Walk on Water

For me, starting a business is an act of faith. It’s Peter in the boat all over again. Jesus is inviting him to come, never mind the fact that Peter will have to walk on water to do it. The water is unimportant. What is important is Peter’s faith. What is important is acceptance and action: he has to get out of the boat and walk on the water.

I hear the invitation, and, because I’m a bit more like Thomas than Peter, I raise my eyebrows. Get out of the boat? I know the boat. It may have a small leak. It may be uncomfortable when filled with eleven other companions and a boatload of fish, but I know it. It’s comfortable.

Walk on the water? I don’t know anything about the water except that people drown in it. I’m likely to be one of them. It’s not like I’m some expert swimmer. Walker, either. I have no qualifications. Get out of the boat and walk on the water? I must be hearing things.

I’m not. Jesus is inviting me to come. I look at him. I know my face must communicate everything: “Are You sure, Jesus?” Maybe he nods, maybe he doesn’t. I only know I’m nodding, hauling myself over the side of the boat with all the gracefulness I’m capable of—it isn’t much. I walk into walls and take off three layers of skin when my knee or elbow collides against concrete. It isn’t pretty.

I’m on the water. More importantly, I’m standing on it. It feels like…it feels like perfect summer grass beneath my feet. I could run and skip across it, go for a roll in it like a four year old, sprawl. I can feel myself lighting up. I can’t contain the joy I feel in walking on this water, in heading toward the One who called me to walk on it.

And yet—

Missteps. I realize I’m not in a meadow; I’m walking on water. I’m walking on water! Pride and doubt mingle together. I don’t ask for help when I need it. I think I’ve exhausted a mentor’s kindness and willingness to help. I falter. I begin to sink.

“Save me, Jesus!” I cry. The amazing thing? He does, just as he did with Peter. Jesus was there in the doubt and pride. He knew the mixed motives of Peter’s heart and mine, and he was still there.

He still is. He’s extending a hand. I grab it. He pulls me up, and we walk on water that feels like grass but is as firm as a rock.

Image: loreth_ni-Balor (Creative Commons)