We all know the spray. We all know the sting.
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The sea spray stings when it hits your face. It makes your eyes water, your breathing catch, your footing less certain. That is the scene on the Sea of Galilee. A small boat tossed about, disciples weary from straining at the oars, wind howling across the waves. It is already hard to stay afloat. Already hard to hold steady. And then Jesus comes to them, walking on the water.
It is in that storm that Peter, bold and impetuous, dares to step out of the boat. For a moment, it is glorious: walking where only God could walk. But then the spray stings his eyes, the wind roars louder than his faith, and he begins to sink.
We know that spray. We know that sting. It may not be saltwater on our skin, but the experience is familiar. The spray of circumstances that buffet us. The sting of worry that blinds us. The moments when life feels overwhelming, when we are just trying to keep our heads above the waves.
For some it is the endless tide of bad news — wars abroad, injustice at home, relentless reminders of a world in turmoil. For others it is closer to the heart: family tensions, financial strain, the uncertainty of work, the ache of illness, or the weight of loneliness. The spray comes in many forms, but the effect is the same. It blinds, it stings, it makes faith harder to see and harder to hold.
And so we find ourselves like Peter … daring perhaps to step forward, but quickly aware of how vulnerable we are. Already tired, already stretched, already buffeted. We all know the spray. We all know the sting.
The sinking feeling when trust feels thin.
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Peter begins so well. He takes a bold step onto the water, and for a few precious moments he walks where only Christ can walk. But then his eyes shift. The waves loom larger than the Lord. The wind seems stronger than the Word that called him. Fear swells, trust thins, and suddenly he is sinking.
That sinking feeling is not only Peter’s story. It is ours. Many of us know what it is to begin with confidence only to falter when the pressure builds. It might be the diagnosis that undoes the steady faith we thought we had. It might be the job loss that makes trust feel thin. It might be the endless repetition of anxiety, doubt, or depression that drags us down, even when we started out well.
Panic does not mean Peter had no faith. It simply means his faith cracked under pressure. And that is closer to our reality than we often admit. Discipleship is not lived out on calm ponds but in stormy seas. It is easy to say we trust when everything is going smoothly. It is another thing to keep trusting when the water is already around our knees.
The sinking feeling is real. It is that catch in the throat when the phone call brings bad news. It is the hollow ache in the chest when grief refuses to let go. It is the restless night when doubts churn like waves in the mind.
And in those moments, like Peter, we feel the weight of fear more than the strength of faith. Trust feels thin. Courage feels small. We find ourselves sinking. And that is exactly where Jesus meets us.
Tangible Rescue
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The moment Peter begins to go under, Jesus does not wait for him to work out a prayer of perfect theology. He does not stand back, shaking his head in disappointment. He does not demand that Peter first swim halfway by his own strength. Immediately, we are told, Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.
That is salvation in the flesh. Not an abstract concept. Not a distant promise. But a hand, rough from carpentry, scarred by labour and love, grasping the wrist of a terrified disciple. When we picture salvation, we must not think first of an idea or a doctrine, but of a hand reaching, a grip holding, a body leaning down to save another.
Think of what it feels like when someone actually steadies you. The firm hand that helps you back to your feet after you trip. The friend who clasps your shoulder when you are shaking with fear. The nurse or carer whose touch reassures more than words could. Jesus’ hand is that, only more. Stronger. Surer. The very strength of God in human flesh.
This is grace, and it is not tidy. Peter is flailing. He is wet, gasping, embarrassed. Yet Christ’s hand is already there. That is what salvation looks like in real time: not the disciple reaching up with perfect composure, but the Lord reaching down into the mess.
And it still happens. Jesus still rescues with a tangible grasp. Sometimes it comes through the Scripture that suddenly steadies our hearts. Sometimes through a hymn or a prayer that calms us. Sometimes through the voice of a friend who will not let us give up. Sometimes through the quiet strength of the church that bears us when our faith is too weak.
Christ’s hand has not changed. It is still stretched out. Still rough with love. Still scarred by sacrifice. Still ready to grasp the wrist of a sinking disciple.
Set Back on Our Feet
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Jesus does more than stop Peter from sinking. He does not simply hold him in a desperate half-drowned embrace. He lifts him up and steadies him on the waves. That is important. Rescue is not the end of the story. Restoration is.
Grace does not merely prevent disaster. It restores us to walk again. It gives us footing where we thought there was none. It places us upright where we had fallen.
Think of Peter’s weight suddenly shifting as Jesus pulls him up. Think of his knees locking again, his feet somehow firm on the impossible water, his eyes drawn back to Christ. That is the shape of salvation. Not only release from drowning, but renewal to stand tall again.
We see this all through Scripture. The prodigal is not only spared punishment, he is given a robe and a ring, and welcomed back with joy. The woman caught in sin is not only forgiven, she is restored to dignity and freedom. The paralysed man is not only healed but told to pick up his mat and walk. Grace is always more than escape. It is restoration.
And we see it in lives around us. The one who battled addiction does not only survive, but begins to flourish with new strength. The one who grieved deeply does not only endure but learns to sing again. The one who doubted fiercely does not only cling to faith but begins to share hope with others.
That is what Jesus’ hand does. It not only saves us from going under, it sets us back on our feet so that we can walk again with him.
Lifters, not watchers
Turn
Here is where the story turns. It would be easy to leave it as an inspiring picture of what Jesus once did for Peter. But the story is not only about Peter and Jesus. It is also about us. The church is called to be the body of Christ, the hands of Christ. Which means that what his hands once did, our hands must now do.
We are not called to be watchers. The other disciples stayed in the boat. They saw it all happen, they marvelled, they worshipped. But they did not reach down to lift. They watched. The church is not called to be a community of watchers, sitting back while others sink. We are called to be lifters.
Think of what that means. To be a lifter is to notice when someone is going under. It is to pay attention to the signs of panic, the weight of fear, the look in someone’s eyes when trust feels thin. Being a lifter requires attentiveness. It requires compassion. It requires courage to reach out a hand.
And it is practical. Sometimes lifting means encouragement spoken at the right time, steadying someone’s spirit with words of hope. Sometimes it means literally holding a hand, being present when someone is overwhelmed. Sometimes it means coming alongside in prayer, carrying another when they cannot pray for themselves. Sometimes it is more costly: offering resources, time, or energy to help a brother or sister stay afloat.
There are countless ways to be lifters in everyday life. A friend quietly overwhelmed. A neighbour weighed down by loneliness. A young person who feels like they are drowning in questions. A family stretched thin with responsibility. A fellow church member who has begun to drift away. The spray and sting are all around. Will we watch, or will we lift?
Being lifters means choosing grace over judgement. When Peter sank, Jesus did not scold first. He saved first. Too often the church has been known more for pointing out failures than for offering a rescuing hand. But the hands of Jesus did not fold in critique, they reached in compassion. If we are his hands, then we too must reach before we correct, rescue before we instruct.
And being lifters means recognising our own rescue. We reach because we have been reached for. We help others stand because Christ has set us on our feet again and again. We are not the saviours. We are the rescued, who now join in the work of the Rescuer.
Imagine what the world would see if the church were known as a community of lifters. Imagine if every neighbour knew that when life became overwhelming, the people of Christ would be there with steadying hands. Imagine if workplaces, schools, families, communities could point to Christians as those who notice, those who care, those who reach down and lift up.
That is our calling. Not to be watchers who marvel from the boat, but lifters who reach as Christ reached. Lifters, not watchers.
As Jesus’ hands did, so we too must…
Reprise
So what about us? We have known the spray and the sting, the sinking of faith and the grasp of Christ. Yet grace is never for us alone.
“As Jesus’ hands did, so we too must…” That is our calling. To reach for those who falter. To steady the struggler. To lift the sinking soul with prayer, presence, or simple kindness.
It does not always take great strength. Sometimes it is a quiet word, a hand on the shoulder, a simple “I am with you.” Sometimes it is a text message or a meal dropped off at a doorstep. Sometimes it is an invitation to coffee, or the gift of your listening ear. Do not underestimate how such small gestures become lifelines.
But sometimes the lift is harder. Sometimes it means walking with someone through addiction, mental illness, or family breakdown. Sometimes it means refusing to let go when someone is trying to push everyone away. Sometimes it means joining them in the storm, standing by when the wind is wild. And yes, sometimes it means carrying them until their knees lock again and they can walk on their own.
Yet we do not lift in our own strength. We lift because his Spirit lifts in us. We are his body, his hands, his steady grasp extended through our weakness. The same Christ who set Peter back on his feet empowers us to set others back on theirs.
Let us not be watchers. Let us be lifters. For as Jesus’ hands did, so we too must.