Our readings this week are Psalm 85.8–13 and Matthew 14.22–33.

What caught my eye at the beginning of this so familiar passage about Jesus walking on the water is how Jesus instructs his disciples to get into the boat right at the beginning. Our translation softens it somewhat, ‘Jesus made the disciples get into the boat’. It’s not wrong, it’s just a bit weak – the actual word here is closer to ‘compel’ – he wasn’t leaving them any choice. Unlike many of the ‘commands’ issued in and around this story, this one leaves no space for disobedience. In the broader historical literary context, it's a word that carries overtones of divine will that cannot be ignored. It raises the question ‘why’ almost immediately: why did they need compelling? Were they afraid to leave Jesus alone with the crowd? Were they afraid of the weather? Did they know that a storm was brewing, experienced as they were?

That storm plays its part: things don’t go well for them. As they are battered by the winds, unable to control where the boat is going (in Mark’s recounting of this moment they are described as ‘straining at the oars’) we watch with Jesus from the shoreline as their physical freedom is also removed.

Next goes their emotional freedom. As we walk with Jesus over the water, we find them overwhelmed by their fear on seeing him. ‘It's a ghost,’ they think, and all they can do is cry out in fear.

For a brief heroic moment Peter finds some spark of volition, and calls out his challenge to the apparition. ‘Lord, if it’s you,’ he says, ‘tell me to come to you on the water’. (Note, ‘tell’, not ‘compel’). ‘Come’, replies Jesus.

But then again, Peter loses control of the situation. Losing now his nerve – or perhaps his faith - his doubts threaten to drown him as they cause him to sink...

Taken all together, there's a huge contrast in this story between the powerlessness of the disciples, and the calm, serene, commanding presence of Jesus. The disciples are overcome first by Jesus’ compulsion, then by the wind and the waves, then by their fear, and then by their doubt. Jesus, on the other hand, is the one doing the compelling – not only of the disciples, but of the crowds he dismisses, of the water he can walk on, and of the wind which, without a word, falls into stillness when he lifts the bedraggled Peter from the waters into the safety of the boat.

Perhaps it’s a contrast we have some understanding of. Maybe we find ourselves in places of powerlessness, compelled by forces around us into courses of action that we may not initially choose. At the same time we believe in a God who is never overwhelmed, whose purposes cannot be defeated by winds, waves, or fear.

It would be easy to turn this into a trite reflection on trust. And maybe that is something we can take from this: that despite the challenges we face, we do believe, worship, and follow a God who has got it all in hand, who is in control. And if you need that reassurance, by all means, take it.

But I found this led me to a place not of comfort, but of challenge, because it left me asking why. Why if that second part about God is actually true, does the first part about our lived experience feel so difficult?

The curious thing about this word ‘compel’ we met right at the beginning is that it only crops up three times in the gospels: here, Mark’s version of here, and once in Luke’s gospel. On that occasion Jesus puts it into the mouth of a character in one of his parables. It’s a parable about a man throwing a feast, who is struggling to fill the places at his lavishly set table. The rich friends he’d invited are too busy, and give their excuses, so instead he sends his servants to bring in the poor, maimed, blind, and lame. When there are still spare seats he sends them out again to the highways and the hedges, to find anyone they can and… compel them to come in.

In this moment by the lake Jesus’ compulsion of his disciples looks dangerous – or even abusive – as he sends them out into the storm; but elsewhere it’s a word Jesus uses to imply an invitation into abundant welcome, and generous provision.

And that made me realise that, had Jesus not compelled them to enter that boat, they never would have seen him walk on water, Peter would never have ‘stepped out of the boat’, and maybe they wouldn’t have ‘worshipped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.”’ (v32). Is it perhaps true that the compulsion on this occasion was itself an invitation into a new way of being with, understanding, and experiencing God? Perhaps this compulsion is less about overwhelming our control, and more about God’s overwhelming desire to draw us to himself in love?

It has led me to ask the question: are there places or situations into which God is calling me that I might share in a fresh encounter with him? Maybe those are situations I wouldn't ordinarily enter out of my own volition or my own free will, because I view them as dangerous, difficult, challenging, or troubling?

That should never be heard as an invitation to seek danger or suffering for its own sake; and it’s a question only ever to be asked prayerfully in the loving companionship of those who love and know us well – but it’s a question that it may profit us to ask.

Where might Christ be gently – or insistently – inviting us to meet him? Or, if we’re already in the midst of a storm, where is the ghostly flicker of his presence be waiting for our attention and trust?