Sermon — May 4, 2025
The Rev. Greg Johnston
Have you ever had a friend who always has to be the most of everything? When you’re on a roller coaster, they scream the loudest. When someone tells a joke, they laugh the loudest. When your high-school sweetheart dumped you, they started crying. A friend who you love, but who sometimes seems to suck all the oxygen in the room into the inferno of their own emotions.
I sometimes feel that way with Peter and with Paul.
Now, these guys are great, in many ways. Two real pillars of the church, two people without whose leadership we wouldn’t be here today. They’re the only two people other than Jesus and Mary who appear twice on our calendar of saints, because the events in their lives were so momentous that they deserve double recognition. But sometimes—and don’t tell them I said this, when we’re all hanging out in heaven—sometimes they’re just a little much.
Here’s Paul this morning, for example, back when he still went by Saul, displaying his full emotional range. When the story begins, he’s persecuting the disciples of Jesus for their beliefs. But this is Paul. He can’t just oppress them quietly; no, he’s “breathing threats and murder!” (Acts 9:1) He is madder than anyone else about this whole Jesus thing, and he wants everyone to know it. But as he’s on his way to Damascus to start arresting people “belonging to the Way,” something strange happens. He sees a flash of light. And he doesn’t just shut his eyes. No! It’s Paul. He tumbles to the ground. And he hears a voice “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” Saul gets up, but he still can’t see. And his friends help him find his way into the city, where Ananias comes to help restore his sight. And immediately! something like scales falls from his eyes, and he regains his sight. And then this man who started out toward Damascus breathing threats and murder opens his mouth, and not only does he decide to stop arresting Christians, he goes to the very synagogues where he was going to hunt them down and starts proclaiming, “He is the Son of God!” (9:20) The primary persecutor of the church becomes its foremost theologian, and Paul’s “Damascus Moment” becomes the proverbial example of a dramatic turn-around.
That’s Paul, for you, but Peter can be pretty dramatic too, and today he goes overboard.
You may remember the last two times we heard from Peter. It was Peter who said to Jesus, “Lord… I will lay down my life for you!” (John 13:37) “Will you?” Jesus asks. “Before the cock crows, you’ll deny me three times.” (13:38) And he does! The same Peter who promises to die for Jesus denies that he’s even one of the disciples. His betrayal is as deep as his devotion was high. Then the women come on Easter morning to share with him the good news of the Resurrection, and what does Peter do? Does he walk back over with them to the tomb to see? No—he runs! Because it’s Peter. Of course he does.
He’s equally enthused today. Peter and Thomas and Nathanael and their crew are on a boat, out in the Sea of Galilee. They’ve gone back to their lives of fishing on the lake, how they spent their days before Jesus came to them. And just after daybreak, a man calls to them from the shore. They don’t know who it is. “You boys catch any fish yet?” “No.” “Try over there, I think you’ll find some.” And they do. In fact, they catch so many fish they can’t pull the net in.
John, the Beloved Disciple, realizes what’s going on. “It’s the Lord!” he says.
And Peter goes nuts.
He’s stripped naked to stay cool while he’s working in the sun, but now he puts back on his clothes and then leaps into the sea and starts splashing toward the shore. They’re close enough that they could talk to Jesus. A hundred yards or so. The other disciples are still back there, on the boat, looking at Peter, thinking, “That was weird.” But they eventually arrive, and there’s Peter’s, soaking wet, and Jesus, grilling fish. And Jesus breaks bread, and gives it to them, while Peter drips onto the sand.
I’m teasing Peter and Paul a bit, but that’s not really fair. Sometimes our lives are like theirs, too. Sometimes we experience these dramatic swings, from anger to joy, disdain to sincerity, faithfulness to betrayal. Sometimes we feel as though there’s a voice speaking to us from the heavens. Sometimes we throw ourselves into the sea and swim straight for the shore, because we just can’t wait to get where we’re going.
But most of us spend most of our lives like the other disciples in the boat. Just sailing along, day by day, dragging a heavy load, and hoping that what we’ve heard is true. Hoping that the faint smudge we see on the beach is Jesus. Hoping that we really are headed toward God.
This spring, a group of four of our teenage members have been meeting once a month with Michael and me to prepare for confirmation. When they were baptized as infants, their parents and godparents made promises to support and care for them in their life of faith, promises that they made, in part, on their children’s behalf, taking on responsibility for their spiritual lives. Confirmation offers the chance for these young people to take that spiritual responsibility on for themselves, to become adults in the eyes of the church. At confirmation, you kneel before the Bishop, who lays her hands on you and offers a blessing, praying for the Holy Spirit to strengthen you in your faith, empower you for God’s service, and sustain you all the days of your life.
You might notice that the Bishop isn’t here. You can tell because there’s nobody wearing a pointy hat. The formal service of confirmation will take place the next time the Bishop visits St. John’s, or in a joint service with other churches at the Cathedral, something like that. But we thought it was important this morning to recognize these four students here, as they complete their preparation. And so I want to say a word about what this time in their lives means as part of the longer life of faith.
Tommy, Caroline, Maggie, Paul: Sometimes you might have the big spiritual experiences of a Peter or a Paul. Sometimes you might feel your life turn in a direction you’d never imagined, as Paul did on that Damascus Road. Sometimes you might feel torn between loving and denying God. Sometimes you might throw yourself into the waters of life and start swimming toward the shore.
But most of life is sitting in the boat, wishing the wind were blowing a little harder, wishing your arms weren’t so sore from dragging the net, and wondering, “Is that really Jesus over there?” You may not always feel particularly connected to God. Even for the most faithful people, it often feels like the biggest questions of life—the kind of questions I’ve heard you all ask—don’t have very satisfying answers.
And that’s okay. To be a faithful person you don’t need to have the big spiritual and emotional energy of Peter or Paul. Sometimes, you just need to stay in the boat and trust that the wind is taking you where you need to go.
I want everyone to look up at the ceiling of this room. In church architecture, this space—the big central part of the church where the congregation sits—is called the nave. This is “nave” as in “navy,” as in “naval”—in Latin navis, a “ship.” If you picture that ceiling turned upside down, you might see that it’s built a bit like the hull of a boat. And there’s a good engineering reason for that: the physics of keeping a ceiling up against the force of gravity are more or less the same as the physics of keeping the ocean out against the force of water pressure.
But there’s a good symbolic reason, too. For centuries, Christians have thought about the Church as a kind of ship: the vessel within which we sail from one end of life to the other, from the beginning of God’s story for us to the end, sailing across the sea of the world, carried along by the Holy Spirit, the wind from God.
The journey that we on the way to meet Jesus on that other shore is rarely straightforward, because our path is determined by the breeze. And so, sometimes it feels like we’re sailing straight ahead toward our goal. But sometimes we’re ahead away. On occasion, this is because we’ve taken a wrong turn. But sometimes it’s because we needed to tack away in order to come back. Sometimes there’s just no wind in our sails, and we sit and drift along.
But wherever the voyage of this life takes us, we’re sailing together, not alone. So, Paul, Maggie, Tommy, Caroline, welcome to the crew of the ship of faith. You may have a dramatic life. It may be smooth sailing ahead. But wherever you go, you can always find a community and a home in the Church.