. One foot permanently in
his mouth (except of course in moments where he contrives to put the
other in as well), and sometimes the only one who seems to get it.
Like in Matthew 14:22-32. The disciples in their intrepid little
boat, and here comes a bit of foul weather, but they're not
despairing of life just yet. It's been a pretty emotionally draining
day: the prophet cousin of their trusted leader had been murdered for
the sake of an impetuous ruler at his birthday, and when they tried
to withdraw, crowds followed so that Jesus had to perform a miracle
to feed five thousand of them. He's been having some quiet time, but
they're now far away because of the wind against their boat. No
cellphones, so they're just going to re-convene elsewhere.
Now, just before dawn,
at the darkest point in the night – picture a very long night,
emotionally-exhausted men on a boat that's been buffeted too much to
let them sleep – and suddenly there's a figure on the water coming
toward them! Death on their minds and jumpy sleeplessness, it's even
easier to conceive why they thought it was a ghost. But it's the
Lord. Peter, first to jump to a conclusion, hits on the right one
this time, and in an opportunity to enact his faith (and to walk on
water!) climbs out of his boat – remember, the sea was a scary and
unpredictable thing in their books, and this little boat is not
becalmed; it had been bumped about all night – and Peter walked on
water toward Jesus.
I love this mental
image. What must those steps have felt like under his feet? Here is
the storm, here comes Jesus – why not jump out of your little
safety zone to meet him? Why not walk on the water because if your
Lord is there, what shall come against you? For Peter though, it was
the wind – and of course, he, as I would, suddenly grasps how very
little there is between him, and this sea, and now there is no boat
to rest his feet on. And what's this? Is he imagining it? No, he
isn't he's really sinking!
It's almost too easy to
pick out the application. The hard part is recognising how very
everyday it is. What is it that distracts you? What safety zones of
careers, friendship circles, home comforts, feelings of contentment
or fulfilment do I rely on to keep feeling like I'm happy, or at
least, I'm coping? And that's not the worst of it:
Peter knew John had
been murdered by Herod because his steadfastness would not be
compromised. And Peter, as I do, wanted to demonstrate that fervour.
Fierce and desperate to prove his faith, and to be “on fire for
God,” as our church slang would say. He enacts what has been my
prayer of late, “help me trust more” – and what better way to
prove it than on a rollicking sea, when all his comforts and trust
typically lay in the rigging and a lifetime's experience and skill on
a fishing boat? He stepped out, as I long to have a chance to prove,
in that same inescapable way, that I do trust, that I am convinced –
so everyone, including me, will never doubt the depth of my
commitment.
But here's the catch –
it's so obvious, it's shaming
how I miss it every time – if you're going to ask to walk on
water, don't expect you can do it from the boat.
Trusting in its very nature, is an act of trust.
You can't be put on medication for a disease you haven't got – how
will you ever trust that the medication works when you need it to?
To
learn to trust means to be in a position where doubting is easier,
doubting is the most natural, and wishing for those comfort zones is
almost all I can do: wishing for the nest of love and protection,
shutting out the big bad world, so I can have the security of
self-confidence that I can control things in my own ability. That's
where life is easiest. But that's not where God calls us. To Peter,
as to us, he says “Come.”
Not stay.
Come
out of that comfort zone, where security threatens to make you
believe the lie that you are always going to be just fine where you
are. Come
away from that uncomfortable feeling of having done all you could,
and things aren't going as you planned. Come
back
from the prettier distractions of your own ability, that seductive
belief of your own agency, that you are the only builder of your
sandcastle. Come
and walk on water toward Christ.
A
sense of blatant dishonesty won't let me end on that poetic image
because Peter didn't. Peter sank. Peter sank as I have, and will do
again many times, I'm sure. It's going to be very, very difficult.
And for most of us, it won't feel like sinking instead of walking the
water, floundering in the middle of a very heroic deed, no. It will
feel like daily, quiet emptiness. A subtle failure and
dissatisfaction depressing us without our even realising. And our
walk with God will feel like a slow, laboured stumble.
But
then is when I most need to return to God. Crying silently in the
bathroom, with literally no other handle left to turn, no more mental
energy to map out yet another coping strategy, and finally no more
confidence to try or to cope at all, and with the water rising up
about the neck, I shout out to God, like Peter did, “Lord, save
me!” because at that point, I'm under no illusions that I have any
ability to save myself anymore. And here's the glorious bit:
“And
Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.”
He
is going to see us flounder, and we like Peter are going to believe
it's the end of all things, but he won't leave us there. And
sometimes it may be like walking on water with our Lord back to the
boat, where all the storm dies down, and with dawn in the air,
everyone must acknowledge the awesome presence of God amongst them.
And others it will be like drying your eyes, and telling yourself
constantly until you believe it, that Jesus will not let
you drown. So that next time
there's a storm, you have your umbrella in one arm, and Jesus's hand
in the other, and you are ready to be washed downstream without
panicking this time.
It'll
be some time before I get that right. But God is walking toward me as
I walk toward him, and in all events, and I need to keep reminding
myself of that, he's only, literally, an arm's length away.
