Sermon for August 9, 2026
Pentecost 11 A
Matthew 14:22-33
Rev. Karl-John N. Stone
The first place Beth Ann and I went during my sabbatical was Gothenburg, the second-biggest city in Sweden. It has a large harbor on Sweden’s west coast with easy access to the North Sea. Old canals flow to the interior of the city, designed to be like Amsterdam. Gothenburg was founded 400 years ago as a way to avoid paying taxes to Denmark; Denmark controlled the other waterways that they had to sail to reach the rest of Sweden.
The seafaring nature of this region goes back much further. You’ve heard of “Vikings” right? I don’t mean the ones from Minnesota! Many Vikings came from this region over one thousand years ago. We visited a great museum in Gothenburg, which displays the remains of the only Viking ship in Sweden. They found it and dug it up in the 1930s. It was built around the year 900AD, and had been buried for almost 1,000 years in the clay, upriver from the city. The museum has put the existing pieces of the hull into a display, like it’s a 50-foot-long 3D puzzle. They also found a runic inscription, indicating that the ship was used for hauling livestock; so it was more of a cargo barge than a warship. Modern craftsmen have built a seaworthy replica of what they believe it looked like—but it does not include any fanciful carved dragon heads like we imagine Viking ships should have. This Viking ship was used more for striking deals than for striking fear.
But we do know, however—whether it was Viking times, or the age of clipper ships crossing the Atlantic or plying the Great Lakes, or even modern-day recreational sailors—that fear and sailing go hand in hand. I mean the kind of fear that is healthy. When you have to face the unpredictability of waves and weather, the unknown creatures swimming in the deep sea—a little fear to keep you humble is a good thing, when you must choose what kind of risks to take on the water.
The disciples knew this kind of fear. They had just helped Jesus with the “Feeding of the 5,000”, and Jesus had just sent them into a boat to sail ahead of him to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. He still needed some alone time, so as evening approached he went up the mountain to pray. The disciples kept sailing all night, and the later it got, the stronger the winds and waves battered their boat. Some of them were fishermen; they were used to being on the water. Some of them were probably wondering what in the world they had gotten themselves into as the boat kept sailing farther from the safety of land. But all of them were terrified when, early in the morning, they saw Jesus walking toward them on the sea and they said “It is a ghost!”. This is a totally reasonable and understandable reaction. I think most of us would be afraid, just like them. Besides that, sailors are well-known for seeing strange, mysterious things when they are out at sea. The disciples weren’t the first sailors to cry out in fear.
I can relate to their fear. Last week I observed the 25th anniversary of my ordination as a pastor. I thought back to that hot and humid day in New York City, the 4th of August, 2001. My dad would preach the sermon, the many pastors present would participate in the laying-on of hands along with the bishop who would pray for the Holy Spirit to empower me to serve. Yes, I was excited. I had been studying for 4 years in seminary, which included a year of internship, and a summer of hospital chaplaincy, as well as many other experiences to prepare me for becoming a pastor. I believed whole-heartedly that God had called me, and my belief had been confirmed by the encouragement and recommendation of others. As happy and as eager as I felt, I must also say that I was afraid. Like those disciples out on the sea, with their boat being pushed farther from land, I was like, “Ok, Lord, you’ve brought me to this moment—but what in the world have I gotten myself into?!?” I’ll never forget feeling the weight of all those hands on my head and shoulders as I knelt before the altar; the mystery of the path Christ was preparing for me; the fear of the unknown as I moved to an unfamiliar place with many new responsibilities.
I’m sure I’m not the only one here today who has felt the fear of the unknown and the weight of responsibilities; they may have been things for you that were necessary but not welcome, but even during times when you’ve felt joyful, happy, or even eager for what’s next, you can still feel afraid. If you’ve made marriage vows, welcomed a newborn baby into the world, started a new job, began studying at a new school, picked up and moved to an unfamiliar community, been deployed overseas, or went on a big trip far from home—then maybe you know what I’m talking about. That’s a healthy kind of fear. And the gospel promises that our fear is a sign of Christ’s presence!
The disciples confess their fear, and immediately Jesus speaks to them: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”
Peter being Peter, he takes Jesus at his word, and then takes it to an extreme. “OK then, Jesus, command me to come to you on the water.” But as it was for Peter, so it is for us: the abiding presence of Christ, even in things we cannot understand or maybe have a hard time believing (like walking on the water)—the abiding presence of Christ in all times and places and circumstances is what gives us the power to “get out of the boat” and follow him. Christ’s presence in our faith and in our fear allows us to “HOP outside the box”, to go beyond our comfort level and make appropriate experiments and risks (not recklessness, but appropriate risks), so we can listen and follow wherever the command of Christ might lead.
As Peter shows us, however, even great faith and miraculous events are not enough to prevent us from sinking back into our fears, or our doubts, or being pushed around by the winds and noise that distract us from focusing on what’s truly important in life. If we want to follow where Jesus leads, that means we’ll have to make good use of the prayer St. Peter offers for help. Good thing it’s easy to remember: “Lord, save me!” Lord, save me.
Often, we don’t recognize Jesus because of our fear. The fear hides him to our senses, and we experience the fear as bad, when Jesus of course is good. This is what we as Lutherans call “the theology of the cross”—that Christ hides himself in what looks to us like his opposite. Just like you think no one can hear you because the wind and waves are raging and blowing—but Christ can hear. Maybe you call upon him because of your fear. Maybe you call upon him because of your doubt.
And “the same Lord is Lord of all, and is generous to all who call on him” (as St. Paul reminds us in Romans 10:12). The Lord is generous to all who call upon him. When we call for Jesus to save us, our fear and our doubt is the sign that Christ is already present with us. He is already near you, immediately ready to reach out his hand and catch you when you call to him, and carry you through the storm into his peace. Amen.