On Density and Walking on Water

When I was a child, I tried to walk on water… not once, but multiple times. I don’t think I stopped trying until I was 8 or 9 years old. I probably started when I was 5. I never told my family or friends, but each time my family went camping, which was several times over the course of the summer, I would go to the beach and, mustering all the faith I could, would step off the beach and on to the water. I tried running, I tried walking… and I couldn’t do it. I’m glad I never told my family or friends, though now I’m telling all of you, so I guess the secret is out. I’m not really sure what made me stop. Of course, there are the normal things, like growing up and realizing that I am denser than water (totally walked into all of the wisecracks you’re making about my intellect), which precludes walking on it. But I think part of what made me give up had nothing to do with density or intelligence: it had to do with faith. Have you ever watched a child believe – really believe – in something that isn’t actually real? Have you watched the look on their face as they gaze in wonder at the thought that the impossible is actually possible? Their little eyes light up and they watch, hoping and expecting the impossible to happen.

If you tell a little kid – say, 3 or 4 years old - that they are loved beyond belief, their response tends to be something along the lines of, “Of course I am! Why wouldn’t they: I am FABULOUS!” If you tell a teenager that they are loved beyond belief, a lot of them will roll their eyes and make some sort of sarcastic noise only available to people between the ages of 12 and 19 somewhere between Darth Vader breathing and radio static. If you tell an adult that they are loved beyond belief, there are some who may believe you, but a far more alarming amount will demur or say something that, if we read between the lines, means, “No I’m not.” Somehow, at some point or another, we start to believe that we’re not really capable of being loved beyond belief and we’re not really capable of the kind of faith that walks on water. I think this suggests we lack courage: a failure of living truly from the heart, from the core of who and whose we are.

The disciples weren’t afraid of the storm. Fear doesn’t come into the picture until they see Jesus walking to them just before dawn. “It’s a ghost!” Jesus doesn’t command the sea or the wind or the waves, but instead, he commands the disciples: “Take courage, I am; stop being scared!” Riiiight. It’s stormy and you’re walking on water and we’re supposed to somehow be courageous as the whole world is turned upside down, where hungry people are fed with five loaves and two fishes and sick people are healed through a touch. Courage, Jesus? Really?

Brené Brown, a professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work has done extensive research on what, exactly, it is, that makes a person courageous. When I first listened to her TedTalks, I must confess: I was hoping for a shot in the arm. I was hoping she would give me a checklist of how to be courageous. I wanted her to help me figure out how to hide the brokenness that makes me vulnerable to others, to teach me how to buffer myself so that I can somehow develop a thicker skin and make myself impervious to the external and internal voices that tell me I’m not enough. Not loved enough. Not faithful enough. Not strong enough. Not smart enough. Not hard-working enough. But she didn’t do that; she did the opposite. Her definition of courage reflects the etymology of the word, with its root coeur-: she defines courage as “living from the heart.” She went on to speak not of bravery, but vulnerability. She says, “Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren't always comfortable, but they're never weakness.” She also says “Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, empathy, accountability, and authenticity. If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path.”

There were many things that Peter didn’t understand, but he knew what it was to be vulnerable, to get the answer wrong, to sink in the face of faith that walks on water and love that exceeds our beliefs. “Lord, if it is you…” and, of all the things that could have followed next, Peter doesn’t ask Jesus to still the storm or command the wind or the waves: he asks Jesus to tell him to walk on the sea, in the midst of the wind and the waves. It’s not until Peter is out on the waves that he notices the wind. He and the other disciples have been rowing against the wind, perhaps even all night, but now he becomes frightened, noticing the wind and starting to sink. And, like a little kid who has slipped into a pool, he screams, “Lord, save me!” Jesus reaches out his hand and takes hold of Peter. Oh, little-faith one, why do you doubt?”

I’m not sure which of Peter’s actions would represent courage and which would represent vulnerability: is he vulnerable or courageous when he steps on to the water? Is he vulnerable or courageous when he cries out “Lord, save me”? I think the answer is “yes.” It would be really convenient if we could separate courage and vulnerability, but I don’t think we can. I think Brené Brown hits the nail on the head: living authentically, being ourselves, and allowing ourselves to be loved for who we are is both courageous and vulnerable. Being a person of faith is both courageous and vulnerable.

Each time we say, “No I’m not ______ enough,” we forget who and whose we are. We forget that faith walks on water, so we build boats. We forget that faith moves mountains, so we use explosives. We try to find different paths – any sort of path that will make sense to us – rather than the path of questions and uncertainty and of faith. The path of vulnerability is not the path many of us would choose. Unfortunately for us, the path of vulnerability is also the path of courage. It is the path of faith.

This is the path that says, “Lord, command me to walk on water,” and steps out on to the sea. This is the path on which we hear Christ say, “Of course I love you – you are FABULOUS!” even though we haven’t felt fabulous since we were three years old and dressed in our mom’s dress and dad’s cowboy boots. This is the path that cries out, “Lord, save me!” because we realize we can’t do it alone.

If courage means living from the heart, then vulnerability must mean being brave enough to be human. It means that we try to walk on water, knowing we will sink every time. It means knowing that we are loved beyond belief, even though we don’t feel like we are fabulous. Jesus doesn’t eradicate our faults or make us impervious to our surroundings or our neighbors before he loves us. Instead, he beckons us to tell the truth, to be courageous, to be vulnerable. This is what it is to live truly and honestly into the promises of Christ’s grace: it means we step out on to the water, it means we take a chance, and it means we try and fail, crying out, “Lord, save me!” And as Christ pulls you out of the storm and wraps you in a towel, he says “You beloved little-faithed one, why do you doubt?” He beckons us to live courageously, authentically, as his children, pulled out of the waters of baptism, slippery and wet, gasping for air, just as he pulled Peter out of the sea. Truly, this is the Son of God.