Sitting at the table, I can hear the commuter boat blowing its horn to alert passengers that it is about to depart. The sound carries across the water, through the neighborhood, and into the room where I am sitting with my coffee.
Not long ago, we had several days when the fog really settled in. Familiar landmarks disappeared, the horizon vanished, and the world beyond the windows seemed to end somewhere just offshore. Through the thick air, I could hear the foghorn from Boston Light warning mariners that the rocks were not far away.
The commuter boat sounds its horn so no one is left behind. Boston Light sounds its warning because dangers may be closer than they appear. Both are reminders that the sea, although it may look peaceful from the shore, can be a dangerous place. Conditions change quickly. Fog conceals what is near, wind alters the water, and a familiar crossing can become difficult without much warning.
With the sound of the horn still in our ears, let us settle at the table and turn toward this week’s Gospel.
Matthew places us aboard a fishing boat with the disciples as they cross the Sea of Galilee. They have just witnessed a miracle of abundance in which thousands of people were fed and no one was left hungry. What was available was blessed, broken, and shared until everyone had eaten and twelve baskets remained.
Then Jesus sends the disciples ahead while he dismisses the crowd and withdraws by himself to pray.
During the night, the wind rises and the boat is battered by waves. The disciples have been rowing for hours, struggling to make progress against a force they cannot control. Several of them are fishermen. They know the water and understand what must be done when the weather turns. Someone must tend the sail, someone must hold the rudder, and others must pull on the ropes and help keep the boat balanced.
Usually, this is not where my attention rests. For most of the years I have studied and preached this passage, I have focused almost entirely on Peter. You know the story. Peter sees Jesus walking on the water, climbs out of the boat, becomes frightened, and begins to sink. He cries out, Jesus reaches for him, and they return to the boat together.
The younger me admired Peter’s courage. I saw his first step onto the water as the great act of faith in the story. I preached about leaving safety behind, stepping into the unknown, and keeping our eyes fixed upon Jesus.
I do not think that reading was entirely wrong. There are times when faith does require courage and when love calls us beyond what is familiar. But during these Seven Sundays Between, I have been learning to look at familiar things differently.
This time, I noticed the boat.
More specifically, I noticed the eleven people who remained aboard it.
While Peter captures our attention, the others are riding out the storm. The wind is against them, the waves are battering the boat, and they have been working through most of the night. Matthew does not describe what they are doing, perhaps because their work is ordinary. They are tending the vessel, watching the water, pulling on the ropes, and doing what needs to be done.
We remember the few moments Peter spends upon the water and forget the long hours the others spend keeping the boat afloat. Peter’s courage is dramatic enough to be remembered. The faithfulness of the others is quiet enough to be overlooked.
We often confuse visibility with faithfulness. We notice the person who makes the bold gesture, takes the public stand, or steps away from the group. We rarely notice those who keep communities intact: the people who prepare meals, make telephone calls, sit beside hospital beds, balance budgets, repair buildings, listen through disagreement, and return week after week to pull on the same ropes.
Their work does not look miraculous. Yet without them, the boat may not survive the crossing.
Perhaps this is one of the things these Sundays have been teaching me. Faith is not always found in the dramatic step taken by one person. Sometimes it is found in the quiet decision of a community to remain together when the wind is against them.
Getting out of the boat may require a moment of courage. Staying in the boat and riding out the storm together is hard.
It requires covenant.
Covenant is the promise that our lives are bound together. It means that we remain present, support one another, and recognize that what affects one person eventually touches the whole community. It does not mean we will always agree, nor does it require anyone to remain in a place of abuse or danger. But covenant does ask us to resist treating people as disposable whenever relationships become difficult.
Covenant looks like holding the rope when someone else is tired. It means shifting our weight when the boat begins to lean, listening when it would be easier to walk away, and remembering that none of us reaches the other shore alone.
The Church is not a collection of individuals proving that they can walk on water. It is a boat filled with imperfect people learning how to cross together.
Everything we do as that community must remain rooted in Scripture, prayer, sacrament, and covenant. Scripture gives us our bearings. Prayer teaches us to listen. The sacraments remind us that we live by grace rather than our own strength. Covenant binds us to God and to one another.
These things do not prevent storms. They form us into people who know how to face them together.
The disciples are not initially terrified by the weather. Their fear begins when they see Jesus coming toward them and mistake him for a ghost. The storm is familiar; the figure approaching through the darkness is not. They know how to respond to wind and waves, but they do not recognize help when it comes in an unexpected form.
Jesus does not begin by changing the weather. He first calls to them through the darkness: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”
The voice comes before the calm.
Like a horn sounding through the fog, the voice does not immediately remove the danger. It tells those making the crossing that they are not alone. It gives them something by which to find their bearings when they cannot see what lies ahead.
Peter asks to come to Jesus and steps onto the water. Then he notices the wind, becomes frightened, and begins to sink. His prayer is brief and honest: “Lord, save me.”
Matthew tells us that Jesus immediately reaches out his hand.
Jesus does not require Peter to overcome his fear before rescuing him. He does not shame him, test him, or leave him to swim back on his own. The hand comes first. Any instruction follows rescue.
Perhaps the miracle is not that faithful people never sink, but that Christ refuses to let sinking become the end of the story.
Jesus brings Peter back to the boat. He is not rescued so he can continue walking alone above the waves. He is returned to the community that has been tending the vessel throughout the night.
All twelve are together when the wind ceases.
Last Sunday’s table and this Sunday’s boat may be teaching the same lesson. At the table, strangers discover that there is enough when what they have is blessed and shared. In the boat, disciples discover that they can endure when they remain responsible for one another. Both reveal that the life of faith is never only about me. God gathers isolated people into a covenant community and teaches them to receive, share, listen, and remain.
Faith is not accumulated certainty. Every new crossing asks us to trust again.
The horn of the commuter boat sounds because a crossing is about to begin. The horn from Boston Light sounds because those already making the crossing may need help finding their way. Neither guarantees calm water, clear skies, or an easy journey. Both are acts of responsibility for people who may not be visible from shore.
Perhaps that is where worship leads us. Scripture, prayer, sacrament, and covenant gather and form us, but the benediction sends us out. The blessing is not the end of the journey. It is the signal that the crossing is about to begin.
The benediction has been heard. Now what?
Now we take our places beside one another. We hold the ropes, watch for dangers hidden by the fog, and listen for voices that help us find our bearings. We notice those who have been quietly keeping the boat afloat, and we offer our hands when someone begins to sink. We carry the grace we have received toward people waiting on the other shore.
The sound of the horn eventually fades, and the commuter boat pulls away from the dock. From my place at the table, I cannot see everyone aboard or know what awaits them on the other side. I know only that they are making the crossing together.
Perhaps that is enough for this morning.
What does love require of us now? Love requires us to stay aboard, remain attentive to one another, and trust that even when the fog settles in and the wind is against us, we do not make the crossing alone.
