Lake Edge United Church of Christ

It is inevitable that in a story such as this one, our focus would go first to the guy walking on the water. It’s pretty incredible, after all, and a real attention grabber of a thing to do. The disciples in the boat clearly focused on that, and why not? For them it was confirmation of what they were coming to understand about who Jesus was: hence their confession: “You are the Son of God.”
Well if that’s where your attention is drawn this morning, I won’t argue with you. But it isn’t what drew me, and so I invite you to join me in considering Peter, who goes from fear to faith to doubt to despair to salvation, all in the matter of moments.
Now Peter was an old fisherman, of course, and so undoubtedly comfortable on the water. But even an old salt like him must have been unnerved by this storm that had come up. They were, Matthew tells us, a long way from land, and the wind, a battering wind, was against them. I’ve done enough kayaking to know that that is a considerable problem. Wind and water are a ferocious combination. At sea, or even on large lakes, the natural movement of the water creates swells, ebbs and flows which lift boats and other floating objects, and then sends them down again. Add wind to the equation, and everything is multiplied: the wind catches the slanted surface of the water and pushes it up higher. The weight of the water at last becomes too much even for the wind to hold up, and it crashes back down. The higher the crest, the faster the impact of gravity in pulling it back down, which creates a fall of water closer than ever to vertical, which of course creates more surface for the wind to catch and force back upward. Wind and water are a ferocious combination, and even a seasoned sailor in a small boat has reason to be concerned, especially if land is a distant hope.
And so I suspect that the disciples, even the seasoned old fishermen like Peter and Andrew, had reason to be afraid even before Jesus came moving toward them on the waves. I picture them in their fear, with nothing to do but to try to keep the bow of the boat into the wind and waves, hands tight at the gunnels, white knuckles on the tiller, perhaps an oar or two thrust out to provide stability, but more or less uselessly so, catching now too much water to move, and in a moment nothing but air. If they weren’t fearful, they weren’t paying attention.
Well, you don’t have to be in a small boat battered by the wind at sea to know this sort of white-knuckled worry. It comes upon us often, in more every day sort of situations, whenever we’re in the grip of something that seems to threaten us, and that is more powerful than we are. We know this sort of white knuckled worry when a serious illness comes crashing in on us, or on someone we love. We know this sort of white knuckled worry when we’ve moved all the financial pieces around and realize that there’s no way to plug all the holes and that therefore we’re going to go down in a sea of obligation and debt. We know this sort of white knuckled worry when chaos and confusion seem to overwhelm us, when we don’t know what to do next, and our resources seem so limited compared to the crisis that threatens us.
When in the first months of my ministry career I met Katherine she was a bright, perky twelve year old who looked incredibly normal but for the brightly colored bandana which could not quite hide a scalp made completely bald by months of chemotherapy treatments. She was battling leukemia, had been for several years, and there was hope when we met, for the last round of chemo was an apparent success, and Katherine rejoined her classmates at school, writing remarkably witty poems about life in the shadow of illness and death.
Within months however, the cancer was back, and there was no hope but for an experimental treatment for her in far away Seattle. Her pregnant mother and two younger brothers made plans to travel there and to stay for several weeks. Her father remained at home, tethered to his desk at work, his head in Maine and his heart in Washington. I knew how to be helpful. I rallied the congregation, and we had dinners and wrote checks and we raised money to help them, and we prayed for Katherine and her brother Robert whose bone marrow she would receive. And I stayed in touch, talking on the phone, connecting them with the hospital chaplain and the pastor of a UCC church in Seattle. I attended to dad at home, we spoke often. I felt useful and capable.
And then the wind rose. The treatments seemed not to be working. Katherine kept getting worse instead of better. We prayed and hoped and raised more money.
And the wind rose. The treatments were not effective. There was no longer any reason to hope. They would come home to Maine for Katherine to die. She went immediately from the airport to the children’s hospital at Maine Medical Center. “Katherine would love to see you,” her mother said. For the first time, I felt fearful. For the first time I saw the wind. It is one thing to raise money for a sick child, another to go to her death bed and keep vigil. I had never done such a thing. I was worried. I was beyond worried, I was fearful. What would I say? What could I say? What could you do when nothing could be done?
White knuckled, I delayed. Until at last, I went.

Upon entering her room I wished I was somewhere, anywhere, else. Katherine was unrecognizable, her small body was swollen to twice normal size, her arms were bruised purple from too many IVs, and her face pained and sad. Beside her sat her mother, holding her new brother Kevin. And I came in with nothing. No words, no wisdom to hide behind. And I am ashamed to say, I fled. I ran away just as fast as decorum would permit. I ran because I was afraid, for the situation was overwhelming. I could not bear it. And I fled, fingers white knuckled on the steering wheel, tears filling my eyes. So much pain. So much confusion. So much despair. I ran, fearfully away.

I ran to Mackworth Island, a small island in Casco Bay: a mile and a half around, connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway. I ran to the far side of the island, as far from Maine Medical Center as I could quickly go. I ran and I sat in a place I’d sat many times before. My back to a great fir tree, the vast ocean before me, I wept, hating cancer, hating myself, hating my powerlessness. I wept, fearing that I would never stop, that I would be overwhelmed and carried away into despair.

In the small boat, Peter saw Jesus coming toward him on the water. He knew it was impossible. And yet, there it was. It began to dawn on him that faith might yet save him.

Beneath the fir tree on Mackworth Island, in a place I’d been many times, I nevertheless saw for the first time the stump of an old tree. Small, perhaps just a foot or so across, it stood a few inches above the surrounding uncut grasses. And in its center, in the very rotting center of the stump of a very dead tree, green grass grew. Thin, wispy, pale and unmistakably alive. I knew it was impossible. And yet, there it was, green grass from a grey stump, out of death, new life. I began to see that faith might yet save me.

“Jesus, if it is you,” Peter said, “bid me to come to you on the water.” Break the white knuckled grip of fear, and invite me out there. Call me to let go of the past and all its failures and all its diminished expectations. Call me to step out into what it making me most afraid. Call me into that which is new. Jesus said, “Come.”

“Call me,” I sputtered. “Give me a new chance. Let me return to stand in that place, to stand with those good people. If green grass grows from dead grey stumps, if new life comes out of old, if resurrection is real, if Easter follows Good Friday, bid me to try again, Lord. He said, as he always does, “Come.”

Peter stepped out of the boat that was no answer to his fears; stepped out onto the very waves that threatened him. And while he kept his eyes on Jesus, he was fine. “But when he saw the wind,” Matthew says, “he began to sink.”

I got back in my car, drove back to Maine Medical Center, rode the elevator to the proper floor, my heart pounding and my head offering me a thousand excuses, rationalizations for turning around, for going home. I turned down the corridor, and into her room, the vision of the grey stump and the green grass before me.

And Peter, sinking, cried out. And Jesus caught him. Caught him. Brought him back onto the boat, and held him as the wind subsided. Jesus caught him.

And when the reality of death once more drove the vision of the green grass and the grey stump from my heart, and I began to want to do nothing but flee again, Jesus caught me, too. Was steel in my backbone, was courage in the face of my fear, was peace in the midst of my worries. He caught me, and I came and sat by the bedside, and talked when there were things to say, and was silent when nothing could be said. I returned several more times, until the call came, and I learned that her suffering was at last at an end. I checked my heart, my head, my knuckles: no fear in sight. We were all at peace.

The summer after she died, this sermon was written. I took it to her graveside, and before I preached it to my congregation, I shared it with her. And the grass grew on her grave, and the flowers bloomed. The summer wind was warm in my face. Her spirit was not buried, was in the grass, in the flowers, in the breeze. And I knew, with utter assurance, that Jesus caught Katherine, too.

Fear not. He’ll catch you, too. It’s what he does. Amen.