PROPER 16, YEAR A

Sunday 23 August 2026

Sts. Matthew & Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

Isaiah 51:1-6

Romans 12:1-8

Matthew 16:13-20

 

In today’s Gospel, Jesus and his disciples have just arrived in the region of Caesarea Philippi. This town lay in the far north of Galilee, near Mount Hermon, in the area now known as the Golan Heights. Its most prominent landmark was a shrine to the god Pan (and I’ll say more about that shortly). Four years ago, Elizabeth and I had the privilege of visiting the site of Caesarea Philippi on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

 

Here, Our Lord asks his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” (Jesus often refers to himself as the Son of Man, a phrase that simply means “human being.”) The initial answers are intriguing. “Some say John the Baptist; but others Elijah; and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” 

 

Let’s look at those answers. By this time, John the Baptist was already dead. Yet Matthew’s Gospel reports that on first hearing about Jesus, King Herod said to his servants, “This is John the Baptist, who has been raised from the dead; this is why these powers are at work in him.” So, the rumor that Jesus was John the Baptist returned from the dead was already circulating in high places.

 

As for Elijah, many Jews believed that Elijah would return as a messenger sent to prepare the way for the Messiah. A verse in the Book of Malachi proclaims, “Behold I will send you Elijah the Prophet before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes.”

 

And as for Jeremiah, or one of the prophets, many Jews were waiting for a figure called “the Prophet.” This expectation came from Moses’ parting words to the Israelites: “The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among you—him shall you heed.”

 

So: John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah or one of the prophets: all good guesses as to Jesus’ identity, but all falling short of the truth. So Jesus asks the disciples: “Who do you say that I am?” Speaking up on behalf of the rest, Simon Peter replies, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.”

 

The Hebrew word Messiah means “Anointed One.” And it translates into Greek as Christos, or Christ. So, contrary to what I thought when I was a kid, “Christ” is not our Lord’s surname, but his title. “Jesus Christ” means “Jesus the Messiah,” or “Jesus the Anointed One.”

 

Peter has given the right answer. Jesus congratulates him: “Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah, for flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.” 

 

The lesson here is that none of us can come to true knowledge of who Jesus is by our own unaided human abilities. Only God can reveal that knowledge to us. As Saint Paul exhorts us in today’s reading from Romans: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds ....”

 

Then Jesus continues: “And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church, and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it.”  Here Jesus is indulging in an amusing bit of wordplay. In Greek—the language of Matthew’s Gospel—the name Peter, Petros, is similar to the word for rock, petra. And in Aramaic, the language that Jesus was probably speaking, both the name Peter and the word “rock” are the same: kepha.

 

And “the gates of Hades” shall not prevail against the Church that Jesus will build on this rock. To understand what’s going on here, we need to return to the temple of the Greek god Pan at Caesarea Philippi. An especially lecherous deity, Pan had the head, torso, and arms of a man but the legs, hindquarters, and horns of a goat. His worshippers engaged in orgiastic rituals involving lewd practices best left unmentioned.

 

At present-day Caesarea Philippi, the temple’s ruins stand on a rocky outcropping overlooking where the town was. Directly behind the temples rises a one-hundred-foot cliff, at the bottom of which opens out the yawning mouth of a cave. Pagan worshipers believed that this cave was a gate to the underworld, Hades, the place of departed spirits, and also the place where the god Pan went during the winter (presumably to stay warm).

 

With a little imagination, we can picture Jesus and the disciples arriving in Caesarea Philippi, and seeing this rocky hillside with its temple and its cave believed to be a gate to the underworld. Over and against such temples built on physical rocks, Jesus declares that Peter and, by extension, the other apostles are the rock on which he will build his Church—in Greek, his ecclesia, or assembly—against which the gates of Hell shall not prevail.

 

This image calls to mind a city under siege, which a besieging army storms by battering down the city gates. Even so, the gates of hell will not withstand the preaching of the Gospel. An ancient Christian tradition depicts Christ himself as breaking down the gates of hell when he descends to the dead in the interval between his crucifixion and resurrection.

 

Today’s Old Testament reading from Isaiah exhorts us: “Look to the rock from which you were hewn, and to the quarry from which you were dug.” We need to hold fast to the assurance that in Holy Baptism, we’ve been made members of a Church built on a rock—the rock of the sure foundation of confession of faith in Christ Jesus and proclamation of the good news of his kingdom.

 

So far as I’m aware, today’s Gospel is the only place in the New Testament that shows Jesus and his disciples in the immediate vicinity of pagan shrines and temples. Such centers of idolatrous worship and debauched rituals must have been deeply offensive to their Jewish sensibilities.

 

Yet perhaps it’s especially appropriate that it’s here, of all places, that Peter confesses Jesus to be the Messiah, the Son of the Living God; and that Jesus in turn names Peter as the Rock upon whom he’ll build the Church. Already they’re the advance guard of a movement that will sweep away false belief and false worship by the power of God’s Word and God’s Holy Spirit. 

 

The Roman historian Plutarch relates an incident that took place during the time of Tiberias—whose reign as Emperor largely overlapped the life of Jesus. A sailor on board a ship sailing from Greece to Italy heard a supernatural voice calling over the waters, “The Great God Pan is dead.”

 

Early Christian writers interpreted this mysterious proclamation of Pan’s death as an announcement of Christ’s birth. But I like to imagine that it coincided instead with this exchange between Jesus and Peter at Caesarea Philippi: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God;” and “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”

ST. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX

August 20

 

St. Bernard was born into a noble family in northeastern France in 1090. Although he had promising prospects as a secular scholar, at age 22 he entered the Abbey of Citeaux, just south of Dijon. At the time, the abbey was at the forefront of the Cistercian Reform, which sought to return Benedictine monasteries to their original simplicity and austerity.

 

In 1115, the Abbot sent Bernard to found a new monastery at a place called the Valley of Wormwood, which had been a hideout for robbers. There, he became well known for his sermons and spiritual writings; the monastery he founded became known as Clairvaux – the bright valleys. Soon, Clairvaux housed several hundred monks and began founding new monasteries elsewhere. Bernard had a direct hand in 65 such foundations.

 

Bernard also became an active participant in the complex ecclesiastical politics of the day. He openly criticized and rebuked bishops whose lives he considered too luxurious and worldly. He exchanged sharp letters with Peter the Venerable, the Archabbot of Cluny, the principal Benedictine abbey of the day, criticizing Peter’s lifestyle and that of his monks. 

 

Bernard gained significant influence when one of his spiritual protégés became Pope Eugene III in 1145. At the Pope’s command, Bernard traveled through France and Germany in 1147, preaching the Second Crusade, with spectacular results as entire towns and villages were emptied of men who joined the armies heading to Jerusalem. However, when the Crusaders began massacring Jews in the Rhineland, Bernard intervened with forceful denunciations and effectively stopped the violence. Subsequently, Bernard was widely blamed for the Second Crusade’s failure.

 

Bernard is known for his fierce opposition to the philosopher-theologian Peter Abelard, whom he regarded as too rationalistic and insufficiently attentive to the mystery of faith. Bernard’s approach emphasized traditional authority and emotive devotion instead. Later generations of medieval theologians would reconcile the two approaches.

 

While the Cistercian monastic life was stark and austere, Bernard’s spiritual writing was rich and vivid. It has been said that Bernard brought emotion into Christian spirituality—particularly by cultivating the love of God through reflection on Christ’s sacred humanity as presented in the Gospel narratives. 

 

This kind of relationship with the human Jesus was new to Christian spirituality, which had previously focused on more abstract levels of divine truth. Thus, Bernard was one of the pioneers of what’s known as the via positiva, an approach later adopted and developed by spiritual teachers such as St. Francis of Assisi and St. Ignatius of Loyola.

 

Bernard is well known for his devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. His greatest works include his treatise On Loving God and his Sermons on the Song of Songs, both of which remain spiritual classics today.

 

Bernard died at Clairvaux on August 20, 1153. Pope Alexander III canonized him in 1174, and Pope Pius VII bestowed upon him the title of Doctor of the Church in 1830. He is sometimes known as the Mellifluous Doctor.

 

Bernard’s relics were interred at Clairvaux alongside those of his friend, St. Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh. During the French Revolution, the Cistercian community at Clairvaux – by then reduced to 26 monks – was disbanded, and the buildings became state property. The relics of Bernard and Malachy were moved to the cathedral at Troyes, where they remain today. 

 

PROPER 15, YEAR A

Sunday, August 16, 2026

Sts. Matthew & Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

Matthew 15:21-28

 

Over the past 20 to 30 years, a certain type of sermon on today’s Gospel has become common in mainline liberal churches. First, the preacher wrestles with our Lord’s apparent rudeness toward the Canaanite woman—as he initially gives her the cold shoulder by refusing to speak to her and then insults her by likening her and her daughter to dogs. 

 

The preacher typically asserts that, through her persistence and cleverness, the Canaanite woman gives Jesus his comeuppance and teaches him a much-needed lesson. He then realizes his mistake and resolves to be more open and inclusive. Such sermons conclude that, if Jesus could thus learn from his mistakes, we should do the same and become more inclusive and welcoming to outsiders ourselves.

 

While inclusivity and hospitality are real virtues, I can’t help thinking that this interpretation misses the heart of what’s really going on in this story. We need to go deeper. So I’d like to propose an alternative interpretation.

Jesus has just crossed Israel’s northern border into Gentile territory, now southern Lebanon. “Just then, a Canaanite woman from that region came out …” Some scholars argue that Matthew introduces an anachronism here, since the biblical Canaanites had disappeared centuries earlier. But recent DNA evidence suggests that the present-day inhabitants of Lebanon are ninety percent descended from the Canaanites. So Matthew’s description of her may be accurate after all.

 

The Canaanites were Israel’s mortal enemies. They were believed to be descended from Noah’s grandson Canaan, whom God cursed for his sins. When Joshua led the Israelites into the Promised Land, God gave them strict instructions to drive the Canaanites out completely. Yet the Canaanites were a fierce, warlike people, not easily subdued. Even after the Conquest, pockets of Canaanites remained among the Israelites, constantly tempting them into idolatry and disobedience.

 

Matthew is making the point that this woman belongs to an ancient enemy of the Jewish people. When she cries out to Jesus to heal her demon-possessed daughter, Jesus initially remains silent. They’ve presumably come north to get away and get some rest. And when the disciples beg him to send her away, he declares, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the House of Israel.” 

 

In the Bible, the term “lost sheep” can mean one of two things. First, it can refer to the so-called “lost tribes,” who’ve been exiled and scattered to the four corners of the earth. The Old Testament prophets foretold that the Messiah would regather these lost sheep and bring them back to the land of Israel. Second, it can refer to the Jewish inhabitants of the land itself, whom Jesus elsewhere describes as harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. 

 

Either way, Jesus’ statement, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel,” accurately reflects his understanding of his earthly ministry. Earlier, he sent his disciples out into the towns and villages of Galilee, instructing them: “Go nowhere among the Gentiles, and enter no town of the Samaritans, but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” The mission to the Gentiles will come later, after his Resurrection. For now, his ministry is directed to Israel. 

 

Notice that when the disciples beg Jesus to send the woman away, they almost certainly want him to do the one thing that will make her go away, namely heal her daughter—because she’s making such a nuisance of herself and they want to be rid of her. But that’s the one thing he knows he cannot do. Immediately granting the disciples’ request would only reinforce their prejudices. So his statement, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel,” is likely a stalling tactic. Before healing the daughter, he wants to give the woman an opportunity to demonstrate her faith, because the disciples need to see it.

 

When she persists, kneeling before Jesus and crying, “Lord, help me,” he utters the infamous words, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” The insult is slightly mitigated by Matthew’s use of a Greek word for dogs that denotes domesticated household pets rather than wild, scavenging canines. Still, it’s clearly an insult, aimed not at the woman and her daughter as individuals but at the Canaanites as a group and, by extension, at all Gentiles. In those days, Jews often referred to Gentiles as dogs because they considered both dogs and Gentiles ritually unclean and impure.

 

Here again, I think Jesus is deliberately testing the woman, provoking her to see whether she’ll give up or persevere. So often, though, that’s how God responds to our prayers. We ask for something, and he remains silent or seems to say no. The test is whether we’ll give up or persevere. In virtually all cases, he wants us to persist, to stay engaged, even to argue with him—anything as long as we don’t give up and walk away.

 

The Canaanite woman rises to the occasion splendidly. Her answer, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table,” is not only clever and witty but also makes a profound point. She clearly understands that the purpose of Jesus’ mission to Israel is to enable Israel to fulfill its God-given vocation to be a light to the nations and to lay the groundwork for the Church’s mission to the world. In the end, all will be fed, but each in their own order: first Israel, then the Gentiles.

 

Our Lord’s response, “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish,” echoes his words to the Roman centurion who sought healing for his servant: “Truly, I say to you, not even in Israel have I found such faith!” I tell you, many will come from east and west and sit at table with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven ...” That’s precisely the lesson Jesus wanted the disciples to learn from the Canaanite woman’s persistence.

 

What forever changed the way I read this Gospel was the portrayal of the Canaanite woman by certain early Christian writers as a symbolic figure, an archetype: the mother of the Gentiles approaching the Lord on behalf of the nations, possessed by the demons of idolatry and wickedness. Some even go so far as to describe her as a figure of the Gentile Church, fed by the crumbs that fall from Israel’s table. 

 

Our initial temptation when we read this Gospel is to identify with Jesus and his disciples and to draw out a message about being more accepting and inclusive of outsiders. But the story’s real force hits us when we realize that the outsiders are us. We’re not the ones to grant or withhold inclusion. We’re the ones who need to be included. We’re the daughter in need of healing. The Canaanite woman is the loving mother pleading for our salvation. And Jesus will grant us whatever we truly need precisely through the faith of our Holy Mother, the Church.

SAINT MARY THE VIRGIN

[THE ASSUMPTION]

Friday, August 14, 2026 (tr. from August 15)

Sts. Matthew & Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

The Church’s practice from time immemorial has been to commemorate the saints on the anniversaries of their deaths, often called their Birthdays into Heaven. In the case of the Blessed Virgin Mary, this means there’s no getting around the ancient traditions surrounding the end of her earthly life. The 1979 Prayer Book designates tomorrow’s feast as “Saint Mary the Virgin,” whereas the Roman Catholic Church calls it the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and the Eastern Orthodox Churches call it the Dormition of the Theotokos (which means the “Falling Asleep of the God-Bearer”).

 

Before I go any further, I need to acknowledge that our Anglican tradition doesn’t require us to believe anything that isn’t supported by the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments. Since the canonical Scriptures make no mention of the Assumption, we’re free, as Episcopalians, not to believe it.

 

The Assumption thus belongs to a category of doctrines known as “pious opinions.” That means it’s not in the same league as the teachings outlined in the Apostles’ and Nicene Creeds. We’re free to believe in Our Lady’s Assumption if we find it persuasive, but it’s not something to which our assent is required, even in theory, as a condition of church membership in good standing.

Personally, I do believe it. If God could take the Prophet Elijah into heaven in a whirlwind and chariots of fire, as the Old Testament clearly attests, he could certainly do the same for the Mother of his Only Son. In these Friday Eucharists, we often discuss non-scriptural traditions surrounding the deaths of the saints. So I think we can safely take a look at the history of belief in Our Lady’s Assumption.

 

In 431 AD, the Church’s third Ecumenical Council convened at the Aegean seaport of Ephesus in Asia Minor (what is today Turkey). Among other things, the Council affirmed the legitimacy of Mary’s title Theotokos, meaning God-bearer or Mother of God. (Just over a year ago, Elizabeth and I stood in the ruins of the basilica in Ephesus where the Council was held.)

 

During the Council, the Byzantine Empress Pulcheria approached Bishop Juvenal of Jerusalem and made a request. Pulcheria was a great builder of churches and shrines in the imperial capital, Constantinople, and a major collector of saintly relics, which had become all the rage during the fifth century. Assuming that the Blessed Virgin Mary was buried in Jerusalem, Pulcheria asked Juvenal to send her Mary’s body so it could be reinterred in Constantinople for the whole world’s veneration.

 

In response, Juvenal explained to Pulcheria that no body of the Blessed Virgin remained in Jerusalem. The local Church there had Mary’s coffin, burial shroud, and some of her clothes, but no bones or other bodily remains.

When Pulcheria asked why, Juvenal explained that, according to the local Jerusalem tradition, when Mary reached the end of her earthly life, she fell asleep and was buried in a tomb in the presence of all the apostles, except for Thomas, who was away on missionary travels in India. Three days later, Thomas arrived and wanted to see Mary’s body. But when they opened the tomb for him, it was empty.

 

Immediately, the gathered apostles were granted a vision of Mary being assumed into heaven, surrounded by angels and received by her Son. In one version of the legend, she dropped her belt or sash into Thomas’s hands to prove what he had seen, since he had once doubted the Lord’s resurrection.

 

Today, if you visit Jerusalem, you can see the Roman Catholic Abbey of the Dormition, built on Mount Zion, where Mary is believed to have fallen asleep, and, in the Kidron Valley outside the city walls down below, the Greek Orthodox Church of the Tomb of the Virgin Mary, from which she is believed to have been assumed into heaven.

 

Juvenal sent the Virgin’s coffin, burial shroud, and garments to Pulcheria in Constantinople, who enshrined them in the Blachernae Church. Just over a thousand years later, they were lost to history after the Ottoman Turks captured Constantinople in 1453.

Before that, however, some of these secondary relics may have come to Western Europe. To this day, Chartres Cathedral in France has what is claimed to be Mary’s veil, given by the Byzantine Empress Irene to the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne around the year 800. Every year on August 15th, the veil is carried through the streets of Chartres in solemn procession.

 

To complicate matters, the Jerusalem tradition has a rival. On a hilltop outside Ephesus in Turkey stands a small stone building known as the House of the Virgin, claimed to be the place where the Apostle John brought Mary when he relocated to Ephesus. Local tradition holds that it was here that Mary spent the last years of her life, fell asleep, and was assumed into heaven.

 

Just over a year ago, it was my privilege to celebrate Mass for our pilgrimage group in the chapel next to the House. That whole hilltop is a wonderful location: what’s known as a “thin place,” where it feels like heaven is interpenetrating the material world. Still, if I had to choose, I think I would opt for the Jerusalem tradition as more probable than the Ephesus tradition. Others disagree.

 

So, that’s the historical background on the tradition of Our Lady’s Assumption into heaven. What does it all mean for us? Well, I would suggest that while Mary is very much a person in her own right, in Scripture and Tradition she also symbolically represents the whole People of God.

 

In the early chapters of St. Luke’s Gospel, at the Annunciation, Visitation, and Nativity, she fulfills Israel’s vocation to welcome God’s Messiah into the world. Later, at Calvary, she faithfully models the Church’s call to follow in the Way of the Cross. And again, after the Resurrection, she becomes the Mother of the Church, waiting with the Apostles in the Upper Room for the promised Holy Spirit.

 

Regardless of what we believe or don’t believe about what happened at the end of Mary’s earthly life, the images of her Dormition and Assumption powerfully symbolize for us our own destiny as members of Christ’s Body, the Church. Our Christian hope is that our own death will be a falling asleep in Christ, followed by being raised to new and eternal life in the company of all the angels and saints.

 

So, an icon of the Dormition or a painting of the Assumption offers us, at the very least, a symbolic visual promise of our own calling and destiny in Christ. As today’s Prayer Book Collect puts it:

 

O God, you have taken to yourself the blessed Virgin Mary, mother of your incarnate Son: Grant that we, who have been redeemed by his blood, may share with her the glory of your eternal kingdom; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

 

PROPER 14, YEAR A

Sunday 9 August 2026

Sts. Matthew and Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

1 Kings 19:9-18

Matthew 14:22-33

 

The Old Testament and Gospel readings appointed for today both feature awesome natural phenomena: in the first instance, wind, earthquake, and fire on a mountain; in the second instance, a squall of wind and waves on the sea. Both Elijah in the cave on Mount Horeb and the disciples in the boat on the Sea of Galilee are in fear for their lives. In both cases, however, these terrifying disturbances of nature give way to calm, signaling divine reassurance and peace. 

 

In the first reading, the prophet Elijah has slain 450 priests of Baal at Mount Carmel in northern Israel. He has then fled from the wicked queen Jezebel, who understandably seeks his life. After forty days of traveling south through the wilderness, he arrives at Horeb, the mountain of God. This is generally believed to be the same as Mount Sinai, where Moses first encountered God at the burning bush and later received God’s Law many centuries before.

By coming here, Elijah is returning to the roots of Israel’s religion, seeking answers, trying to understand. We might even say that he’s undergoing a crisis of faith. When God asks why he’s come, Elijah complains: “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” So, the pyrotechnics begin: first a violent wind that breaks the rocks in pieces, then an earthquake, and then fire. But the Lord is not in the wind, earthquake, or fire. Then, in the “sheer silence” that follows, God speaks.

 

The Lord reassures Elijah that, appearances to the contrary, all is not lost. He must return and anoint new kings of Syria and Israel, and a new prophet, Elisha, to be his successor. For God has preserved seven thousand in Israel who have not bowed the knee to Baal. From this faithful remnant God will make a new beginning for the nation in true worship and obedience to God’s law. It’s a wonderful passage. I find it a source of great reassurance in our own time, when religious observance seems to be in perilous decline. 

 

Saint Matthew’s account of Jesus walking upon the Sea of Galilee also describes a crisis of faith. This episode is found in three of the canonical Gospels—Matthew, Mark, and John—but only Matthew includes the story of Peter getting out of the boat and attempting to walk over the waves to Jesus.

 

To begin with, the disciples are afraid of the wind and waves battering the boat by night. They could easily be swamped and drown in the stormy sea. Then, when they see Jesus approaching them, they’re terrified, thinking that they’re seeing a ghost: a nocturnal maritime portent of impending doom. But he reassures them, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” 

 

In the part of the story unique to Matthew, ever impetuous Peter answers, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Jesus gamely replies, “All right then, come on.” So Peter gets out of the boat and walks to Jesus. All goes well until Peter’s faith falters. He becomes afraid and begins to sink, crying out, “Lord, save me!” Jesus reaches out and takes hold of Peter, reproving him, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” When they get into the boat, the wind ceases. And the disciples in the boat worship Jesus, acclaiming him as the Son of God.

 

While these two stories are very different in both setting and narrative detail, they do share a few structural similarities. Both describe a journey. In both cases, the journey represents a quest for a closer encounter with God and divine reassurance in a time of crisis. And then, Peter’s sinking beneath the waves and crying out, “Lord, save me!” loosely parallels Elijah’s complaint, “I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” 

 

In both cases, moreover, the really significant divine-human communication takes place in the calm following the storm: God speaks to Elijah in the sound of sheer silence; the disciples in the boat on the becalmed sea worship Jesus and confess that he is truly the Son of God. In both cases, finally, the end result is a return: the Lord sends Elijah back to Israel by way of the wilderness of Damascus to fulfill his prophetic vocation; Jesus and the disciples disembark on the shore to continue their mission in Galilee.

 

The Gospel symbolism of the boat is significant. One of the earliest Christian emblems of the Church was that of a boat or ship. Early Christian readers would likely have recognized the boat battered by the waves as an image of the Church suffering persecution. This sense is even clearer in the Greek, where Matthew says that the boat is being “tormented” or “tortured” by the waves.

 

By walking over the sea to his disciples, Jesus confirms that he is indeed the lord of heaven and earth. His words, “it is I”—in Greek, egō eimi—can be literally translated as “I am,” the Old Testament name of God. The symbolism is that of the Lord coming to his Church’s aid as it suffers persecution in a frightening and dangerous world—much as God came to Elijah’s aid when Israel’s faith and worship seemed on the verge of being stamped out by Queen Jezebel and the priests of Baal.

 

One final detail: notice that once Jesus rescues Peter, the two of them don’t continue walking together over the sea towards the shore. Rather, Jesus brings Peter back to the boat. They both get in, the wind ceases, and the disciples in the boat worship Jesus as the Son of God.

 

A great temptation for Christians down through the centuries has been to think that we can have a special relationship with Jesus by going it alone—apart from the Church’s worship, teaching, sacraments, and fellowship. But Jesus brings Peter back to the boat; just as God sends Elijah back to the people of Israel.

 

Perhaps, then, the deepest lesson of this Gospel is not that “we too can walk on the water if only we have enough faith,” but rather that real faith requires us to stay in the boat, or if we’ve left it, to get back in! Trying to be with Jesus by means of some individualistic do-it-yourself spirituality simply doesn’t work, at least not for long. Instead, we need to return to the boat—the ecclesial community of faith—for that is where we can absolutely rely on Jesus to come to us. And there we worship him as the Son of God in the calm that follows the storm.

 

THE TRANSFIGURATION

Friday, August 7, 2026 (tr. from August 6)

Sts. Matthew & Mark, Barrington, R. I.

 

What I find fascinating about the Transfiguration is that it’s wonderfully ambiguous. Clearly, something is happening; but is it happening to our Lord, on one hand, or to Peter, James, and John, on the other? In other words, when Jesus shines with the light of divine glory, is it that he’s being changed in some way; or is the real change taking place in the disciples’ perception of him?

Now, I’m not suggesting for one moment that the disciples are hallucinating or seeing things. Rather, an ancient tradition of interpretation of the Transfiguration suggests that the three disciples momentarily see Jesus as he really is, in his divine nature. Jesus hasn’t changed. But for this short time, the disciples truly see him. They’re granted a glimpse of the divine glory that is always his but is normally veiled from their sight.

Similarly, in the Christian life, from time to time we experience moments of Transfiguration: moments when the veil of everyday appearances is temporarily lifted, and we see divine realities as they truly are. This can happen anywhere at any time. But the place where it’s more prone to happen than anywhere else is here, in the divine liturgy, in the celebration of the Sacraments.

Consider the utter simplicity of what we do here. The essence of what happens in the Eucharist is the same, whether performed in a great cathedral thronged with vast crowds, a simple country church, a prison chapel, or the hospital bedside of a dying patient. At the heart of it all is the taking, blessing, breaking, and sharing of bread and wine. What could be more ordinary and mundane? And yet, we know by faith that it’s so much more than that—if only we had eyes to see!

But just sometimes—not always, not even most of the time, but just sometimes—the veil is momentarily lifted, and we perceive the divine glory present in our midst. These moments of Transfiguration strengthen our faith and give us perseverance to keep on—attending the liturgy, saying our prayers, and receiving the Sacraments even when we can see no further than the surface appearances.

Our Friday Eucharists are very simple. But their simplicity reminds us that what is truly central to our worship is neither liturgical music nor ceremonial choreography—both of which I love—but the faithful proclamation of the Gospel and the right administration of the Sacraments. We come here, day by day, week by week, to meet Jesus. We encounter him in his Word, in his Sacraments, and in the faces of his People. And sometimes, just sometimes, we catch a glimpse of his divine glory.