John Ortberg is the senior pastor of Menlo Park Presbyterian Church (MPPC) in the San Francisco Bay Area. His bestselling books include Soul Keeping, Who Is This Man?, and If You Want to Walk on Water, You’ve Got to Get Out of the Boat. John teaches around the world at conferences and churches, writes articles for Christianity Today and Leadership Journal, and is on the board of the Dallas Willard Center and Fuller Seminary. He has preached sermons on Abraham Lincoln, The LEGO Movie, and The Gospel According to Les Miserables. John and his wife Nancy enjoy spending time with their three adult children, dog Baxter, and surfing the Pacific. You can follow John on twitter @johnortberg or check out the latest news/blogs on his website at www.johnortberg.com.

If You Want to Walk on Water, You've Got to Get Out of the Boat

ZONDERVAN

Contents

On Water-Walking

It's not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena ... who, at best, knows in the end the triumph of great achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly. So that his place will never be with those cold timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt

Some years ago my wife arranged for us to ride in a hot-air balloon as a birthday gift. We went to the field where the balloons ascended and got into a little basket with one other couple. We introduced ourselves and swapped vocational information. Then our pilot began the ascent. The day had just dawned—clear, crisp, cloudless. We could see the entire Canejo Valley, from craggy canyons to the Pacific Ocean. It was scenic, inspiring, and majestic.

But I also experienced one emotion I had not anticipated. Want to guess?

Fear.

I had always thought those baskets went about chest high, but this one only came up to our knees. One good lurch would be enough to throw someone over the side. So I held on with grim determination and white knuckles.

I looked over at my wife, who does not care for heights at all, and relaxed a bit, knowing there was someone in the basket more tense than I was. I could tell, because she would not move—at all. During part of our flight there was a horse ranch on the ground directly behind her. I pointed it out because she loves horses, and, without turning around or even pivoting her head, she simply rolled her eyes back as far as she could and said, "Yes, it's beautiful."

About this time I decided I'd like to get to know the kid who was flying this balloon. I realized that I could try to psyche myself up into believing everything would be fine, but the truth was we had placed our lives and destinies in the hands of the pilot. Everything depended on his character and competence.

I asked him what he did for a living and how he got started flying hot-air balloons. I was hoping for his former job to be one full of responsibilities—a neurosurgeon, perhaps, an astronaut who missed going up into space.

I knew we were in trouble when his response to me began, "Dude, it's like this...."

He did not even have a job! He mostly surfed.

He said the reason he got started flying hot-air balloons was that he had been driving around in his pickup when he'd had too much to drink, crashed the truck, and badly injured his brother. His brother still couldn't get around too well, so watching hot-air balloons gave him something to do.

"By the way," he added, "if things get a little choppy on the way down, don't be surprised. I've never flown this particular balloon before, and I'm not sure how it's going to handle the descent."

My wife looked over at me and said, "You mean to tell me we are a thousand feet up in the air with an unemployed surfer who started flying hot-air balloons because he got drunk, crashed a pickup, injured his brother, and has never been in this one before and doesn't know how to bring it down?"

Then the wife of the other couple looked at me and spoke—the only words either of them were to utter throughout the entire flight.

You're a pastor. Do something religious.

So I took an offering.

The great question at a moment like that is, Can I trust the pilot?

I could try telling myself that everything would turn out okay. Facing the flight with a positive attitude would certainly make it a more pleasant journey. But the journey would be over soon. And the real issue concerned the dude who was flying this thing. Were his character and competence such that I could confidently place my destiny in his hands?

Or, was it time to do something religious?

Every day you and I take another leg of our journey in this giant balloon that's whirling around a vast universe. We only get one trip. I long to take it with an enormous spirit of adventure and risk—and I'll bet you do, too.

But it's a pretty uncertain ride sometimes. I wish the walls to my basket went up a little higher. I wish the balloon was a little thicker. I wonder how my little ride will end up. I'm not sure how it will handle on the way down.

I can try to psyche myself up for taking chances and believing everything will turn out okay. But the real question is, Is there somebody piloting this thing? And are his character and competence such that he can be trusted? Because if they're not, I don't want to take a chance. My story, like every human story, is, at least in part, the struggle between faith and fear.

Because of this, I have found myself drawn for many years to the story of Peter getting out of the boat and walking on the water with Christ. It is one of the greatest pictures of extreme discipleship in Scripture. In the following chapters we will take a close look at each detail of this story for what it teaches us about water-walking. But for the rest of this chapter, let's get an aerial overview. What goes into the making of a water-walker?

Water-Walkers recognize God's presence

Peter and his friends got into a little boat one afternoon to cross the Sea of Galilee. Jesus wanted to be alone, so they were boating without him. Peter didn't mind—he'd been on boats his whole life. He liked them.

But this time a storm blew in. Not a minor squall, either. The gospel of Matthew says the boat was "tormented" by the waves. It was so violent that the only thing the disciples could do was to keep the boat upright. They wished the sides were a little higher and the wood a little thicker. By 3:00 a.m. I would imagine the disciples weren't worried about making it to the other side—they just wanted to stay alive.

Then one of the disciples noticed a shadow moving toward them on the water. As it got closer, it became apparent that it was the figure of a human being—walking on the water.

Take a moment to let that image sink in. The disciples were in distress, and the very person who was able to help them was approaching them. Only he wasn't in the boat and the disciples didn't recognize him. Amazingly enough, being boatless didn't seem to slow Jesus down at all.

But the disciples were convinced he was a ghost, so they were terrified and cried out in fear. In hindsight, we may wonder how they could have failed to know it was Jesus. Who else would it be? But Matthew wants us to know that sometimes it takes eyes of faith to recognize when Jesus is around. Often in the middle of the storm, tormented by waves of disappointment and doubt, we are no better at recognizing his presence than they were.

Let's probe deeper for a moment. What was Jesus up to, walking around on the lake at three o'clock in the morning?

David Garland finds a clue in Mark's version of this story. Mark tells us that Jesus "intended to pass them by" on the water, but when they saw him walking on the lake, they thought it was a ghost. Why did Jesus want to "pass them by"? Did he decide to race them? Did he want to impress them with a really neat trick?

Garland points out that the verb parerchomai ("to pass by") is used in the Greek translation of the Old Testament as a technical term to refer to a theophany—those defining moments when God made "striking and temporary appearances in the earthly realm to a select individual or group for the purpose of communicating a message."

God put Moses in a cleft in a rock so Moses could see "'while my glory passes by.' ... The Lord passed before him."

God told Elijah to stand on the mountain "for the Lord is about to pass by."

There is a pattern to these stories. In each case God had to get people's attention—through a burning bush, or wind and fire, or walking on the water. With each person God was going to call them to do something extraordinary. In each situation the person that God called felt afraid. But every time that people said "yes" to their calling, they experienced the power of God in their lives.

So when Jesus came to the disciples on the water intending "to pass them by," he was not just doing a neat magic trick. He was revealing his divine presence and power. Only God can do such a thing: "He alone ... treads on the waves of the sea."

It is interesting that the disciples entered the boat in the first place at Jesus' command. They would have to learn—as do we—that obedience is no guarantee of being spared adversity. But now that the storm had their full attention, Jesus decided it was time the disciples got to know a little bit more about the guy who was piloting this thing. It's like this, dudes, he reassured them. You can trust me. You know my character and my competence. You can safely place your destiny in my hand. Take courage. It's me.

They didn't fully grasp it yet, but God was visiting them in the water-walking flesh.

Matthew wants his readers to know that Jesus often comes when least expected—3:00 A.M., in the middle of a storm. Dale Bruner notes that, "according to the Holy Scriptures, human extremity is the frequent meeting place with God." Those divinely appointed defining moments will come to you and me. He still asks his followers to do extraordinary things. And if you're not looking for him, you just might miss him.

Twelve disciples sat in the boat, and we don't know how eleven of them responded to that voice. Perhaps with confusion, wonder, disbelief, or a little bit of each.

But one of them, Peter, was about to become a water-walker. He recognized that God was present—even in the most unlikely place. He realized that this was an extraordinary opportunity for spiritual adventure and growth. So he got an idea.

He decided to do something religious.

Water-Walkers Discern Between Faith and Foolishness

Peter blurted out to the water-walker, "If it is you, command me to come to you on the water." Why does Matthew include this detail? Why doesn't Peter just plunge into the water? I think it's for a very important reason. This is not just a story about risk-taking; it is primarily a story about obedience. That means I will have to discern between an authentic call from God and what might simply be a foolish impulse on my part. Courage alone is not enough; it must be accompanied by wisdom and discernment.

Matthew is not glorifying risk-taking for its own sake. Jesus is not looking for bungee jumping, hang-gliding, day-trading, tornado-chasing Pinto drivers. Water-walking is not something Peter does for recreational purposes. This is not a story about extreme sports. It's about extreme discipleship. This means that before Peter gets out of the boat, he had better make sure Jesus thinks it's a good idea. So he asks for clarity, "If it is you, command me...."

And in the darkness, I think Jesus smiled. Maybe he laughed. Because one person in the boat got it. Peter had some inkling of what it is that the Master is doing. Not only that, Peter had enough faith to believe that he too could share the adventure. He decided he wanted to be part of history's original water-walk. Command me.

Water-Walkers Get Out of the Boat

Before we go any further, I want you to put yourself in the story. Picture in your mind how violent the storm must have been if it was strong enough to keep seasoned professionals struggling just to avoid being capsized. Imagine the size of the waves, the strength of the wind, the darkness of this night—and no Dramamine! These were the conditions under which Peter was going to get out of the boat.

It would be tough enough to try to walk on the water when the water is calm, the sun is bright, and the air is still. Imagine trying to do it when the waves are crashing, the wind is at gale force, and it's three o'clock in the morning—and you're terrified.

Put yourself in Peter's place for a moment. You have a sudden insight into what Jesus is doing—the Lord is passing by. He's inviting you to go on the adventure of your life. But at the same time, you're scared to death. What would you choose—the water or the boat?

The boat is safe, secure, and comfortable.

On the other hand, the water is rough. The waves are high. The wind is strong. There's a storm out there. And if you get out of the boat—whatever your boat might happen to be—there's a good chance you might sink.

But if you don't get out of the boat, there's a guaranteed certainty that you will never walk on the water. This is an immutable law of nature.

If you want to walk on the water, you've got to get out of the boat.

I believe there is something—Someone—inside us who tells us there is more to life than sitting in the boat. You were made for something more than merely avoiding failure. There is something inside you that wants to walk on the water—to leave the comfort of routine existence and abandon yourself to the high adventure of following God.

So let me ask you a very important question: What's your boat?

Your boat is whatever represents safety and security to you apart from God himself. Your boat is whatever you are tempted to put your trust in, especially when life gets a little stormy. Your boat is whatever keeps you so comfortable that you don't want to give it up even if it's keeping you from joining Jesus on the waves. Your boat is whatever pulls you away from the high adventure of extreme discipleship.

Want to know what your boat is? Your fear will tell you. Just ask yourself this: What is it that most produces fear in me—especially when I think of leaving it behind and stepping out in faith?

For David, it is his vocation. He has been a builder for thirty-five years; he is in his late fifties now. But he has been gnawed his whole life by a sense that God was calling him into church ministry. He has quieted his conscience by giving away a lot of money and doing many good things, but he can't shake off the haunting fear that he has missed his calling. And he's afraid that perhaps it's too late.

For Kathy, it is a relationship. She has been involved for years with a man whose commitment to her is ambivalent at best. He is sending her signals that everyone else can read clearly; he never initiates the language of affection, avoids talking about their future, and creates as much distance from her as possible. But she never pursues discovering his true feelings—she's too frightened. She doesn't believe she could handle losing him. Her boat is pretty shaky. But she's too scared to leave.

Ralph is the pastor of a church he neither fits nor loves. It is filled with division and petty squabbling. Rather than speaking prophetic truth or leading with clear vision, he finds himself constantly trying to placate angry attendees and keep the peace. He does not like the church; he resents and fears it. But it's his boat. If he leaves it, it will only be to find himself in another just like it.

Doug's boat is secrecy. He is addicted to pornography. It is a mild addiction, or so he tells himself, mostly adult movies on business trips and occasional sprees on the internet. Nothing that has cost him a job or a marriage—so far. But no one knows. He's afraid to admit it. He's afraid to get help. Secrecy is killing him. But it's his boat.

Kim's boat is her dad. She raises her children, keeps her house, and pursues a career designed to make her dad happy. The irony is that her dad is not happy, and nothing she can do will ever be enough to please him. But the thought of crossing him terrifies her. His approval is a pretty leaky vessel. But it's her boat.

Maybe your boat is success. That was the case for the rich young ruler in the Bible. Jesus asked him to get out of the boat ("sell all that you have, give the money to the poor, and come and follow me") but he decided not to. He had a very nice boat. A yacht. It handled well, and he liked it too much to give it up.

I wonder sometimes if he ever thought about that encounter with Jesus when he reached the end of his life—when he was an old man and his bank account, stock portfolio, and trophy case were full. Did he ever remember the day a carpenter's son called him to risk the whole thing for one wild bet on the kingdom of God—and he said no?

What is your boat? In what area of your life are you shrinking back from fully and courageously trusting God? Fear will tell you what your boat is. Leaving it may be the hardest thing you ever do.

But if you want to walk on the water, you've got to get out of the boat.

Water-Walkers expect problems

So Peter goes to the side of the boat. The other disciples are watching closely. They have seen Peter shoot off his mouth before—a lot. They wonder how far he'll take this thing.

He puts one foot over the side, carefully gripping the edge of the boat. Then the other foot. He's holding on with grim determination and white knuckles.

Then he does something religious—he lets go. He abandons himself utterly to the power of Jesus. And suddenly, for the first time in history, an ordinary human being is walking on the water.