I think I’m getting the hang of walking on water.
Jesus walking on water was a different sort of miracle. It was different from all the other miracles he did. With every other miracle, Jesus simply showcased something prominently that the Father was already doing with less recognition. Jesus turned water into wine, for example—but the Father turns water into wine as well. The Father simply uses such mechanisms as rainfall, grapes, and fermentation. In the same way, Jesus turned scarcity into plenty (Mark 6:41-44), just as the Father routinely turns a few seeds into an abundant harvest of crops. Jesus even said (see John 5:19) that he does only what his Father shows him to do.
But then there is the apparent miracle of walking on water, which arguably is not presented in the Gospels as a miracle at all. Jesus seems to do it casually, striding across the water when no boat is present (Matthew 14:24). The naturalness with which he does this seems to imply that this sort of capability is part of the character of the surrendered life. We haven’t heard of another believer since Jesus’ time who has replicated precisely this act—but perhaps there is more going on here that just water. I Thessalonians 5:19 says we are not to “quench” the Spirit. The Spirit, in other words, gets extinguished as if through drowning. In doing the best we can at what our Savior shows us to do, we follow his model of walking on water by gliding lightly across any of the things of this world that would submerge us.
In the case of one episode involving Peter, that “water” was literally water. Peter is the one other person in the Bible to pace across a lake. He did this one time, at the direct urging of Jesus, for only for a few steps before sinking. Becoming free enough that we relax gravity’s hold on us is thus possible—but apparently it requires such faith that few human beings do it and even fewer do it for long.
Yet other forces besides gravity also pull us down, and more than just water threatens to wash over us.
In our modern busy lives, for example, there is just so much to do.
Indeed, the pace, possibilities, and convenience of the modern world seem to make it easier than ever to succumb to a life of spiritually drowning. Most of us end up angry much of the time, and we don’t know why.
I have been angry. Only slowly have I begun to see why. I find that I have insisted on tidy appearances because I am ashamed of what others might say about the mess. I pursue distant goals because I fear having only meager success by which to let other people measure my worth in the end. I even do nonsensical and unnecessary things that others tell me to do, simply because I fear their pointing a finger of criticism at me if I don’t do them. In each of these cases, I am not worshiping God or submitting to God, but instead submitting in worship to other human beings. No breath of life can come of this, so no wonder I am angry. More accurately, I am panicked—thrashing at anyone close to me in my desperate groping for air.
The way of Christ is not like this. We still submit to other people. We serve them and regard them as treasures—this is the most vital thing we do in the world. But we do not worship them. We do not fear them, and we submit to them not out of insecurity or shame, but out of love.
I am still tidy, though. Nothing about that is inconsistent with a life in Christ. I still aspire—and I also still do many things simply because other people ask me to do them. The life of surrender is not free from pleasing other people, and not even free from chores.
Before I do any of these things, however, I breathe. The way of Christ is to pray continually (I Thessalonians 5:17). This includes praying for God to work through us and with us, recognizing that he provides the time, energy, and opportunity for all that he would have us do.
It is therefore pointless to get frustrated. It’s pointless to get frazzled. The gift I have right now is the present. “I AM,” the name of God, consists of only the present tense. God is here now, and God comes first—followed closely by the people God has put into my present life.
I breathe before taking the next steps in a full day. I remind myself that the expansiveness of the air of God is the medium through which I wish to move and live, rather than yet again making myself heavy by taking the things of this world too seriously. One of the simpler messages I derive from that picture of Jesus walking on the water is this—that all of us, by his power and grace, can discover the ability to decide not to sink.
Jesus walking on water was a different sort of miracle. It was different from all the other miracles he did. With every other miracle, Jesus simply showcased something prominently that the Father was already doing with less recognition. Jesus turned water into wine, for example—but the Father turns water into wine as well. The Father simply uses such mechanisms as rainfall, grapes, and fermentation. In the same way, Jesus turned scarcity into plenty (Mark 6:41-44), just as the Father routinely turns a few seeds into an abundant harvest of crops. Jesus even said (see John 5:19) that he does only what his Father shows him to do.
But then there is the apparent miracle of walking on water, which arguably is not presented in the Gospels as a miracle at all. Jesus seems to do it casually, striding across the water when no boat is present (Matthew 14:24). The naturalness with which he does this seems to imply that this sort of capability is part of the character of the surrendered life. We haven’t heard of another believer since Jesus’ time who has replicated precisely this act—but perhaps there is more going on here that just water. I Thessalonians 5:19 says we are not to “quench” the Spirit. The Spirit, in other words, gets extinguished as if through drowning. In doing the best we can at what our Savior shows us to do, we follow his model of walking on water by gliding lightly across any of the things of this world that would submerge us.
In the case of one episode involving Peter, that “water” was literally water. Peter is the one other person in the Bible to pace across a lake. He did this one time, at the direct urging of Jesus, for only for a few steps before sinking. Becoming free enough that we relax gravity’s hold on us is thus possible—but apparently it requires such faith that few human beings do it and even fewer do it for long.
Yet other forces besides gravity also pull us down, and more than just water threatens to wash over us.
In our modern busy lives, for example, there is just so much to do.
Indeed, the pace, possibilities, and convenience of the modern world seem to make it easier than ever to succumb to a life of spiritually drowning. Most of us end up angry much of the time, and we don’t know why.
I have been angry. Only slowly have I begun to see why. I find that I have insisted on tidy appearances because I am ashamed of what others might say about the mess. I pursue distant goals because I fear having only meager success by which to let other people measure my worth in the end. I even do nonsensical and unnecessary things that others tell me to do, simply because I fear their pointing a finger of criticism at me if I don’t do them. In each of these cases, I am not worshiping God or submitting to God, but instead submitting in worship to other human beings. No breath of life can come of this, so no wonder I am angry. More accurately, I am panicked—thrashing at anyone close to me in my desperate groping for air.
The way of Christ is not like this. We still submit to other people. We serve them and regard them as treasures—this is the most vital thing we do in the world. But we do not worship them. We do not fear them, and we submit to them not out of insecurity or shame, but out of love.
I am still tidy, though. Nothing about that is inconsistent with a life in Christ. I still aspire—and I also still do many things simply because other people ask me to do them. The life of surrender is not free from pleasing other people, and not even free from chores.
Before I do any of these things, however, I breathe. The way of Christ is to pray continually (I Thessalonians 5:17). This includes praying for God to work through us and with us, recognizing that he provides the time, energy, and opportunity for all that he would have us do.
It is therefore pointless to get frustrated. It’s pointless to get frazzled. The gift I have right now is the present. “I AM,” the name of God, consists of only the present tense. God is here now, and God comes first—followed closely by the people God has put into my present life.
I breathe before taking the next steps in a full day. I remind myself that the expansiveness of the air of God is the medium through which I wish to move and live, rather than yet again making myself heavy by taking the things of this world too seriously. One of the simpler messages I derive from that picture of Jesus walking on the water is this—that all of us, by his power and grace, can discover the ability to decide not to sink.
