You don't have to be able to walk on water

Some time ago, I sat across from someone who told me he was lying awake at night thinking about the future. Not about anything concrete — not about an illness, not about financial worries, not about a specific deadline — but about everything at once. The world. The children. The climate. The wars. The feeling that everything is shifting and that he doesn't know where to put his feet anymore. He looked at me and said, 'I don't know what I can stand on anymore.'

I immediately thought of Peter.

You probably know the story. It's in Matthew 14, starting from verse 22. The apostles are in a boat in the middle of the lake at night, the wind against them, the waves high. And then in the distance, they see a figure walking on the water. They are terrified — a ghost, they think. But the figure calls out, 'Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid.' It is Jesus.

And then comes that amazing sentence from Peter, a sentence I never tire of reading: 'Lord, if it is you, tell me to come to you on the water.' (Matt. 14:28) Jesus says, 'Come.' Peter steps out of the boat. He walks. On the water. There he stands, in the middle of the lake, in the middle of the storm, on the waves — until he looks down, gets scared, and begins to sink.

The classic lesson — and its trap

Most people draw one lesson from this story: strong faith makes everything possible. Peter walked on water as long as he looked at Christ. He only sank when his attention shifted to the wind. So: keep looking, keep believing, and miracles will follow.

That's right. Really. I have seen in my own life how faith opens things that otherwise remain closed. I write about it in my book elaborated on, and I stand by it, that it is an art — a real, learnable skill — to use faith in such a way that it allows miracles into your life. It is not magic. It is an attitude, a direction, a trust that you learn to build.

But there's a pitfall in this classic reading. And that pitfall is almost crueler than the storm itself.

Because if the moral of the story is that strong faith lets you walk on water, then the implicit conclusion is also that sinking is your fault. Too little faith. Didn't pray hard enough. Didn't trust deep enough. And then that little voice starts in your head, saying: ‘See, you don't really believe. Otherwise, you wouldn't be so scared. Otherwise, you wouldn't doubt so much. Otherwise, you wouldn't sink.’

I think a lot of religious people suffer from this. I even dare to say: I think it's one of the reasons why people give up faith. Not because they don't want to follow Christ, but because they have been given the impression that they have to be giants for that. And we are not giants.

The third perspective

So I want to propose a third perspective. One that has completely re-opened this story for me.

Jesus knew it.

Jesus knew when Peter stepped out of the boat that Peter would sink. He is not surprised when it happens. He doesn't suddenly stand on the water looking disappointed, thinking: ‘Darn, I thought he believed stronger.’ He is Christ. He knows Peter. He knows us.

And yet He says: ‘Come.’

That is an incredible statement if you pause to think about it. Christ invites Peter to do something that He knows Peter will not sustain. Not because He wants to humble him. Not because He wants to teach a lesson about failure. But because the story is not about Peter's strength. It's about what happens the moment Peter sinks.

Read verse 31 again: ‘Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.’ Immediately. No reproach. No ‘I told you so.’ No delay in which Peter first has to feel what it's like to drown. Directly. Hand extended. Grabbed.

That is the heart of the gospel, and it is hidden in what we too often read as a story about failure. We are not strong enough to save ourselves. We have never been. And we never will be. That is not a shortcoming we must overcome — that is simply the human condition. That is why we need Christ. That is why there is atonement. If we could save ourselves, the whole gospel would have no point.

The scriptures repeat that basic lesson endlessly, in a thousand different ways. And this story is one of them. Peter does not sink because he failed as a believer. Peter sinks because he is human. And Christ does not save him because his faith was sufficient. Christ saves him because Christ saves. Period.

The peace that comes from it

What does this do to me? It brings peace. Really deep peace.

For if I believe that I must learn to walk on water before Christ accepts me, then I live my whole life in fear. Then every doubt is a defeat. Every difficult night proof that I am failing. Every storm in my life an exam I am failing.

But if I believe that Christ extends his hand the moment I sink — not before, not as a reward for my strength, but precisely at the moment of my weakness — then I can breathe. Then I am allowed to be human. Then I am allowed to be afraid, to doubt, to fail, and to get up again. For salvation does not depend on my strength. It depends on his hand.

And here comes something interesting. Something I didn't expect when I started reading this story this way. Precisely by knowing that I am saved, I dare more. Precisely by realizing that I don't have to walk on water to be loved, I can step out of the boat more easily. It's a vicious circle, but a good one. Not a downward spiral of fear, but an upward spiral of trust.

He who knows he cannot drown dares to swim. He who knows he cannot fall dares to jump. And he who knows that Christ holds him dares to step onto the water — even if he also knows that he will sink. For sinking is no longer the end. Sinking is the moment when the hand comes.

The water of our time

I think this story is more important today than ever. We live in a time when the water is high. For decades we thought in terms of progress — the world was getting better, science solved it, tomorrow would be brighter than today. That optimism has turned into its opposite for many. We now think dystopically. We expect things to get worse. We see problems that we no longer know how to solve. Many of us are sinking at the same time.

And in the same decades, we have hidden faith away in a corner. Not polite enough for public debate. Too private to talk about. Too old-fashioned to take seriously anymore. But now that we collectively feel the water rising, I think it's time to reopen that corner.

Not to impose anything on people. Not to prove a point. But because somewhere I cannot bear that so many people lie awake at night with fear without ever having heard that a hand is being extended. Without anyone ever telling them that they don't have to be their own saviors alone. Without them ever realizing that letting light in literally makes things brighter.

Because look what happens when you let Christ in. Light comes. And when there is light, you see better. And when you see better, much of the fear disappears — because fear thrives especially in the dark, with things we cannot distinguish. And when fear diminishes, you dare again. You dare to make decisions. You dare to reach out to another who is also sinking. Thus the circle grows larger. Thus the light becomes more.

We are often the cause of the darkness in our lives. That's an uncomfortable sentence, I know. But it's true. We lock ourselves in, we dwell on our own sorrow, we feed our own fear. And in that closed system, it remains dark. Letting in the light is a choice — and it's a choice that doesn't ask you to be strong first. It only asks you to open a crack.

An invitation

So to everyone who is now looking anxiously at the future: I believe that this story — and so many other stories in the scriptures — is there just for you. Not to tell you that you should believe stronger. Not to tell you that you should be able to walk on water. But to let you know that the hand is there the moment you sink.

I invite you to think about it. And especially: to pray for it yourself. Sincerely ask if Christ is there for you personally. Not for humanity in general, not for believers in the abstract, but for you. With your name. With your specific storm. With your specific water. I dare to promise you that an answer will come — not always when you want it, not always in the form you expect, but one will come.

And read those stories. Don't read them as old texts about old people. Read them as if they are about you. Because that is indeed the case. Peter, that is you. The water is your water. And the hand is extended to you.

If you have questions, you can always ask me. I am happy to help wherever I can. The light of Christ is far too important to keep to ourselves. And if I want to convey one thing in this blog, it is this: you don't have to be able to walk on water. You are allowed to sink. The hand comes immediately.