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Living Waters Church, September 13 2026
Matthew 14:22-33
The indigenous peoples of the Hawaiian Islands were excellent swimmers. Being hunter-gatherers, most of their food came from the sea. But the crews of the European ships who arrived at those islands in the 18th century generally couldn’t swim as it served little to no purpose[i]. If you fell overboard crossing the Atlantic or Pacific, being able to swim for a while would only delay the inevitable. Better to acquire the skills to ensure you didn’t end up in the water in the first place.
Most people knew, as we do now, that you just don’t mess with big water. And if you’re going to mess with water, you’d better be prepared. All this was front of mind during our recent baptism Sunday when several folks stepped into the late summer currents of the mighty Fraser River. Big water usually means big power. Ancient people knew this too, revering big water, its chaos and danger, even beyond the material sense of those words. Big water represented the unknown and untamed. The place from which powerful things emerged. The place which could easily swallow you up. No one had more respect for big water than people who lived and worked on it. People like some of Jesus’ disciples, fishermen by trade. They knew better than to underestimate its dangers and depths.
Familiar Fishermen
The fishermen among Jesus’ disciples, like Peter for instance, were very familiar with one particular body of water. The Sea of Galilee was their home surf. Twenty-one kilometers long, thirteen kilometers wide, with a maximum depth of some forty-three meters. Though technically a freshwater lake it was no less prone to rough weather. Windstorms swept down the surrounding hillsides, whipping the water into a frenzy (it can still be treacherous today). Ancient people weren’t unintelligent or inept, so we shouldn’t assume the fishermen in the gospels were either. Still, on a couple of occasions the disciples found themselves in over their heads, even fearing for their lives. We can also safely assume these fishermen-disciples knew it would be incredibly dangerous if you were to willingly put yourself outside of a boat in the middle of the Sea of Galilee. Dangerous is a generous term. They’d probably call it stupid.
All this is why the story before us today probably sounded more bonkers to its first audience than it does to us now. Peter was a fisherman, who, since meeting Jesus was commissioned a fisher of men. But Peter’s new vocation didn’t mean he’d forgotten everything he knew about his old job. Everyone knows you stay in the boat. Yet the scene we find in Matthew’s gospel has grown so famous as to become all too familiar, mapped over by all manner of metaphor, the waves so well-trodden. Often all we draw from it is a net full of cliches. Maybe it would help to hear the story in a small boat at night in the middle of the Georgia Strait as a storm picks up. But since we can’t do that, let’s at least try to imagine the blue waters of the Galilee lapping at our feet under our chairs.
The Scene
The episode begins with Jesus wrapping up a full day of work among the crowds always following him and the hope of finding some solitude. It’s not uncommon in the gospels for Jesus to wander off alone, especially before or after big events. So Jesus hikes the mountain to pray, but not before sending his disciples to the western shore. We should remember the disciples were making this crossing at night, which wasn’t strange to the fishermen aboard, night or early morning fishing being common. But just because a crossing was necessary didn’t make it safe. In this case, the disciples were fighting some wind. It wasn’t a smooth crossing.
As they often do in the gospels things then get strange. In the middle of the lake, just before dawn, the disciples spot something which makes them quake in the sandals. It was like something from a nightmare if you had a nightmare about being in a boat in rough weather in the dark. It wasn’t Jonah’s fish and it wasn’t leviathan. Whatever they saw in the distance appeared to be a figure walking on the waves. Ghost was their best guess.
The nightmare didn’t end so much as take a turn. The figure began speaking to them over the wind, claiming to be Jesus, not a ghost or a demon from the deep. The figure tells them to gather their courage because it really was him. “Don’t be afraid”, it says. Statistically, that’s the most common message from God to people in the Bible. Not “smarten up”, not “do your chores”. The most frequent command in the Bible is “don’t be afraid”. Don’t be afraid, says the voice on the water to those in the boat.
Maybe it wasn’t a ghost, but that didn’t mean everyone was breathing easy. The disciples were still in the middle of the sea, in the dark, in rough weather, their teacher doing the impossible. They’d seen Jesus do the impossible before, but how would you react to the guy you just had dinner with wandering around on the water? Peter’s reaction, I think, would not have been mine. He shouts back over the wind, “Lord, if it is you, tell me to come to you on the water.” That’s quite the science experiment. If it really was Jesus, then Peter expected Jesus’ invitation would enable him to water-walk also. At least that seems to have been the hypothesis. Talk about putting your money where your mouth is. “Come”, Jesus replied.
It bears noting that Peter didn’t take to the water without an invitation, which is a crucial plot point. Faith is not some Christian version of manifestation. We don’t pray “my will be done” but “your will be done”. We only need do what Jesus directs, no matter how eager or well-intentioned. What some have called faith, in hindsight, was really a kind of self-indulgent wish fulfilment. Wisely, Peter knew he had no business outside the boat without Jesus and Jesus’ direction. Based on what he’d seen already, he had enough confidence in Jesus to give it a go if invited.
Still, that staggers me, but I guess that’s part of the point. For a moment, Jesus filled up the foreground of Peter’s imagination, his trust in Jesus giving him the guts to risk it. His surroundings were pressed to the periphery, as Jesus took up his focus. Bundling up his robes, he climbed over the side of the boat and eventually shifted his weight from the wooden hull to the water underfoot.
There was Peter on the waves, doing what Jesus was doing. What did it feel like? Was it like walking on a waterbed or more like skating on ice? Did his feet get wet or stay dry? All valid questions, but the gospel writer doesn’t give us details, adding that things soon changed. “…when he saw the wind, he was afraid…” The conditions surged from Peter’s peripheral, taking up his focus, the foreground now all wind and waves. Full of confidence moments earlier, he then felt the intensity of the weather and caved. What happened to Peter’s faith, his trust, his willingness to go for it? Wind happened. The conditions unmistakably evidenced themselves. Who can fault Peter? Who can fault us?
He began sinking. Peter didn’t know what was down there in the chaotic deep of the Galilee, but he was sure of at least one inevitability: death. His friends couldn’t help, they were all still in the boat. It was just him and Jesus out there. Just Peter and Jesus, out in the big water, the wind picking up, waves getting rough. That’s the base reality of our human experience. We’ve got friends and family, sure. But in the end, we’re alone in the big water of unknowing. Rough weather, the worst condition being our own mortality, brings things into sharp focus. For Peter, in this instance, it brought Jesus back into focus. He shouted for Jesus in a panic, knowing only Jesus could help. That’s true for us too. Only God can save from what I’m certain will swallow me up.
Sometimes it’s easy to look down on others when they’re sinking, when doubt or fear is swirling. But judgement only makes folks sink faster, and besides, people in glass boats shouldn’t throw stones. Our best bet is to alert them of God’s presence. When sinking, remember God’s proximity and shout for him. We might only be able to muster a whisper, and that’ll do just fine. The power does not reside in the volume of our ask, but with the recipient of our request, with God himself. Peter asks for help from his only hope.
Jesus doesn’t let Peter sink, apparently very capable to deal with the whole debacle. “Immediately, Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.” What an image. There was Peter, sinking in panic, right on the edge of death itself. Jesus reaches and his grip is firm. Jesus’ final and greatest reach came later when he took on death itself, reaching over his cross in confidence and love. God reaches with confidence and love when we call for him. The bad conditions don’t daunt him, including the forecast of death. Picture Jesus for a moment, standing surefooted over the deep, chaotic unknown. Picture Jesus holding Peter up.
Then comes the question. There on the water together, Jesus asked Peter, “You of little faith. Why did you doubt?” We have no record of Peter’s answer, maybe because we don’t need one. We already know the answer. The conditions got on top of Peter. The conditions took his focus and his faith. They can take our focus and faith too.
I hesitate to disagree with Jesus, but for the record I don’t think Peter had small faith. No one else opted for water walking with Jesus in the middle of the lake, and I’m not sure I blame them. I’m in awe of Peter’s faith, his willingness to go where Jesus goes. With the simplicity and impulsivity of a child, he takes his apprenticeship to Jesus so literally. He wants to do the Jesus-stuff, and as we see later in the Scriptures, he does. So comparatively, I don’t think Peter has small faith. But my opinion matters little because apparently Jesus does. And that’s because Jesus knew something about himself which Peter had yet to grasp.
This is one of those gospel stories which reminds us that Jesus had a much clearer sense of himself than everyone around him, even the likes of Peter. If Peter had a firmer grip on who Jesus really was, Jesus’ true scale, he might have begun dancing on the waves. Peter had enough trust to risk stepping out of the boat, which may be impressive to you and I, but for Jesus it’s comparatively small potatoes. Comparative to what? Comparative to Jesus himself. Jesus knew who he was, and once Peter had a firmer grip on that reality, the sky was the limit. In a tough moment, Peter felt the rough weather and trusted it had an upper hand. Until he learned it didn’t.
I don’t think Jesus was scolding Peter for taking his eye off the ball, inferring he should try a little harder at faith. I think he’s asking what changed. What changed, Peter? We know that answer, too. Peter’s focus changed as the conditions got on top of him. Like any great teacher, Jesus wouldn’t let the moment pass without a lesson for his beloved protégé. Faith was just another word for trust. So long as Peter’s trust remained fixed on the truest authority even creation itself could be re-ordered, water made walkable. Jesus wanted to fill up Peter’s vision even further, drawing him into even deeper waters of trust. Jesus would do the heavy lifting; Peter’s part was trust. Trust not dependent on the conditions, but on the character of Jesus’ himself.
In the other gospel stories about Jesus calming a storm from inside a boat, we’re told the disciples became terrified. They knew better than to underestimate big water but were learning now not to underestimate Jesus. They end up with more reverence for the guy in the boat with them than the conditions outside of it. The same goes for this story. What had more authority, more power? The waves, the wind, the conditions? What has more authority, more power now? Our problems, our mistakes, our mortality, or the God beyond them? We rarely underestimate the conditions. We often underestimate God.
Deeper Trust
Just the other day our seven-year-old tried to convince me she was ready to jump off the high dive at the Walnut Grove rec centre. Her confidence stems in part, I think, from when she was two and I would take her swimming in the deep end. She started jumping off the side, then off diving boards, always into my arms or with me nearby. She jumped into Lake Okanagan this summer for the first time, even with the Ogopogo lurking. There are still moments she’s reticent to jump, especially in new places – that’s normal. But usually she’s game, so long as I’m present. And that’s because she’s learned that as daunting as the water might be, I’m there. My whereabouts gives her the confidence to do what otherwise might deter her. She has more trust in me than fear of the deep. So she jumps in freedom, continuing to test the boundaries of her trust. Sometimes she’ll say, “Dad, tell me to jump”, because she knows that if I say she can jump, she’ll be okay. “Lord, if it’s you, tell me to come.” “Come”, said Jesus.
Nothing appears bigger than the very real conditions which cause fear and doubt. The rough water surrounding Peter wasn’t all in his head, and no amount of positive self-talk would have stopped him from sinking. Only one thing could help him – his trust in something bigger than big water. There in the pre-dawn darkness Jesus drew back the curtain on a reality greater than the danger and fear of big water. This is why the story ends: “And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down. Then those who were in the boat worshiped him.” Jesus’ nature flooded the foreground of his disciples’ vision. Whoever they thought he was, he was more. They would think twice now about underestimating him. The swell of his power, the depth of his capacity had out measured anything they’d known prior. He was worthy not only of their learning, but of their awe, their worship, their trust. Trust not in the cuddly sense of the word, but a trust for when the going got rough. Trust in any conditions.
The point of this story is not the problem with Peter’s faith. The point is that Peter and the disciples eventually saw Jesus rightly. Following that, the point was for them to remember that they could expect Jesus to bring the power and the care, should they bring the trust. Both of those points go for us too. See Jesus rightly: maker of heaven and earth, come to seek and save the sinking. Let him fill up the foreground of your vision, your trust in him growing closer to his true scale. And find yourself not swallowed up, but walking in his capacity, under his care. “Lord, if it’s you, tell me to come.” “Come”, said Jesus.
[i] Sides, Hamton, The Wide, Wide Sea, Doubleday Books, 2024
Luke Knight 