Ruth Greenaway-Robbins

Matthew 14.22–33; Romans 10.5–15

Around eighteen months ago, I was looking through the jobs page of the Church Times.

I was coming towards the end of my curacy and beginning to look for what might come next. I knew some of the things I felt called to, and a big city was definitely one of them. So London was very much in the mix, but I was trying to remain open.

And then I saw it.

An advertisement for a priest in Stamford Hill, North London. It was Anglo-Catholic, had a focus on community organising and believed deeply in community engagement. There was talk of partnership, working as part of a team, and perhaps doing something new with music.

It seemed to have neon lights flashing around it.

It looked remarkably “Ruth-shaped.”

So, I applied. To my delight, I was shortlisted. I came to visit and, as my children would say, the vibes were great.

And so, one evening in late February, I found myself with our daughter in a Premier Inn in central London, the night before my interview.

As the evening progressed, my anxiety rapidly began to rise.

All those interior, critical voices started becoming louder:

“You’re not good enough.”

“You haven’t prepared enough.”

“You’re not ready for this.”

By the time I went to bed, I was a bag of nerves. Eventually, I drifted into a restless sleep.

Then, sometime during the night, I awoke.

The hotel room seemed to be filled with a beautiful, warm and brilliant light. At first, I was confused and thought it must be morning. But when I glanced outside, it was still dark. It was the dead of night, and our daughter was deeply asleep beside me.

And then I heard music.

I can only tell you what I experienced. It was as though a host of angels were singing in the deepest, richest harmony. And what were they singing?

“Great is thy faithfulness, O God my Father.”

Obviously, besides wondering whether I was losing my mind, I felt a great sense of calm.

In that moment, I was reminded that, however much I might want to run away from God’s call, God was there.

“There is no shadow of turning with thee.”

My deepest fears were all about whether I was enough.

But God was reminding me that I did not have to do any of this in my own strength.

“Thou changest not, thy compassions they fail not;
as thou hast been, thou forever wilt be.”

Through all the things I have faced in my life, what has been the one constant?

God.

The faithful, compassionate and unchanging love of God, revealed in Jesus Christ.

“Great is thy faithfulness, great is thy faithfulness,
morning by morning new mercies I see.”

It was such a clear reminder that I had not been called to be a priest in my own strength, but through the strength and grace of the God who had called me.

“All I have needed thy hand hath provided.
Great is thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me.”

And this night was no different. If this was where God was calling me, God would provide what I needed.

Then, as suddenly as the light and music had begun, they ended.

A deep peace settled upon me, and I fell into a restorative sleep.

Of course, I still woke the next morning feeling nervous. Faith does not mean that we never feel anxious or afraid. But that experience had changed something within me. Whatever happened, I knew that I was held.

And, as they say, the rest is history.

Here I am, eighteen months later, serving the wonderful and remarkable people of Stamford Hill as their priest.

That night has stayed with me throughout my first year here. Whenever I find myself trying to be their priest entirely in my own power, worrying about things beyond my control, I remember that encounter in the hotel room.

I remember that the ministry to which I am called does not depend upon my strength alone.

It belongs to the one who called me, who called all of us, and who called the countless generations before us.

Great is thy faithfulness.

My memory of that evening was rekindled at our weekly Bible study last Monday morning, as we reflected upon the faith of St Peter in all its deep imperfection.

The disciples are in the middle of a storm. They are battered by the waves and terrified. Then they see Jesus coming towards them across the water, and their fear grows even greater. They think they are seeing a ghost.

But Jesus says:

“Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

And then there is Peter.

Truth be told, I have an enormous soft spot for Peter because I find him so relatable. He tends to jump in with both feet. He speaks with great enthusiasm before he has fully thought things through, and consequently he often gets things wrong.

He is impulsive, but he is faithful.

His faith is real, but it is also messy, imperfect and prone to wobbling.

Peter says:

“Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.”

And Jesus says:

“Come.”

So Peter steps out of the boat.

We often focus on the fact that Peter eventually sinks. But before he sinks, he steps out. Among that entire boatful of terrified disciples, Peter is the one willing to risk placing his weight upon the word of Jesus.

That is an extraordinary act of faith.

Then Peter notices the strength of the wind. Fear takes over. He begins to sink and cries out:

“Lord, save me!”

And what does Jesus do?

Immediately, Jesus reaches out his hand and catches him.

He does not leave Peter struggling in the water to teach him a lesson. He does not frighten him a little longer to ensure that he never tries anything so impulsive again.

Immediately, Jesus reaches out.

Jesus does say, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” But I cannot help imagining this being said with the wry smile Jesus must often have worn when dealing with Peter.

Not, “You are a hopeless failure.”

But, “Peter, why did you doubt? I had you. I was always here.”

In our reading from St Paul’s Letter to the Romans, he tells us that God’s word is not impossibly distant from us: it is near us, on our lips and in our hearts.

St Paul then writes:

“Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

That is precisely what Peter does.

His faith is not proved by never sinking. His faith is revealed when, sinking, he knows whose name to call.

And this is the man whom Jesus will call to help lead the Church.

Faithful? Yes.

But also impulsive, messy, frightened and imperfect.

If Jesus can call Peter, Jesus can certainly call each of us.

Jesus is revealed in the mess, in the imperfection, and in faith that doubts and wobbles. Not because doubt does not matter, but because doubt does not place us beyond the reach of God.

Faith is not always walking serenely above the waves, never afraid and never uncertain.

Faith is knowing whose name to call when the water rises.

Faith is trusting that, even when our confidence fails, Christ’s faithfulness does not.

I found myself thinking again this week about what it means to be called as a Christian, in whatever capacity that might be. There will inevitably be times when we feel as though we are sinking.

We may wobble, but God’s faithfulness never does. God has us.

We are called to bring the faith we have, even when it is small, messy and wobbling, and place it in the one whose faithfulness never changes.

Peter’s grip may have failed.

Christ’s did not.

So, as I think back to that night some eighteen months ago, I know that, of course, I will have wobbles as a priest. I will panic and think that I have to do it all alone. As a Christian, I will forget that I am not called to do any of this in my own strength.

But when I do, and whenever any of us feels ourselves sinking, the same hand is stretched towards us, and the same voice speaks:

“Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

Amen.