The Thursday Sermon (on Wednesday)

“Little Faith”

A Sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost • Matthew 14:22–33

The story of Peter walking on the water is one of the most famous stories in the Gospels. Most of us have heard sermons on it. And most of the sermons I have heard on it use it, in one way or another, to make us feel inadequate. The moral, the preacher says, is that Peter would have been fine if he had just had more faith. He looked at the wind. He took his eyes off Jesus. He doubted. And down he went. And the implicit message, delivered with more or less gentleness, is that if you had more faith, you would not sink either. You would keep walking.

I want to tell you this morning that I do not think this is what the passage is doing. I think we have been preaching this text backward for a long time, and I want to try, in the next few minutes, to preach it forward.

Let me set the scene, because Matthew has placed this story with real care.

The scene begins right where last week’s story left off. It is the same night. Jesus has just fed the crowd of five thousand — the feeding we heard about last Sunday. And immediately after that feeding, Matthew tells us, Jesus sends the disciples across the sea by themselves. He dismisses the crowd. And then, and this matters, he goes up the mountain alone to pray.

Photo by Christian Harb on Unsplash

The Jesus we meet in this passage is a Jesus who has already lost his cousin John the Baptist. Who has already fed a hungry crowd. Who has already given more than any of us can imagine. And who now needs the solitude that his life could not give him otherwise. He goes up the mountain, in the dark, to be alone with God.

The disciples, meanwhile, are out on the water. And a storm comes up. Matthew tells us the boat is far from land, battered by the waves, and the wind is against them. Not just a rough patch. A storm. In the middle of the night. Miles from shore.

And it is at exactly this moment — sometime between three and six in the morning, Matthew tells us, in what was called the fourth watch of the night — that Jesus comes to them. Walking on the water.

Notice something. Jesus does not calm the storm first. He does not wait for morning. He does not stand on the shore and beckon. He walks out into the storm to meet them. In the middle of it. On the water that is battering them.

That is the first thing I want you to hold this morning. The Christ we follow does not wait for our storms to end before he comes to us. He walks out into them.

Peter’s move gets misread all the time, so let me try to see it fresh.

The disciples are terrified. They see the figure walking on the water and assume it is a ghost. Jesus speaks — “Take heart; it is I; do not be afraid.” And Peter, of all the twelve, is the one who says: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.”

I want to say something about this request that we often miss. Peter is not being reckless. He is being bold, yes — Peter is always bold — but there is real faith in this ask. He is not saying “prove it.” He is not saying “if you’re really Jesus, do a trick.” He is saying, “If it is you, then I want to be where you are. Command me to come.”

Jesus does. He says: “Come.”

And Peter climbs out of the boat.

I want you to hold that in your mind for a second. Peter climbs out. On the water. In the middle of a storm. Because he has heard Jesus say come. That is a moment of real, remarkable faith. I do not know if any of us in this room would have done what Peter does here. He steps out of the only stable thing in his life — a boat in a storm — because he wants to be closer to Christ.

And here is what almost never gets said in sermons on this passage: Peter walks. Matthew tells us plainly. Peter walked on the water toward Jesus.

Do you hear that? For a moment — one wild, brief, breathtaking moment — Peter is doing what he asked to do. He is walking on water. He is closing the distance between himself and Christ. His little faith is enough. It has taken him out of the boat and toward the arms of Christ.

We tend to skip past this because we know how the story ends. But before Peter sinks, Peter walks.

Then, Matthew says, Peter notices the wind. He becomes frightened. And he starts to sink.

Some of you know what this feels like. You have taken a leap of faith. You have done the thing you were afraid to do. You left the boat. You started walking on the water. And then, some time in — sometimes just a few days, sometimes weeks or months in — you notice how impossible what you are doing actually is. You notice the wind. You notice how deep the water is. You notice that people you thought would go with you have not. You notice that the storm is not letting up. And you start to sink.

Peter’s story is our story. We do not fail because we were foolish to try. We do not fail because our faith was a fraud. We fail — as Peter fails — because our attention shifts. Because the size of what we are doing catches up with us. Because we look at the storm instead of at Christ.

Peter cries out, and this is where the whole heart of the sermon lies. He cries, “Lord, save me.”

That is one of the shortest prayers in the New Testament. Three words. Not a theological statement. Not a plea with reasons attached. Not a promise of what he will do differently next time. Just: Lord, save me.

And now I want you to hear what Matthew says next, because it is the most important word in the passage.

“Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.”

Immediately.

Not eventually. Not once Peter had shown he was really sorry. Not after Peter had renewed his commitment or promised to have more faith next time. Immediately. Jesus reaches out and catches him — as soon as the words are out of Peter’s mouth.

I want us to slow down on this, because I think this is where the Gospel actually lands this morning.

The Christ we follow does not delay the catch. He does not make Peter sink a little further so he learns his lesson. He does not withhold his hand until Peter has demonstrated adequate faith. The instant Peter cries out — the instant those three words leave his mouth — Christ has him.

That word “immediately” is the good news of this passage. It is not “you should have more faith.” It is not “next time try harder.” It is: the moment you cry out, he is already reaching.

If you have been living inside a version of Christianity that told you Christ was withholding his help until you got your act together, that you had to earn the rescue by having more faith, that you had to prove something before he would come for you — hear the Gospel of Matthew this morning. Christ does not wait. He catches you the instant you cry out. That is who he is.

And now — only now, once Peter is safe, once Christ has hold of him — comes the line that has been so misused.

“You of little faith, why did you doubt?”

I have heard this line preached with such harshness. As though Jesus is scolding Peter. As though he is disappointed. As though the message is: what were you thinking, you weakling?

I do not think this is the tone at all.

Picture the scene. Peter is out of the water. Jesus has him by the hand. The wind is still howling. And the two of them are standing there together on the sea, one hand still in the other. And Jesus asks, quietly: “You of little faith. Why did you doubt?”

That is not a rebuke. That is a real question, asked with tenderness. Christ is not shaming Peter for the doubt. He is asking Peter to look at it. Why did you doubt? What did you see that made you look away? What can we learn about what happens to your heart when the wind picks up?

And notice something else. Jesus calls him “you of little faith.” Not “you of no faith.” Not “you of failed faith.” Peter is not being told his faith was a sham. He is being told, accurately, that his faith is small. Little. And that little faith was enough to get him out of the boat. Little faith was enough to walk on the water. Little faith was enough to cry out and be caught.

Jesus calls him “you of little faith.” Not “you of no faith.” Not “you of failed faith.”

Little faith is enough.

That is the news I want you to walk out of this church with this morning. If you feel like the faith you have is small — smaller than you would like it to be, smaller than the people around you seem to have, smaller than what you had when you were younger — I want you to hear the Christ of Matthew 14 name that faith accurately. Little. And name it as enough.

So here is what I want you to leave with today.

If you are in a storm right now, and you have been waiting for it to calm before Christ shows up — hear the good news. He walks out into the storm. He does not wait for the water to still.

If you have taken a leap of faith and then noticed, halfway across the water, how impossible what you are doing actually is — hear the good news. That is what happened to Peter. You are not the first person, and you will not be the last. The sinking is not the last word.

If you are sinking right now, and you have gotten as far as three words — Lord, save me — hear the good news. Immediately Jesus reaches out and catches you. Not after a delay. Not after you have improved. Immediately.

And if you have been carrying a name that someone gave you long ago — “you of little faith” — and hearing it in a voice of contempt: hear it again this morning in the voice of the One who actually said it. Quietly. On the water. One hand still in yours. Asking, tenderly, why did you doubt.

Your little faith is enough. It was enough for Peter. It was enough to be caught. It will be enough for you.

Amen.

Immediate Christ — you did not wait. You reached out the instant Peter cried. You caught him with the storm still howling around him. And you asked him, quietly, one hand still in his, why he had doubted.

Forgive us for the versions of you we have taught each other — versions that make you seem delayed, or conditional, or measured, or aloof. Forgive us for the times we have told each other that we needed to have more faith before you would come, when the truth is that you catch us the instant we cry out.

For the storms we are in right now — the ones we sailed into willingly and the ones that came upon us — remind us that you walk out into them. Remind us that the calming of the storm is not the price of your arrival.

For our little faith — the faith we suspect is not big enough, not strong enough, not sure enough — remind us that Peter’s faith was little too. And little was enough. Little got him out of the boat. Little was enough to be caught.

Give us the grace to cry out. Give us the grace to keep our eyes on you. Give us the grace to know, when we sink, that immediately your hand is reaching. And give us the courage to hear “why did you doubt” as a tender question, asked by the One who is holding us, not a rebuke from the shore.

You are the immediate reach. You are the tender voice. You are the walking Christ. Amen.