Faith
Then Peter called to him, “Lord, if it’s
really you, tell me to come to you, walking on the water.” “Yes, come,” Jesus said. So Peter went
over the side of the boat and walked on the water toward Jesus. But when he saw the strong
wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he
shouted. Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him. “You
have so little faith,” Jesus said. “Why did you doubt me?” When they climbed
back into the boat, the wind stopped. Then the
disciples worshiped him. “You really are the Son of God!” they exclaimed. (Matt. 14:28-33)
Faith is often
the child of fear. Fear propelled Peter out of the boat. He’d ridden these
waves before. He knew what these storms could do. He’d heard the stories. He’d
seen the wreckage. He knew the widows. He knew the storm could kill. And he
wanted out. Desperately. All night he wanted out. For nine hours he’d tugged on
sails, wrestled with oars, and searched every shadow on the horizon for hope.
He was soaked to the soul, and bone weary of the wind’s wail.
Look into
Peter’s eyes and you won’t see a man of conviction. Search his face and you
won’t find a gutsy grimace. Later on, you will. You’ll see his courage in the
garden. You’ll witness his devotion at Pentecost. You’ll behold his faith in
his letters. But not tonight. Look into his eyes tonight and you see fear — a
suffocating, heart-racing fear of a man who has absolutely no way out.
But out of this
fear would be born an act of faith, for faith is often the child of fear. “The
fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” wrote the wise man. (Prov. 9:10) Peter
could have been his sermon illustration. If Peter had seen Jesus walking on the
water during a calm, peaceful day, do you think that he would have walked out
to him? Had the lake been carpet smooth and the journey pleasant do you think
that Peter would have begged Jesus to take him on a stroll across the top of
the water? Doubtful. But give a man a choice between sure death and a crazy
chance, and he’ll take the chance . . . every time. Great acts of faith are
seldom born out of calm calculation.
It wasn’t logic
that caused Moses to raise his staff on the bank of the Red Sea. (Exodus
14:15,16) It wasn’t medical research that convinced Naaman to dip seven times
in the river. (2 Kings 5:13-14) It wasn’t common sense that caused Paul to
abandon the Law and embrace grace. (Romans 3) And it wasn’t a confident
committee that prayed in a small room in Jerusalem for Peter’s release from
prison. (Acts 12:6-17) It was a fearful, desperate band of backed-into-the-corner
believers. It was a church with no options. A congregation of have-nots
pleading for help. And never were they stronger, because at the beginning of
every act of faith there’s often a seed of fear.
Biographies of
bold disciples begin with chapters of honest terror. Fear of death. Fear of
failure. Fear of loneliness. Fear of a wasted life. Fear of failing to know
God. Faith begins when you see God on the mountain and you’re in the valley and
you know that you’re too weak to make the climb. You see what you need . . .
you see what you have . . . and what you have isn’t enough to accomplish
anything.
Peter had given
it his best. But his best wasn’t enough. Moses had a sea in front and an enemy
behind. The Israelites could swim or they could fight. But neither option was
enough. Naaman had tried the cures and consulted the soothsayers. Traveling a
long distance to plunge into a muddy river made little sense when there were plenty
of clean ones in his own backyard. But what option did he have? Paul had
mastered the Law. He had mastered the system. But one glimpse of God convinced
him that sacrifices and symbols weren’t enough. The Jerusalem church knew that
they had no hope of getting Peter out of prison. They had Christians who would
fight, but too few. They had clout, but too little. They didn’t need muscle.
They needed a miracle.
So does Peter,
and he’s aware of two facts: he’s going down, and Jesus is staying up. He knows
where he would rather be. And there’s nothing wrong with this response. Faith
that begins with fear will end up nearer the Father.
“Lord, if it’s
you,” Peter says, “tell me to come to you on the water.” (Matt. 14:28) Peter’s not
testing Jesus; he’s pleading with him. Stepping out onto a stormy sea is not a
move of logic; it’s a move of desperation. Peter grabs the edge of the boat.
Throws out a leg . . . follows with the other. Several steps are taken. It’s as
if an invisible ridge of rocks runs beneath his feet, and at the end of the
ridge is the face of a never-say-die friend.
We do the same,
don’t we? We come to Christ in an hour of deep need. We abandon the boat of
good works. We realize, like Moses, that human strength won’t save us. So, we
look to God in desperation. We realize, like Paul, that all the good works in the
world are puny when laid before the Perfect One. We understand, like Peter,
that spanning the gap between us and Jesus is a feat too great for our feet. So
we beg for help. Hear his voice. And step out in fear, hoping that our little
faith will be enough.
Faith is not
born at the negotiating table where we barter our gifts in exchange for God’s
goodness. Faith is not an award given to the most learned. It’s not a prize
given to the most disciplined. It’s not a title bestowed upon the most
religious. Faith is a desperate dive out of the sinking boat of human effort,
and a prayer that God will be there to pull us out of the water. Paul wrote
about this kind of faith in his letter to the Ephesians: “For it is by grace
you have been saved, through faith — and this not from yourselves, it is the
gift of God — not by works, so that no one can boast.” (Eph. 2:8-9)
Paul is clear.
The supreme force in salvation is God’s grace. Not our works. Not our talents.
Not our feelings. Not our strength. Salvation is God’s sudden, calming presence
during the stormy seas of our lives. We hear his voice; we take the step. We,
like Paul, are aware of two things: we are great sinners in need of a great
Savior. We, like Peter, are aware of two facts: we’re going down and God is
standing up. So we scramble out. We leave behind the Titanic of our self-righteousness and stand on the solid path of
God’s grace. And, surprisingly, we are able to walk on water. Death is
disarmed. Failures are forgivable. Life has real purpose. And God is not only
within sight, he’s within reach.
With precious,
wobbly steps we draw closer to him. For a season of surprising strength, we
stand upon his promises. It doesn’t make sense that we’re able to do this. We
don’t claim to be worthy of such an incredible gift.
When people ask
how in the world we can keep our balance during such stormy times, we don’t
boast. We don’t brag. We point unabashedly to the One who makes it possible.
Our eyes are on him. “Nothing in my hand I bring; simply to Thy cross I cling,”
we sing. (Rock of Ages) “‘Twas grace
that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved,” we explain. (Amazing Grace)
Some of us,
unlike Peter, never look back. Others of us, like Peter, feel the wind and we’re
afraid. (Matt. 14:30) Maybe we face the wind of pride: “I’m not such a bad
sinner after all. Look at what I can do.” Or, perhaps we face the wind of
legalism: “I know that Jesus is doing part of this, but I have to do the rest.”
Most of us, though, face the wind of doubt: “I’m too bad for God to treat me
this well. I don’t deserve to be rescued.” And downward we plunge. Weighed down
by mortality’s mortar, we sink. Gulping and thrashing, we fall into a dark, wet
world. We open our eyes and see only blackness. We try to breathe, and no air
comes. We kick and fight our way back to the surface. With our heads barely
above the water, we have to make a decision.
The prideful
ask: “Do we ‘save face’ and drown in pride? Or do we scream for help and take
God’s hand?” The legalists ask: “Do we sink under the lead-heavy weight of the
Law? Or do we abandon the codes and beg for grace?” The doubters ask: “Do we
nurture doubt by mumbling, ‘I’ve really let him down this time?’ Or do we hope
that the same Christ who called us out of the boat will call us out of the
sea?” We know Peter’s choice. But when he saw the strong wind and the waves, he was terrified and
began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted. (Matt. 14:30)
We also know the
choice of another sailor in another storm. Although separated by seventeen
centuries, this sailor and Peter are drawn together by several striking
similarities: both made their living on the sea; both met their Savior after a
nine-hour battle in a storm; both met the Father in fear and then followed him
in faith; and both walked away from their boats and became preachers of the
Truth.
You know the
story of Peter, the first sailor. But let me tell you about the second sailor,
John. He had served on the seas since he was eleven years old. His father, an
English shipmaster in the Mediterranean, took him aboard and trained him well
for a life in the Royal Navy. But what John gained in experience, he lacked in
discipline. He mocked authority. Ran with the wrong crowd. Indulged in the
sinful ways of some sailors. Although his training would have qualified him to
serve as an officer, his behavior caused him to be flogged and demoted.
So, in his early
twenties, he made his way to Africa, where he became intrigued with the
lucrative slave trade. At age twenty-one, he made his living on the Greyhound, a slave ship crossing the
Atlantic Ocean. John ridiculed the moral, and poked fun at the religious. He
even made jokes about a book that would eventually reshape his life: The Imitation of Christ. In fact, he was
degrading that book a few hours before his ship sailed into an angry storm.
That night the
waves pummeled the Greyhound,
spinning the ship one minute on the top of a wave. Plunging her the next into a
watery valley. John woke up with his cabin filled with water. A side of the Greyhound had collapsed. Ordinarily such
damage would have sent a ship to the bottom in a matter of minutes. The Greyhound, however, was carrying buoyant
cargo and remained afloat.
John worked at
the pumps all night. For nine hours, he and the other sailors struggled to keep
the ship from sinking. But he knew that it was a losing cause. Finally, when
his hopes were more battered than the vessel, he threw himself on the
saltwater-soaked deck and pleaded, “If this will not do, then Lord have mercy
on us all.”
John didn’t
deserve mercy, but he received it. The Greyhound
and her crew survived. And John never forgot God’s mercy shown on that
tempestuous day in the roaring Atlantic. He returned to England where he became
a prolific composer. You’ve sung his songs, like: Amazing
grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but
now am found; was blind, but now I see.
This
slave-trader-turned-songwriter was John Newton. And along with his hymn
writing, he also became a powerful preacher. For nearly fifty years, he filled
pulpits and churches with the story of the Savior who meets you and me in the
storm. A year or two before his death, people urged him to give up preaching
because of his failing eyesight. “What!” he explained. “Shall the old African
blasphemer stop while he can yet speak?” He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.
What had begun as a prayer of fear resulted in a lifetime of faith. During his
last years, someone asked him about his health. He confessed that his powers
were failing. “My memory is almost gone,” he said, “but I remember two things:
I am a great sinner, and Jesus is a great Savior.”
What more do you
and I need to remember?
Two sailors and
two seas. Two vessels in two storms. Two prayers of fear and two lives of faith.
Uniting them is one Savior — one God who’ll walk through hell or high water to
extend a helping hand to a child who cries for help.
Grace,
Randy