Never Buy a Boat

A sermon for the 5th Sunday after Epiphany
February 9, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Luke 5:1-11

“Never get a truck because people will never stop asking to borrow it.” I got that advice from a good friend in Sewanee. We were sitting in his living room, and he was ribbing me about my car. “You need a new car,” he had said. At that time I was driving the best my high school wages could buy 15 years before: A Mazda Protege with a salvaged title. Over the years the A/C had gone out, the paint was rusting off, and the car squealed loud enough to wake the dead. Perhaps worst of all, it had a faulty seatbelt in the front passenger seat. Molly often got stuck in that seatbelt and had to figure out a way to slither out, once in a full-length evening gown and high heels. “Yes, you need a new car, Mark,” my friend said. “But never get a truck because people will never stop asking to borrow it.” If we asked Simon Peter today, he might tell us something similar: “Never buy a boat, because people will never stop asking you if they can use it.”

In our gospel reading, Jesus is teaching the crowds on the shore of Lake Gennesaret, another name for the Sea of Galilee. The crowd, Luke tells us, was pressing in on Jesus because they wanted to hear the word of God. Not a word about God, but the word of God. They knew they would meet God in the person and words of Jesus; so they press in, trying to get as close as they can. Jesus, nearly being pushed into the water, looks around and sees a boat. Peter and some of his fellows are washing their nets after a long and unsuccessful night fishing. Jesus just hops in the boat and tells Peter to put out a little ways from the shore in order that he might continue to teach the crowds. 

Put yourself in Peter’s shoes. You’ve been working all night. You haven’t caught anything. You’re dog tired and you want to go home. A rabbi hops in your boat. “Can I borrow your boat? Put out a ways so I can teach these people.” I can tell you how I would respond: “Um, no.” I imagine Peter giving one of those exasperated looks to his friends, letting off a big sigh. His friends know what he’s thinking: “Never buy a boat, because people will never stop asking you if they can use it.” But to Peter’s credit, he does it. Jesus continues to teach. Peter continues to clean his nets. At first he’s frustrated. But then he starts to listen. “What did this rabbi just say? Is he talking to me?” Peter’s heart starts to soften. Soon he isn’t cleaning his nets at all; he’s just listening at the feet of Jesus. The words of Jesus are like life to him. They are kindling a fire in his soul, giving him hope, bestowing upon him dignity, putting him at peace, making him feel loved. Hope, dignity, peace, love: four things that were in short supply for poor Galilean fishermen.  

Has that ever happened to you? Maybe you have come to church harried and scattered and mad and whatever, but something grabs you. Maybe it’s a verse in the psalm or the gospel lesson. Maybe it’s a hymn you sang as a child. Maybe it’s bread and wine. At once you are picked up, caught up, and you find yourself at the feet of Jesus and all those other things–your worries, your anxieties, your frustrations, your nets–they fall to the side. 

If only the boat were the end of it. Jesus hops in, and that’s just the beginning. Next comes a command to fish in deeper water, and then an invitation to follow–follow Jesus and fish for people. He’s telling this poor Galilean fisherman, this sinner, this man so used to being overlooked and taken for granted, “You’re exactly who I need–not just your boat, you. Yes, you may be a sinner, Simon Peter, but you’re the one I’ve been looking for. Follow me.” What starts as a request to borrow a boat ends as nothing less than an invitation to transformation, to real life, to discipleship.

In my imagination, I like to think about Peter sitting with his friends later in life. They’re remembering those early days. Peter laughs. He says, “Do you remember when Jesus just got into the boat like he owned the place? Do you remember how crazy he sounded when he said to go fishing in the deep water? I wanted to throw him overboard. I am so glad I didn’t.” Maybe he concludes his thoughts by mumbling something like, “Never buy a boat, because people will never stop asking if they can use it… But I am so glad I had that boat on that day when Jesus came by.” 

I asked my friend with the truck to say more. He had this distant look in his eyes as he gave me his funny advice–the kind of look someone gets when they are transported by memory to some distant shore. He told me. He had been sitting in his living room one day, just reading a book. He lived in Sewanee, a community settled around a liberal arts college and Episcopal seminary. There was a lot of money there: Old stone buildings that look like they were flown in from Europe; a golf course designed by the best in the world; on and on. And at $60 or $70 thousand a year for undergraduate tuition, it was mostly a college for the rich. 

Anyway, he’s sitting in his living room and he gets a knock at the door. It’s a woman he does not know. “Can I borrow your truck?” she asks. “And would you help me?” A man with a heart of gold, but probably more than a little annoyed, he quickly agrees. They go to her house and load up several boxes, and take off again. Before they know it, they are driving down some Tennessee holler that barely qualifies as a road, and they pull up to a trailer that’s falling apart. They unload the boxes and leave. 

On the way back, my friend asked, “What are we doing here?” The lady explained that the person who lived there worked at the university. She had always lived in Sewanee, from birth, but she was overlooked. There were plenty of folks like her who cooked in kitchens, cleaned the hallways, maintained the beautiful old buildings, kept the golf course pristine. She was one of them, and a flood down that holler had destroyed her trailer. The lady didn’t know what else to do, so she was bringing by what little she had to give, some clothes and basic supplies to get her through. 

“That was day one,” my friend said. He couldn’t sleep that night. He tossed and turned. As soon as it was light out, he got up, called some friends, and took his truck down the mountain to get some supplies. He and his friends came together and rebuilt her home, better than before. And that was just the first. As of today, he has built home after home for those in hard spots. As it turns out, that lady had been Jesus Christ, knocking on his door, hopping into his boat, asking him for a small favor, and then inviting him to a transformed life of service.  

Never buy a boat, and while you’re at it, never buy a truck. Jesus Christ just might show up asking if he can use it. My friends, Jesus has stepped into your boat. And yes, we’re unworthy. Yes, we are sinners. And yes, Jesus knows that. But the truth is, he’s really not interested in our being worthy. After all, he knows we’re not and never can be. Rather, he is interested in whether we are willing: willing to go along, willing to follow him, willing to try. He wants us to know him, to live in him, to be transformed by his invitation and to follow wherever he leads, whether that’s down a Tennessee holler or along the Sea of Galilee. And I wonder, will we take him up on his offer?