A sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 14
August 9, 2026, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR
Readings: 1 Kings 19:9-18; Psalm 85:8-13; Romans 10:5-15; Matthew 14:22-33
We had rented a pontoon boat on Lake DeGray, a group of friends with Molly and me. It was a beautiful day. About midway through the afternoon, we had anchored in a little cove and were swimming. And then we heard it. Thunder, just lightly rolling, in the distance. At that moment I remembered something the young man at the marina had said: If you’re on the water and you hear thunder, you’re too late. Sure enough, in no time at all, the storm rolled in. DeGray doesn’t have any slips where we might take shelter, so we just hunkered down in a semi-protected cove for a while. When it looked as if everything had calmed down, we headed back. But sure enough, it started up again, stronger than before. And this time we were unprotected in the middle of the lake. It’s a little like today’s gospel. The disciples are on the Sea of Galilee, with useless sails and oars, in the pitch black, water swamping the wooden boat, battered by the wind, exhausted by struggle, scared to death. The disciples are in a dangerous position. But then Jesus, knowing they are in trouble and fearful, goes across the sea to them, walking on the troubled water. They think he’s a ghost, but he calls out to them. “Take heart, It is I; do not be afraid.”
Peter responds, “If it’s you, command me to walk on the water.” Jesus responds, maybe with a little laugh, “Sure thing, Peter, hop in.” And he does. It seems like a hairbrained idea. But maybe the idea isn’t that hairbrained, though. After all, Jesus just told them to “take heart.” That can also be translated as “be courageous.” Step out on faith. Peter takes Jesus at his word, and goes that next step. For a second he walks on the water, heading toward Jesus. But then the gospel tells us he noticed the strong wind. He noticed what was going on around him. He took his eyes off Jesus and saw the chaos. He stopped thinking about Jesus’s invitation and promise, and started thinking about the storm raging. And he begins to sink. He thinks about the danger and not about Jesus, and when he does that, his faith–his trust–is no longer in the power of Jesus to save. But Jesus catches him. “Oh you of little faith, why did you doubt?” It’s as if Jesus is saying, did you think I wouldn’t be here? Of course I am. I called you to come out on the water.
So often I have gone through a trial, a storm in this life, surrounded by chaos I cannot control. Have you been there? When I take my eyes off Jesus, when I notice everything going on around me and forget Jesus is right there to save and sustain me, I sink. The truth is our instinct is to take our eyes off Jesus and to notice the storm. Our instinct is to rely on our own strength instead of having faith in the power of Jesus to save, to keep us through our trials. This betrays where we tend to put our faith and our trust: more often in ourselves and in our own abilities than in God. When we put more faith in our own ability to save us than in Jesus Christ, we end up sinking. But look up. The one who has called you is faithful. He will not leave you. He is right there. Why do we doubt?
“When does it get easier?” I heard that question at a testimony service in my church growing up. My pastor liked having testimony services. I think he especially liked them when he was too tired to preach. For these testimony services, the handheld microphone would be passed around the church, and anyone–absolutely anyone–could stand up and say whatever came to their mind. If you’re wondering, no, we do not do this in The Episcopal Church. Thank heaven. But I’m just curious, if I handed you the microphone today, what would you say? On this night, a young man took the microphone and asked, “when does it get easier?” Like Peter and the disciples, he was in the middle of the sea, tossed by the waves.
His testimony was not what we typically heard. It was not the kind of testimony that proved he had it all together, that says everything works out if you stick with it. His was an honest assessment of his life. New to the faith, he thought it would get easier. He had made the critical error we can all make from time to time, thinking that our faith inoculates us to the storm. Surely those who know Jesus are spared from waves and winds, from tumult and chaos. He said all of this. He was yearning for hope. He was sinking, exhausted from fighting.
The service went quiet–the sound of sheer silence is the way I Kings described it today. We have all been there before. We may be there again. A neighbor put an arm around his shoulder. Some bowed their heads in silent prayer. As for the young man, he wept.
The silence stretched on. There are some moments we cannot interrupt. But eventually a woman in the back stood up. This woman knew about storms. She had nothing in this life. Her health had never been good, and she was battling cancer. The cards were stacked against her. She struggled with loneliness and depression, even if she did always have a smile on her face. She walked down the center aisle to the pew where the young man was sitting. She sat beside him, and with a wisdom that comes from experience, she began to sing a hymn. The congregation joined in. We sang,
Hold to God’s unchanging hand. You gotta hold to God’s unchanging hand. Build your hopes on things eternal. And hold to God’s unchanging hand.
Trust in him who will not leave you. Whatsoever the years may bring. When your earthly friends forsake you, still more closely to him cling.
My friends: hold on. Faith does not inoculate us from hardship and pain. Following Jesus through the storm, clinging to him and his promise to save, does not mean that the storm will cease. It may not get easier in the way we desire. For true peace is not the absence of the storm; it is knowing we are held by Jesus through it all. We are never alone–we are never alone–for the one who calls us is faithful. So take heart, be courageous, step out on faith, and do not be afraid.
Storied Grace 