Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Stay in the Boat

As I was reading this Gospel, I thought about an image that has been used for the Church for centuries: the Church is like a boat. And when you think about today’s Gospel, that image makes a lot of sense.

The disciples are in the boat. The wind is strong, the waves are hitting them, and they’re struggling. Notice something: Jesus doesn’t promise them there won’t be a storm. The storm is there, but they’re in the boat together.

Then they see Jesus coming toward them, walking on the water. Peter says, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you.” Jesus simply says, “Come.” Peter gets out of the boat, and for a moment, he walks on water. As long as his attention is on Jesus, he’s doing something he never thought possible.

But then Matthew tells us that Peter “saw how strong the wind was.” That’s when everything changes. Peter becomes frightened, begins to sink, and cries out, “Lord, save me!”

I think there’s something there for all of us. Every week we leave this church and step back out into the world, and there’s plenty of wind out there. There’s plenty of noise, plenty of things that can frighten us, and plenty of things that can distract us. We have problems in our families. We worry about our children and grandchildren. We have financial concerns. We turn on the television or look at the internet, and everybody seems to be shouting about something. Everybody has an opinion. Everybody wants our attention.

If we’re not careful, we can do exactly what Peter did. We start looking more at the wind than at Christ.

That’s one reason we need the Church. We need the boat. Not because everything inside the boat is perfect—it certainly isn’t—and not because being part of the Church means we won’t have storms in our lives. Remember, the disciples were in the boat and the waves were still hitting them. But they weren’t facing the storm alone. Neither are we.

That’s why I sometimes have difficulty when I hear someone say, “I don’t need to go to church to be a faithful Christian. I can pray at home.” Of course you can pray at home. You can pray in your car. You can pray while you’re walking. You can pray anywhere, and you should. But Christianity was never meant to be something we live all by ourselves.

Look at the Gospel. The disciples are in the boat together. They’re struggling together. They’re frightened together. And Christ comes to them together.

That’s part of why we come here Sunday after Sunday. We need one another. We need encouragement. We need the Word of God. We need the prayers of one another and the strength that comes from being together. Most importantly, there’s something here that we cannot give ourselves at home: the Eucharist. Christ gathers us around this altar and feeds us with himself.

Then I think the first reading tells us something else we need: silence.

Elijah is waiting for the Lord. First there’s a strong wind, but the Lord isn’t in the wind. Then there’s an earthquake, but the Lord isn’t in the earthquake. Then there’s fire, but the Lord isn’t in the fire. Finally, there’s a tiny whispering sound, and Elijah recognizes the presence of God.

Think about how different that is from the world we live in. There isn’t much silence anymore. Our televisions are on. Our phones are going off. We’re getting texts and emails. We’re looking at the internet and reading the news. Somebody is always talking. Something is always making noise.

Sometimes we become so accustomed to noise that even silence makes us uncomfortable. That’s one of the things I appreciate about our Catholic tradition. When we come into church, we don’t have to fill every moment with something. There can be silence.

That silence isn’t because nothing is happening. It’s because something is happening. We’re preparing ourselves. We’re trying to quiet all those other voices so that maybe we can hear the voice of God.

That’s why the time before Mass is important. It’s not simply time to sit and wait for Mass to start. It’s a time to pray, to become quiet, and to remember why we’re here. Maybe we’ve spent the entire week listening to the wind, and for a few moments, we need to listen for the whisper.

The same is true after Communion. Think about what has just happened. We’ve received Christ. If there is ever a moment to stop, to be quiet, and to pray, it’s then.

And yet sometimes we’re already thinking about leaving. Some receive Communion and immediately they’re headed for the door. I sometimes wonder: What’s the hurry?

We waited all week for this. We’ve come here to receive the Lord. Now he’s with us in a way unlike any other moment of our week. Give him a few minutes. Be still. Listen.

Maybe sometimes we don’t hear God because we never give him the opportunity to speak. We’re always moving on to the next thing—the phone, the car, breakfast, the restaurant, whatever is waiting for us. But Elijah reminds us that sometimes God speaks in the quiet.

Then something interesting happens. At the end of Mass, we don’t stay here. We’re sent out again—back into the world, back into the noise, back into the wind, back into whatever storms may be waiting for us.

But hopefully we leave a little different than when we came in. We’ve been together in the boat. We’ve heard his Word. We’ve received him in the Eucharist. We’ve had a chance to become quiet enough to hear him again.

The storm may not have changed. The world may not have gotten any quieter. But hopefully, we have.

So when the wind gets strong this week, when something happens that frightens us, or when all the noise around us becomes overwhelming, remember Peter. Don’t spend all your time looking at the wind. Keep your eyes on Christ.

And remember the words Jesus speaks to those frightened disciples in the boat: “Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid.”