“Works in Progress”

Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost

August 16, 2026

Psalm 85:8-13

Matthew 14:22-33

First, let’s back up a bit in the narrative and reorient ourselves. Jesus had been teaching in parables across the countryside—including his own hometown—when word came to him that King Herod had murdered John the Baptist. Upon hearing this news, Jesus escaped to a quiet place to pray and be alone with his grief.

Except, the crowds heard the same news and followed him. As they gathered, he continued to heal and to teach. When evening came, he enlisted the disciples to feed the crowd of 15,000—which they did with a fair bit of confusion and amazement. There was so much left over that what started as 5 loaves and 2 fish became 12 baskets of extra.

This is the point in which Jesus commands the disciples to take the boat to the other side of the lake, leaving him alone to disperse the crowds. He tries a second time to be alone in prayer and grief. And then, as the storm rages and the disciples lose hope, Jesus walks toward them across the water, like a ghost.

And throughout this story, I just keep wanting to know: Why? Why did Jesus make the disciples leave? Was it for their protection from the crowds? Or to keep them from getting the crowd riled up with ideas of a warrior Messiah? Or to set them up for a miracle?

And then Jesus waits as the storm rages. He waits to join them, and then he walks out to them—through the storm. Why? What is he proving? What is he accomplishing? Why not calm the storm? What is this story about, anyway?

And then there’s Peter. I mean, really. “Command me to walk to you?” What is he thinking? Is he testing Jesus? Is he testing his own faith? Is he calling Jesus’ bluff? And Jesus says, “Come.” He plays into whatever weird manipulation is going on here. Why? What is he trying to prove?

The ONLY thing that makes sense is that Peter eventually sinks. And that when he does, he cries out, “Lord, save me!” It’s like being in some weird trippy dream and finally, with the water closing in overhead, waking up to reality. And then, of course, upon reentering the boat, the storm ceases, and everyone says, “Oh yeah. This is God’s Son, all right.”

Seriously? It takes them this long? After he calmed the storm the first time and healed the sick and fed the masses? And THIS is what finally convinces them? Why?

Instead, I appreciate the interpretation offered by the filmmakers of “The Chosen.” There’s absolutely no Scriptural evidence of the personal details, but it does offer a way to make sense of the story. In season 3, Jesus sends the disciples out in twos to proclaim the gospel to the outlying areas. While they are gone, Peter’s wife Eden has a miscarriage that nearly claimed her life.

When he finds out, he is both devastated and angry. Jesus has been healing people and blessing people—strangers they would just happen upon. But he let Eden suffer. Peter also feels guilty because he was on a mission for Jesus when it happened. He was gone when she needed him. And he didn’t really know how to show up for her when he returned and learned the truth.

It all culminates as the disciples gather baskets to distribute food to the crowds. Peter is seething, and while everyone else wonders what Jesus is going to do, Peter knows. He hates that Jesus is going to help the people—again. Because he apparently doesn’t care at all about his own beloved disciples. Why doesn’t he help THEM first?

Then the story continues. Jesus sends them out on the boat and retreats to a quiet place until the middle of the night. The disciples have been struggling for hours on the lake and have all but given up. When they see Jesus walking towards them, everyone is afraid. But Peter has had enough of the theatrics. His insistence that Jesus command him to walk on the water is a challenge—a dare. It’s like, “So, if you’re the one—if you’re the man—then do something. Prove it.”

And he begins to walk toward Jesus. Angry, with a legitimate chip on his shoulder, he takes another step. And another. Until he realizes where he is and what he’s doing. But this isn’t where his faith falters. That happened long before. This is just when he realizes it. And he cries out, “Lord, save me.” His confession of faith is in that one word: “Lord.”

When Jesus helps him back into the boat, Peter breaks down in grief, in relief, in despair, in love, in repentance. And all he says as Jesus holds him close is, “Don’t let me go.”

We all know moments of grief and anger—of doubt and antipathy. We often ask ‘why’—Why did you let it happen? Why didn’t you do something? Why weren’t you there? And what difference does it make if you can walk on water or not? How does that change anything?

But Jesus walking on water isn’t the most important part of this story. The key piece comes when we sink—and we will. We are still allowed to cry out, “Lord, save me!” And Jesus will always be there, reaching into our pain and our fear. Jesus will always be there holding onto us—even when we let go.

It’s not that Peter didn’t believe in God. Or in Jesus. Or that Jesus was God. What he stopped believing in—according to one interpretation—is that God would be there for HIM. He believed in the miracles. He believed God cared about the people. But because God didn’t step in and stop bad things from happening to him, the most fervent of the disciples, then why was he there?

Why was he working so hard for someone who would abandon him in his time of need? And there are no satisfactory answers for that. What we forget is that Jesus too was in the midst of a crisis. His cousin had just been killed in a political maneuver that foreshadowed Jesus’ own death. He was grieving. He was probably scared. He was exhausted from the healing and the teaching. Perhaps he was also angry—with God, with Herod, with the people, with the disciples. No one seemed to understand. Even with all of the followers, his was a very lonely road. So, he was not new to the pain and anxiety that seemed to pervade society.

If Jesus, himself, struggled with these things, then why do we think we shouldn’t? Why do we think being faithful earns us a seat on the ‘easy bus?’ Just because we go through difficulties in life doesn’t mean that God doesn’t care—that God isn’t there. It doesn’t mean that Jesus has abandoned us.

We of little faith need not worry about the amount of faith we have. We need not worry about being angry with God. We need not worry about the times when we can’t stand to look at Jesus because we didn’t see him when we were struggling. It’s okay. He can take our anger and our grief and our pain. He can take our disappointment and our fear. He is there every time our feet and faith give way, and we find ourselves drowning. Even when we don’t cry out, he is there.

Jesus reaches into the darkness and despair. He enters it with us. He holds us tight and promises to neIsaiah 56:1, 6-8

Matthew 15:21-28

I’m so excited for season 4 of Ted Lasso. I started watching the show last year, and it is so good. I loved watching the transformations of the various characters—especially Rebecca. The series starts off with Rebecca, the owner of a soccer team in England. Just divorced, she has won control over her ex-husband’s beloved soccer team—one he spent so much time, energy, and money building up. So, she decides to sabotage it. She hires a football coach from Kansas City to coach the team. And he’s horrible. Just like she planned.

Over the three seasons, it is so fun watching everyone learn and grow. They are all works in progress. Even Ted. In the end, Ted returns to the states, and we all thought that would be it. But there’s a new season! Season 4 brings Ted back to coach a new women’s soccer team. And Rebecca is poised to fight for the women. Except, she’s as much a product of the patriarchy as everyone else. Alice, the new assistant coach, sees through Rebecca’s performative feminism. She asks her, “Did you even consider me as head coach? Did you consider any woman as head coach?” Rebecca stammers and back-pedals, but she’s caught out.

So, she starts reading and researching. She starts quoting bell hooks and other feminist writers. But she still doesn’t get it. At least, not yet. Instead, her assistant Keeley is the real strength. She starts by pushing for a better locker room and then renovating it herself. She listens to what the women want and need. It’s not just what she thinks she’s doing. It’s what she actually does that shows what’s in her heart.

Which is why it’s always so hard to read this passage from Matthew. Jesus has just finished arguing with the Pharisees about clean and unclean food. He says that it’s not what goes into a body that makes it unclean; it’s what comes out. Because what comes out—how one acts and what one says—shows what is in their heart.

Then he and the disciples go to the region of Tyre and Sidon. This is a region filled with Canaanites, Syrians, and other Gentiles. It’s the region where Elijah fled from Jezebel’s army and stayed with an impoverished Gentile widow and her son, providing for their needs for as long as he was with them. In Luke, Jesus even references this story when he tries to preach in Nazareth, pointing out that prophets aren’t welcome in their hometowns. Instead, God sends them out to the ones who are otherwise despised and excluded.

So this is where Jesus and the disciples are when a Canaanite woman begins calling out to them, begging him to heal her daughter. She is insistent. She is incessant. She is annoying. And Jesus ignores her. When the disciples beg him to send her away—she’s ruining their holy vibe—he confirms that his mission is to the House of Israel, not to Gentiles. But she is persistent. And he finally acknowledges her and calls her a dog. She doesn’t argue. She turns his insult back on him. “Yes, and even dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the table.”

In First Century Jewish culture, dogs were pests. They ran feral through the streets. They were seen as unclean. Remember, Jesus just got done with an argument about what is clean and unclean. But in most Gentile cultures of the day, dogs were pets—much like they are for us. They were a part of the family. They deserved to eat and be cared for—not abused and neglected. She called Jesus out.

We really don’t like that. Some theologians try to cushion the blow by saying that Jesus was just setting the disciples up for a lesson. Or they say that Matthew tells the story in a way to help his readers learn about the true and expansive nature of the gospel. When I read it, it just feels like Jesus doesn’t get it. Not yet. That maybe he’s a work in progress.

All the pieces are there. It’s not outside factors that make someone unclean; it’s what is in the heart. Things like hate and jealousy and disgust and disrespect. Things like assumptions about a person or group of people that come from disinformation or simply lack of education. Even religious teachings that have become entrenched without self-reflection. All of these things harden one’s heart, and what comes out—regardless of whether they were well-intentioned or not—is unclean. Because it’s hurtful. It’s not life-giving.

And what Jesus said was not life-giving. It was hurtful and mean. Thank God that isn’t the end of the story. Thank God Jesus can grow and change. Thank God he isn’t merely a product of his time but is a living, developing, engaging individual who isn’t forced to remain static. And neither are we, thank God.

Once Jesus actually sees the woman, he recognizes her ‘great’ faith. In Matthew, the only people identified with ‘great faith’ are Gentiles—the magi, this woman, and the centurion who begs Jesus to heal his slave. It’s the Jews and disciples who Jesus says have ‘little faith.’ Interesting.

Not long before this encounter, Jesus had fed 5,000 Jewish families with 12 baskets of left-overs. Crumbs, if you will, from the table. Soon, Jesus will feed over 4,000 Gentile families with seven loaves and a few fish with 7 baskets of left-overs. And after the resurrection, Jesus will give the disciples the great commission: “Go, therefore, to ALL nations, baptizing and teaching.” Not just to the House of Israel. Jesus recognizes his mission has expanded. And today’s encounter with the Canaanite woman is the turning point.

This passage is difficult to deal with because we want Jesus to be perfect. We want him to be born into perfection, with no need to learn or grow or develop into his ministry. But maybe this interaction is an example of his perfection. Not that he gets everything right the first time, but that he can change his mind. He can learn and grow. Maybe he’s modeling imperfection for us so that we can see that there is always an opportunity to do better. Be better.

Maya Angelou said, “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” How can we lift up a motto of practicing imperfection if we don’t allow Jesus to model it for us, first? And that’s the beauty of this story. Jesus didn’t double-down on his idea of the exclusiveness of his mission. He listened. He paid attention. He learned something new. And he opened his arms even wider—even, and especially, when that idea wasn’t popular or politically wise. He did it anyway.

I can’t wait to watch the next episode of Ted Lasso to see how Rebecca will continue to be challenged; to see Alice open up to receiving love; to see Keeley run rough-shod over convention in order to lavish everyone with her effervescence. Because we’re never done growing and changing and learning. That’s what makes humanity beautiful. That’s what keeps us hopeful. God’s still at work in us. All of us. We are works in progress.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church

Lincoln, NEver let us go.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church

Lincoln, NE