10th Sunday after Trinity
Matthew 14:22–33
Where do we find Christ when the wind is against us?
I wonder where you have discovered Christ when life has become difficult?
Not when everything was calm and going well, but when the wind seemed against you. When relationships became strained. When illness arrived unexpectedly. When grief swept over you. When the future felt uncertain and you wondered whether God had somehow lost sight of you.
I have been thinking about that question this week after returning from the Isles of Scilly, islands 25miles off the coast of Cornwall. Living on those islands gives people a relationship with the sea that many of us on the mainland rarely experience. The sea is beautiful, but it is never taken for granted. It shapes every aspect of life. Boats sail—or they don’t—according to the weather. Supplies arrive—or they don’t. Hospital appointments sometimes depend upon the tide and the wind rather than the diary. Island life teaches a quiet humility. Human beings are wonderfully resourceful, but they are not in control.
It also teaches something else. Islanders watch out for one another. They know that no one negotiates difficult seas alone and offer help and assistance when boat engines fail. Community becomes not simply a pleasant idea but a way of living.
Perhaps that helps us hear today’s Gospel with fresh ears.
For modern readers and especially young children the obvious question arising from this bible story often becomes, “Did Jesus really walk on water?” But for the writer of Matthew’s gospel there seems far more interested in asking another question altogether: “Who is this Jesus, whom even the wind and sea cannot overwhelm?”
The story in the bible follows immediately after the feeding of the five thousand. Matthew is gradually revealing the identity of Jesus, and everything builds towards the disciples’ remarkable confession at the end: “Truly you are the Son of God.”
The miracle itself points beyond itself.
For Jewish readers, the sea was never simply water. Throughout the Hebrew Scriptures it represents chaos, danger and all those forces that threaten life. Creation begins as God brings order out of the deep. Israel passes through the Red Sea from slavery into freedom. The psalmists sing of the God who alone rules over the raging waters.
So when Matthew tells us that Jesus comes walking across the sea, he is making a profound theological claim. Christ is revealed as the one in whom God’s creative and saving presence enters the very place that people fear most. He does not stand safely on the shore, calling instructions across the water. He comes into the chaos itself.
That insight feels remarkably contemporary.
You see, Christian faith is not about escaping uncertainty or the chaotic events that might happen in life but about discovering God’s presence within it. We sometimes imagine that faith means reaching a place where all our questions disappear and everything becomes clear. Yet the Gospels suggest something quite different. Faith is learning that God’s faithfulness runs deeper than our insecurity.
Perhaps that is why in Matthew’s gospel we see the disciples having their doubts and concerns not on dry land but together in a small boat, battered by the waves.
From the earliest centuries Christians recognised the boat as an image of the Church itself. A fragile community, tossed about by events beyond its control. In the gospel writer’s own day Matthew’s own church knew what that felt like. They were living after the destruction of Jerusalem, facing uncertainty, persecution and profound change.
Does that sound familiar?
There are times when today’s Church can feel rather like that boat. Numbers decline. Society changes rapidly. Old certainties disappear. We wonder what lies ahead.
Yet Matthew’s message is wonderfully simple.
Christ comes towards the Church precisely while it struggles.
Not afterwards.
Not once it has sorted everything out.
Now.
The story becomes even more personal through Peter.
Only in Matthew’s gospel do we hear the story that Peter climbs out of the boat and tries to walk towards Jesus on the water.
In a way Peter’s journey across the water mirrors the journey of many followers of Christ throughout time.
Firstly Trust.
And then Courage.
Followed by Distraction and Fear and Sinking into despair
And then experiencing the Rescue.
How recognisable that rhythm is for many of us, time and time again throughout life
Peter begins well. His eyes are fixed on Christ. But then he notices the strength of the wind. Fear captures his imagination more powerfully than hope, and he begins to sink.
Notice, though, that Jesus never says Peter has no faith.
He calls him “you of little faith.”
That phrase appears several times in Matthew’s Gospel. It does not describe someone who has rejected God. It describes someone whose trust is fragile, whose attention has become divided, whose fear has momentarily become greater than hope.
That feels much kinder—and much truer.
The opposite of faith is not doubt.
It is allowing fear to have the final word.
Peter still cries out.
And before Jesus offers any correction, he reaches out his hand.
Grace comes first.
That reminds me again of Scilly. People there know that when conditions deteriorate at sea or a vessel or crew gets into trouble , rescue is rarely about shouting instructions from the harbour wall. Someone has to come towards those who are struggling. Presence matters more than explanation.
That is exactly what Jesus does.
A well known theologian, John Dominic Crossan, encourages us to read stories like this symbolically as well as historically. He suggests that Matthew is showing us God’s victory over the powers of chaos. Whether the sea represents fear, injustice, suffering, illness or uncertainty, Christ refuses to let those forces have the final word.
The story invites us to imagine a different way of living—not pretending that storms do not exist, but believing that they are not the deepest reality
The bible story today ends not with the sea becoming the centre of attention but with worship.
The frightened disciples become people who recognise Christ in their midst.
That, perhaps, is Matthew’s greatest miracle.
Not that someone walked on water.
But that fearful people became trusting people.
That anxious people discovered hope.
That a fragile community recognised that Christ had never abandoned them.
While I was on Scilly I was reminded of a much-loved children’s story by Michael Morpurgo Listen to the Moon which tells of a young girl found alone and traumatised on the uninhabited Scilly island of St Helen’s.
She is frightened, alone and uncertain what will happen next. Eventually a local island family reaches her. They do not simply rescue her and hurry her away. They stay with her. They walk alongside her in her fear and hurt until she is able to find her way home. The healing begins not simply because she is rescued, but because she is no longer alone.
Perhaps that is one of the deepest truths hidden within today’s Gospel. Christ does not remain on the safety of the shore, calling instructions across the water. He comes towards his friends in the middle of the storm. And so often he continues to do that through the people who walk beside us when life becomes chaotic: the friend who quietly sits with us, the neighbour who notices, the family member who refuses to give up on us, the church community that carries us when our own faith feels too small.
Like those island communities who know both the power of the sea and the necessity of caring for one another, we discover that God’s love is often experienced through people willing to accompany us. They become, in a sense, the outstretched hand of Christ.
So perhaps Matthew leaves us not with a scientific puzzle to solve—can a person walk on water?—but with a spiritual question to carry into the coming week.
Where do we discover Christ when the wind is against us?
Perhaps not on the safe shore after the storm has passed.
Perhaps we discover him exactly where the waves are highest, where fear is strongest, where we find ourselves crying out, “Lord, save me.”
And perhaps we discover that Christ still comes towards us across whatever waters threaten us—not always to calm the storm immediately, but always to accompany us, often through the loving presence of others, saying, “Take heart. I am. Do not be afraid.”
Image: Tina Rolf, Unsplash.com
