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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.”

Eighteenth Sunday In Ordinary Time

Why We Keep Coming Back

Every Sunday, I look out and see many of the same faces. Over the years, I’ve often found myself asking a simple question: What brings us back? After all, no one forces us to come. For many, coming to Mass takes effort. We come carrying the joys and blessings of life, but we also come with worries about our families, concerns about our health, grief over loved ones we miss, and burdens that few people know about. Yet, week after week, we return.

Every person would answer that question a little differently. Some come because they are grateful. Some come because they are hurting. Some are searching for direction. Others come seeking forgiveness. Some simply know that this is the one hour of the week when they feel closest to God. And there are those who may not even be able to explain why they came. They just know they need to be here.

The readings this Sunday help us understand that longing. Through the prophet Isaiah, God extends a beautiful invitation: “All you who are thirsty, come to the water.” Every one of us has a thirst that nothing in this world can completely satisfy. We work hard, enjoy our families, celebrate life’s blessings, and appreciate the many gifts God has given us. Yet even the best things in life cannot fill the deepest longing of the human heart. Only God can do that.

In the Gospel, thousands of people followed Jesus into a deserted place because they had discovered someone who gave them hope. Matthew tells us that Jesus looked upon them with compassion and healed their sick. He did not simply see a crowd. He saw each person with their fears, their questions, their struggles, their grief, and their hopes. That same compassionate Lord continues to welcome us today. He knows what we are carrying before we ever say a word.

There are Sundays when we come filled with gratitude, and there are Sundays when we come because we don’t know where else to go. Sometimes we are looking for strength. Sometimes we need peace. Sometimes all it takes is one sentence from the Scriptures, one line from a hymn, one prayer, or the grace we receive in the Eucharist to remind us that God has not forgotten us. Somehow, He always provides exactly what we need, even if it is not what we expected.

The miracle of the loaves and fishes reminds us of another important truth. The disciples saw only what they lacked—five loaves and two fish. Jesus saw an offering that could be blessed and multiplied. Every Sunday we bring Him our small faith, our worries, our disappointments, and our questions. We may feel that what we have is not enough, but when we place it in His hands, He does what only He can do. He blesses it, multiplies it, and gives us far more than we could have imagined.

Finally, St. Paul leaves us with one of the most reassuring promises in all of Scripture: “Nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Not suffering, not illness, not loneliness, not failure, not grief, and not even death can separate us from His love. There may be days when we do not feel close to God, but His love never changes. He remains faithful.

Perhaps that is the real reason we keep coming back. We have discovered where living water is found. We have discovered the One who still feeds hungry hearts, who still has compassion, and who continues to invite us, “Come to me.” Every Sunday He fulfills that invitation. He speaks to us through His Word, nourishes us with His Body and Blood, and reminds us that we never walk alone.

When we leave Mass, we return to the same homes, the same jobs, the same responsibilities, and perhaps even the same struggles. But we do not leave the same way we came. We leave having heard His Word. We leave having been nourished by His Body and Blood. And we leave knowing that whatever the week ahead may bring, nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.