It was a night brewed especially for ghosts. Neither stars nor moon could be seen through the swirling clouds while the wet wind, coming from the west, plucked at our clothes and hair. In our ears its voice vacillated between whispered warnings to wailing threats. But what it meant none of us could tell, and I, for one, had the shakes. Somewhere distant thunder rumbled.

Sure you can scoff, sitting in dry and warm comfort, but try being out in a night like that. Most would find it unnerving enough somewhere out on the road, wishing for home and bed. But we were out at sea, in a bark of a boat, pulling with all our might in a night so dark I could barely see my own hands on the oars before me let alone the faces of my companions pulling alongside.

It was during what soldiers I’ve met as a tax collector call "the fourth watch," the last sentinel stand before sunrise. They didn’t like it much, but less (I confess) for fear of any supernatural thing than because the cold and the dark were unpleasant to their hard, practical hides. The water, black as tar, seemed to swallow my oar as I dipped it and pulled. All around wood creaked because of the strain of men struggling against wind and water. I thought of the many sailors that inky surface had swallowed over the years and the stories of their spirits fluttering across the chaotic surface looking for the living. I struggled between the strain to see the horizon lost in the mist and fearing what I might see instead.

"Pull harder," Peter ordered. "We’ve got to make more headway." He knew this business better than most, and I didn’t like the sound of fear I heard in his voice. Forget ghosts; we were in trouble. I put my back to it.

Hard to believe that that day should end this way. From morning to afternoon we’d had a wonderful time of learning and fellowship. I can remember thinking that I could listen to our new teacher’s words for days. I’d heard learned men speak on scripture before. However on this day the ways of Heaven, which while beautiful had always seemed distant and untouchable in the words of my old teachers, became in his voice intimate, daily and yet still beautiful. And then came that miraculous meal. Food for thousands! How he did it, I couldn’t imagine, but to be a part of it, to pass out plate after plate to wondering faces and feel as if I was part of something beyond all understanding, was wonderful. I confess I enjoyed the bit of admiration various faces showed towards me as well, as if I had anything more to do with that abundance than the plates upon which the food had been piled.

But he had sent us ahead, staying behind to pray, and we, still filled with the day and ourselves had struck off, headed for the distant shore. After all, even though it was very late and we were pretty spent from the emotions of the day, most of us (not me but most of us) were trained men of these waters.

Even in the high winds and the dark, I had been able to swallow most of my fears as being those of a landlubber who’d heard too many tall sea stories. But when Peter began to show concern, along with James and John, well, I could feel my stomach twist all the harder. And then Thomas nudged me.

"Look there! Across the water." At first I couldn’t see what he meant, but then among the mists and the waves, I saw a figure of a man, all by himself, walking where I knew there was no shore. He had no boat, no raft, no nothing. He walked upon only water.

"A Ghost!" The phrase escaped my mouth before I had time to even consider it. But clearly the others had been thinking the same thing since frightened voices confirmed my worst fear. The figure, who up to that point had been making its own way, then stopped and turned towards us, causing my terror to reach almost panic. And then I heard him.

"It is I. Don’t be afraid." He began to come towards us.

His voice, no doubt about it. I’d just spent an entire day listening to it, and there could be no mistake. My initial terror dipped a bit, but still there was a question. Things of the night had a way of shifting, becoming trusted things like homes, safe ports or even friends. How could we be certain?

"Lord," a nearby voice croaked Peter, wouldn’t you know it? He cleared his throat and started again. "Lord, if it is indeed you, command me to come to you."

"He’s out of his mind" Thomas whispered.

"Come then," said the voice. And Peter, I’ll never know how he managed it, got up in our heaving boat while we all frantically tried to keep her steady and straight and stepped out on the water.

No splash. I thought for sure that’s what would be next, but instead amidst the moaning of the wind, I heard only the slip slop of one walking in a shallow puddle on a rain soaked cobbled street. Peter, hands out, as he balanced himself on the heaving surface made his way towards the Master.

What happened next wasn’t clear. Peter later said that as he made his way towards our teacher, he became more and more certain that it was he since, as he drew near, the man on the water stayed put. In fact, with each step Peter took, he said our teacher became more substantial and familiar rather than fading or flittering away as evil spirits are described as doing. However, we couldn’t see that. What we did see was a wave tripping Peter. The wind rose and our friend began to look frantically about and then to sink. A terrified cry rose from the water.

"That’s it," I thought; I was wrong. It wasn’t the Master. We were tricked, and now it’ll take poor Peter to the bottom. But instead, the figure did the most non-ghostly thing possible. He reached down and pulled Peter back up, spoke to him for a moment, and together they made their way to our boat. Peter got into the front where he had stood earlier while our teacher came around to the rear and climbed in right beside me. I reached out and grasped his arm. Muscles hardened by years of carpentry-work tensed under my grasp as he lifted himself in. Sitting behind me, he placed a firm hand on my shoulder and squeezed, strong and affectionate at the same time. At the same moment the wind died down and the water became a gentle calm.

"Hey, look where we are." I think it was John, but I was too busy looking straight ahead to ever be sure. And none of the other guys ever recorded it. Still, right before us in easy sight was land, the coast we had been pressing for all that time. We looked back at him in wonder. There he sat, solid, intimate, and yet unquestionably far beyond our comprehension, the Son of God. For a moment, no one said or did anything. And then, like the dawn that was just breaking, he smiled at us.

"Come on guys; people are waiting, God’s will needs doing; pick up those oars and row!"

And so we rowed with a will, obeying the voice that had taught us during the day, but had saved us during the night.