11 Pentecost

 

August 9, 2026

 Matthew 14:22-33

 + So, this story of Jesus and the storm is one that really, I think, captures our imaginations in a real way.

 It resonates with all of us.

 And not just because it’s about an actual meteorological event.

 We love this story---it resonates with us—because we all know storms.

 And by that, I mean, we know what chaos and hardship are like

 And we have all weathered our fair share of “storms” in our lives.

 Many of us—and I’m speaking for myself very much here—have tried to hard to make sense of the storms in our lives.

 And there have been many times when I have emerged from them  wondering not only “what was that?” but also “why did that happen?”

 The storm  in today’s Gospel reading forces us to reassess and reexamine not only the “what” of a storm, but also the “why.”

 In our Gospel, we find Jesus sending the disciples out onto the water without him.

 And what does he send them into?

 A storm.

 A real storm.

 But this is important to remember:

 that storm is not a sign that they have done something wrong.

 It is not divine wrath

 They are in that boat precisely because they have done what Jesus told them to do.

 Sometimes heeding Jesus, and following Jesus, leads us into storms.

 Stoms of misunderstanding.

 Storms of resentment.

 Storms in which we are buffeting by the forces that happen for trying to do the right thing in this world.

 And we wonder, “why?”

 After all, we sometimes imagine that being faithful will somehow protect us from trouble.

 We think, if I pray enough, if I believe enough, or if I just live well enough, the storms will pass me by.

 But that is not the promise of the Gospel.

 The promise is not that there won’t storms.

 I hate to break this news to you, but there are going to be storms!

 The promise is that even the midst of the storm, we are never alone.

 Even there, the Anointed One of God will come to us.

 The disciples see Jesus walking toward them across the water, and they are terrified.

 They think he’s a ghost.

 They can’t recognize him because of their fear, because fear has distorted their vision.

 Fear does that.

 Fear makes every shadow look threatening.

 Fear convinces us that we are all alone.

 Fear tells us that the wind and the waves are the only things that are real.

 Fear tells us that no one is coming for us.  

 I think I’ve shared with you before what I think is the most absolutely terrifying film I’ve ever seen.

 It is not what you think it would be.

 It’s not a horror film, per se.

 It’s not even remotely supernatural.

 Rather, it’s based on a true story.

 The most terrifying film I’ve ever seen is a film called Open Water.

 It’s about an actual event in which an American couple are scuba diving in the Coral Sea off Australia.

 They accidently left behind by the crew of their tour boat.

 And they are forgotten.

 For days.

 In shark infested water.

With no provisions.

 With nothing.

 And no one is coming to rescue them.

 That, to me, is real fear.

 Jesus understands this fear.

 He understands this sense of being afraid and alone and left behind.

 Because what does he say to those followers of his?

 He says,

 “Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.”

 Do not be afraid.

 The most commonly repeated command we find in all of scripture.

 Do not be afraid.

 Well, Peter takes those words a bit too far—as Peter tends to do.  

 He steps out of the boat and starts walking toward Jesus.

 But then he notices the wind and what happens?

 He begins to sink.

 Now, we might be tempted to judge Peter at this point.

 We might say, well, if only he had kept his eyes on Jesus.

 If only his faith had been stronger.

 If only he had been less afraid.

 But, let’s be honest.

 We’ve been where Peter was.

 We too have been impetuous.

 We too have stepped out a bit too self-assured.

 And we too have let fear win out.

 We too have sunk.  

 Peter then cries out.

 “Lord, save me!”

 And the answer to his plea is quick.

 Immediately Jesus reaches out his hand.

 Jesus does this not after Peter gathers himself together.

 He doesn’t do it after Peter proves that his faith is strong enough.

 He does it, immediately, int hat moment of fear and panic.

 That, very simply, is grace.

 Grace—that gift we receive from God that we do not necessarily deserve or fully anticipate.

 In this sense, grace is the hand of God’s Anointed One reaching out for us before we can save ourselves.

 This is our hope as followers of Jesus.

 There will be times when the wind is against us.

 There will be times when fear prevails in our lives.

 There will be times when we cannot recognize those whom God sends to us coming toward us.

 There will be times when our courage fails and we begin to sink.

 But even then, even in that moment of fear and despair, we are not beyond the outstretched hand of the Anointed One.

 Sometimes faith is walking on water.

 And sometimes faith is simply knowing whom to call upon when we are going under.

 Sometimes faith is simply saying,

 “Lord, save me.”

 It’s a small prayer.

 But it’s enough.

 Because, no matter what may happen, no matter how intense the storms are in my our lives, no matter how alone we may feel or convinced no one is going to come and save, the hand of God’s Chosen One is always reaching toward us.

 

10 Pentecost

August 2, 2026

 Matthew 14:13–21

 So, as I’ve shared with many of you, I read a book a few months ago that blew me away.

 It was not a book I would’ve expected to do so.

 It’s a well-known book, but one that just never piqued my interest.

 And then it started gaining a bunch of buzz on social media.

 So, I reluctantly picked it up and started reading it.

 And was blown away!

 It was none other than. . . .Lonesome Dove.

 If you haven’t read it---read it!

 It’s not just another Western.

 Well, my reading the book opened up for me the world of Larry McMurtry and I have come to really love him as an author.

 I ended reading the two recent biographies of him, which are fascinating.

Larry McMurtry

 Just to give you an idea of who Larry McMurtry was, he was much more than the author of Lonesome Dove.

 His first novel, Horseman, Pass By was published in 1961 and was, in 1963, made into a movie and renamed. . . Hud, with Paul Newman and Patricia Neal.

 If you’ve never seen Hud, see it!

 It’s an amazing film!

 He also wrote The Last Picture Show, about growing up in Archer City, Texas in the early 1950s, which was made into a classic film by Peter Bagdonovich and won multiple Oscars.

 He also wrote Terms of Endearment, which also was made into an Oscar-winning film

 And, along with Diana Ossana, he wrote the screenplay for the film Brokeback Mountain, which also won multiple Oscars.

 (He didn’t write the short story though—that was Annie Proux)

 One of the areas in his life I was especially amazed by was something that happened to him in 1991.

 About a week before Labor Day that year,  as we he was driving from his home in Archer City, Texas to his ranch house to watch the sun set, he accidently hit a cow with his car.

 The cow walked away.

 And McMutry drove on to the ranch and watched the sun set.

 But the next morning he woke up not feeling well.

 He was coughing.

 He felt rotten.

 So he went to the doctor in Wichita Falls, who informed him in no uncertain terms that he was having a heart attack.

 The medical authorities informed him that he had to have quadruple bi-pass surgery immediately.

 McMutry, who was finishing his novel, Texasville, a sequel to his amazing novel, The Last Picture Show, told them he was going to finish his novel first.

 So, he continued working on his novel from September until December 1.

 On December 2, he had the bypass surgery.

 And he came through with flying colors.

 However, int eh months that followed, he simply lost himself.

 He stopped reading.

 He stopped writing.

 He just. . .stopped.

 He would say later, my personality died on the operating table.

 His soul died on that operating table.

 He said, the person I was before that operation was not the same person I was afterward.

 And I didn’t know who I was afterward.

 Eventually, he made his way back, but until the his dying day, he truly felt his very personality had died in that surgery.

 I think many of us have experienced similar moment sin our own lives.

 As most of you know, I certainly went though something very similar when my mother died.

 Some part of myself that I was before died the day she died.

 In fact, a few months after she died, I was driving back from the Cities on Highway 10.

 I stopped, as I often do when I’m driving that road at a particular truck stop in Motley, Minnesota.

 I’ve always loved stopping there to pick up a Diet Coke, look at he live bait in the back of the store and just stretch my legs.

 That day when I walked in there after my other died, I suddenly had this realization that the last time I walked through those doors, my mother was alive,

 But somehow, deep down inside me, the voice in my head said clearly, “the last time I walked in these doors I was alive.”

 And that statement felt just as true.

 That’s how grief works sometimes.

 When people we love dearly die, a huge part of us dies with them.

 There’s just no getting around that fact.

 And it’s terrible.

 The reason I bring all of this up is that I think a similar situation happens in our Gospel reading for today.

 In it, he hear that John the Baptist has just died.

 Before we hear anything about bread or fish or crowds, we hear that Jesus has received devasting news.

 And Jesus does what any of us would do in that situation.

 He withdraws to a deserted place, seeking, perhaps, the same thing we seek when grief comes into our own lives.

 Silence.

 Time to mourn.

 But, of course, he doesn’t get that.

 The crowds of course find him.

 What always strikes me about this passage is that Jesus does not ignore his own sorrow, but neither does he allow it to close up his heart.

 He may have felt like he lost a bit of himself when John died, but he never loses his love for others.

 Matthew simply tells us that he “had compassion for them.”

 Even while carrying grief himself, Jesus remains open to the suffering of others.

 Which is important to us as well.

 It’s a good reminder that compassion doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine.

 Compassion is allowing our own wounded hearts to remain tender enough to notice someone else’s need.

 Most of us know what it’s like to carry burdens that no one else can see.

 We come to church with losses, with worries, with disappointments, and, more often than not, with our unanswered prayers—or rather praters that were not answered in the way we wanted them answered.  

 We come to church often feeling as though our very personality has died.

 And no one else knows or even notices how deeply profound that death is to us.

 But it’s important to remember that just because we’re struggling, it doesn’t mean we have nothing to offer anyone else.

 Jesus shows us another way.

 Sometimes the deepest ministry is offered by people who know what real sorrow feels like.

 A sorrow that essentially is a death of our very self.

 And let’s face it, those of us who have been comforted by God in our own lives often become the ones through whom God’s comfort is given.

 God sometimes uses our wounds—our often unhealed wounds—to heal  other people’s wounds.

 The feeding of the multitude is certainly a miracle.

 But perhaps the greater miracle begins before the bread is ever broken.

 It begins when Jesus refuses to let grief become isolation.

 He continues even in his sorrow to love.

 He continues to heal others.

 He continues to welcome others.

 That is the pattern of life for all of us who follow Jesus.

 We don’t need to wait until life is perfect before we become people of mercy.

 If we do, we’re missing the point.

 We can’t wait until every question has been answered before we love our neighbor.

 We need to just follow Jesus, trusting that God’s grace is present even here, in the wilderness, here in the valley of the shadow of death.

 The crowds came to that deserted place expecting very little.

 They left having discovered that Jesus’ very  presence was enough.

 God worked even through that sorrowful presence of Jesus.

 That remains true for us as well.

 Whatever we have brought with us this morning—our joys or our sorrows, our faith or our doubt, our hope or our weariness—we bring it into the presence of God in Jesus.

 And it is there we discover again and again that God never abandons us.

 We are not dead.

  Our personalities are still alive.

 Jesus is still present in us, his people.

 And we, because of that presence in our midst,  we become the presence of Jesus to those who need Jesus, right now, right here, in this place.

 That’s how the Reign of God becomes truly present.  

 Amen.