Immediately Jesus stretched out his hand and caught Peter, and said to him, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?” 

Last week I preached about Christ’s hands. The Canon of the Mass (Eucharistic Prayer I), describes Christ’s hands as holy and venerable. We could say His feet were holy and venerable as well—for those feet walked on water. 

Christ had multiplied food on the east side of the lake. And the crowd, stunned at what had just happened, sought to make Christ king by force (see John 6:15). A man who could multiply food could feed an army on the move. A man like that could lead a revolt and conquer the hated Roman enemy. But as Bishop Sheen so brilliantly put it:

Our Lord, knowing what was in the hearts of the populace, withdrew to the mountain alone.  No unclean hands would put a crown on His head—except a crown of thorns.    

To protect His priests-in-training, Christ made them get in the boat and go back to Capernaum, on the west side of the lake. He then withdrew, (or rather made His escape) up on the mountain. And as it grew dark, Christ watched His Apostles out in the distance struggling on the choppy sea. 

So, why did Christ walk on water? Could He have not just calmed the sea while praying up on the mountain? Yes—but to walk on water was yet another fulfillment of prophecy.

The clouds poured out water; the skies gave forth thunder…the earth trembled and shook. Thy way was through the sea, thy path through the great waters;  yet thy footprints were unseen.

The Lord parted the Red Sea, and Moses and the ancient Israelites walked across it on the dry dirt floor. But the new Moses was the Lord. He was the God-Man who made the water. And after walking on it, He told the terrified Apostles, “Take courage. It is I. Do not be afraid.”  

Once Christ entered the boat, what did the stunned Apostles do? Did they slap Christ on the back, give Him high-fives, or shake His hand? Did they treat Him as an equal? No. With their jaws dropped at what they just saw, they did Christ homage. That means they dropped to their knees, for that is generally how homage is given. They dropped, and St. Matthew (who was in the boat) recorded their words, “Truly you are the Son of God.”

So why do we get up on Sunday and drop to our knees at Mass? When most of our dying Western Civilization no longer sees the need, why do we? What is the point? Well, it is very simple: We go to Mass to give Christ homage. Not for His sake, but ours. That is why it makes no sense to come to Mass as if you are doing Christ a favor. It makes no sense for you to come here dressed in, say, casual clothing—shorts, jeans, tee shirts—as if you are coming to here to have a casual visit with an equal.  

St. Irenaeus, a disciple of St. Polycarp who was a disciple of St. John the Apostle, wrote around 180 AD that our Lord “instructed His disciples to offer God the first fruits of creation, not because God had any need, but so that they themselves should not be unproductive and ungrateful.” Irenaeus wrote: “The Church has received this sacrifice from the Apostles; throughout the world she offers to God, who feeds us, the first fruits of His own gifts…”

Understand: Irenaeus was not speculating or theorizing. He was simply stating what had been passed down from the Apostles. Mass was Christ’s perfect sacrifice to the Father that fulfilled the animal sacrifices of old. Sacrifice then had not ended. Nor had it become some kind of casual or optional get-together or mere communion service.

That novel idea only got its start 1,500 years later, when altar, priest, and sacrifice were replaced with table, presider, and meal. The obligatory sacrifice that made Calvary mystically present was thrown out. The priesthood was thrown out, along with belief in the Holy Eucharist. 

An even worse catastrophe has happened within the Church these last sixty years. Look around at the fruits of our modern liturgical revolution. For starters, our children and grandchildren are not here. What’s the point if Christ has in effect been made our equal? What’s the point when Christ the King has been dethroned by earthly kings—men who, though they cannot walk on water or raise themselves from the dead, have a lot of money and power, and thus demand the world’s allegiance?

It’s interesting about boats, shaking hands, and kings. A Church of Scotland (Protestant) theologian once wrote:

We do well to remember that Jesus Christ is King. We can never meet Jesus on an equality. We must always meet Him on terms of complete submission. [Lord Horatio] Nelson, the great admiral, always treated his vanquished opponent with the greatest kindness and courtesy. After one of his naval victories, the defeated admiral was brought aboard Nelson’s flagship and on to Nelson’s quarter-deck. 

Knowing Nelson’s reputation for courtesy, and thinking to trade upon it, he advanced across the quarter-deck with hand outstretched as if he was advancing to shake hands with an equal. Nelson’s hand remained by his side. “Your sword first,” he said, “and then your hand.” Before we must be friends with Christ, we must submit to Christ. (William Barclay d.1978)

Who do you submit to? Who is your King? Christ multiplied food on the east side of the lake. So the crowds, wanting to make Him King, got in boats or ran across the north shore of the lake to find Him on the west side. He told them, “You are after more food, but I am the food. You have to eat and drink my Body and Blood.” After Christ repeated Himself five times, the big crowd, including most of Christ’s followers, walked away disgusted and disillusioned.

Christ’s question to His Apostles was, “Are you leaving too?” And Peter, he of little faith, who a few hours before almost drowned before reaching out and grabbing Christ’s hand, answered, “Where are we going to go?”

That was a good question by Peter. And so, my friends, where are you going to go? 

Christ walked on water, which was a great sign, but on our altar at Mass He delivers more than a sign. He turns bread and wine into His Body and Blood. So, where you (and everyone else) needs to go is here. In His sacred temple, Christ multiplies food to feed an army on the move, so it can conquer its hated enemies: sin and death. 

At the altar rail, Christ reaches out His hard-working hand to you.  Should you grab the hand and shake it like you are equals? No. Should you grab the food He gives you and feed yourself? That is what the modernists these last several decades have told you to do. The modernists—who it can be argued, do not believe in the Holy Eucharist because they do not believe in miracles—told you that. They told you that you were now part of a new, “grown-up” Church that no longer needed to act like helpless children in God’s presence.  

That is the exact opposite of what Christ said. And so, of course, our faith has collapsed in the meantime. It only makes sense. If the sheep do the opposite thing of what the shepherd says to do, then the sheep are going to become lost.

At the rail, with child-like faith, humbly submit to Christ. Do not reach out your hand as if you are His equal, for Christ will say, “Your heart first, your hand later.” Instead, drop your jaw and let the hand of the Lord feed you. On your knees do Him homage, and whisper under your breath, Truly, you are the Son of God.

Photo by JOHN TOWNER on Unsplash

For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them. (Mt. 18:20)

Why does Jesus tell His disciples that He needs a minimum of “two or three” people to “agree” on a petition in order for Him to grant it? Does this mean that if I pray alone for a particular need, my individual prayer is less effective? Or worse—ignored altogether?

Furthermore, what if two or three people are praying for a sunny day at the beach, but a neighbor down the street has gathered his own “two or three” to pray for rain to fall upon his vegetable garden? Which two or three will the Father listen to and favor with an answered prayer? 

Of course, we know that Jesus is not speaking in frivolity here. It is not that He doesn’t care about things like our vacations or our gardens; indeed, He wants us to invite Him into every aspect of our lives!

But here, Jesus is specifically referring to what it means to be a Church community. Jesus is saying that it does not take a congregation full of people for Him to be present—even as few as two or three is enough to be considered “Church.”

Why is this important to know? Because in an age in which church attendance has declined and a contingent of once-active members are often disgruntled, angry, and “disgusted with this wretched food” (Num. 21:5), all it takes is the “two or three” who are left to “agree” about that “which they are to pray” (such as welcoming back those who have strayed), and that is enough for it to be “granted to them by [the] heavenly Father” (Mt. 18:19).

Scarcely is there a more consoling thought than this! However, we must be careful here because we might read this passage from Matthew and interpret it with our own added word:

Again, amen, I say to you, if two of you agree on earth about anything for which they are to pray, it shall be granted to them by my Heavenly Father—instantaneously.

Instantaneous miracles are always welcome by those of us who struggle with patience and trust and are prone to worry and anxiety. Who likes to wait in the throes of uncertainty? But this is precisely the reason that God sometimes takes His time to answer our prayers. It is in the wait that we learn to grow. We grow in things like patience and trust, exercising our virtue muscles until the day the Lord grants us His special grace, without which we “can do nothing” (Jn. 15:5).

On that day, waiting for prayers to be answered is no big deal anymore, because we no longer simply “hope” for a favorable answer, we know beyond the shadow of a doubt, that regardless of the outcome, “all things work for good for those who love God and are called according to his purpose” (Rom. 8:28). That is to say, all things turn out well (even if the path from here to there is not a particularly pleasant one).

That is why we often go to really holy people for intercessory prayer; it can seem to us as though they indeed receive instantaneous, miraculous answers to their every petition. But this is only because they have practiced a lifetime of learning to increase their patience and trust, by being made to wait for answers at a time in their lives in which their virtue muscles needed their own exercising.

Again, amen, I say to you, if two of you agree on earth about anything for which they are to pray, it shall be granted to them by my heavenly Father.

Jesus says the two praying must “agree” for the request to be granted. Furthermore, this agreement is one that takes place “on earth.” So how does this explain how God decides whether to answer the prayer of the two people who agree to pray for a sunny day, as opposed to the prayer of the two people next door who agree to pray for rain?

To solve the answer to this riddle, we must first understand who it is exactly that must be in agreement. It seems that when Jesus is advising the two to agree “on earth,” He is not just referring to their agreement with each other. More importantly, He is referring to their agreement with the “heavenly Father.” That is to say, their agreement must be with God’s will. The Church is where heaven and earth meet! This is why Jesus tells us that when we pray for God’s will—even if it is with just one other person—this is the moment we are Church. And Jesus is always in His Church.

Which brings us to one final puzzle. How do we know if we are praying for God’s will? We all have received countless specific requests from others: “Pray that my son goes back to confession”…“Pray that my mom’s surgery is successful”…“Pray that my child gets into this college.” We ourselves have offered endless prayers such as these for our own cares! Which of these are in “agreement” with heaven?

The short answer is: we don’t know. But that is okay. For one thing, Jesus gave us the only prayer we ever need to be completely sure that we are praying in agreement with heaven, and that is the Our Father. It is short and simple and gets straight to the point:

Thy will be done. (Mt. 6:10)

For another thing, even though we have no way of knowing whether the vast majority of our petitions are in accordance with God’s will, we do know with certainty the agreement of just one: prayer for the salvation of souls. And in the end, do we really need certainty about anything more than this?

Once the dust settles and our earthly lives are no more, things like surgeries, college educations, sunny days at the beach—as important as they might be to us here on earth—will not matter to us anymore in heaven. The only thing we will look back upon are the souls whom we loved and prayed for—and for whom we participated in the plan of their salvation, in agreement with God’s holy and perfect will.

We can never be certain that all our prayers will be answered according to our expectation, for we do not know if what we ask is conformable to God’s will; but when it is a question of apostolic prayer which asks for grace and the salvation of souls, it is a very different matter. In fact, when we pray for the aims of the apostolate, we are fitting into the plan prearranged by God Himself from all eternity, that plan for the salvation of all men which God desires to put into action infinitely more than we do; therefore, we cannot doubt the efficacy of our prayer. – Fr. Gabriel of St. Mary Magdalen, Divine Intimacy

Author’s Note: This article was adapted from a chapter in 26 Steps with the Eucharistic Lord: A Guide to Deeper Communion in Prayer.

Photo by Tony Lomas on Unsplash

This summer marks the forty-fifth anniversary of the martyrdom of Bl. Stanley Rother, the missionary priest from Oklahoma who was gunned down in 1981 by a government-backed death squad in Santiago Atitlán, Guatemala. Bl. Stanley had served as missionary to the indigenous Tz’utujil for thirteen years before his mission got caught in the crosshairs of the brutal Guatemalan Civil War (1960-1996). Long considered suspect by the government for his work among the indigenous, Fr. Stan was targeted for death and murdered in his rectory on July 28, 1981. Today we will be reviewing the life and virtues of Bl. Stanley on the occasion of the release of a wonderful new documentary about his life, coming to the big screen this month.

Stanley Francis Rother was born on March 27, 1935, in a farmhouse outside Okarche, Oklahoma, the eldest son of a German-American farming family. His childhood was quite normal for a Catholic boy of the rural plains: chores before dawn, Mass at Holy Trinity, participation in the Future Farmers of America, and hours spent working or repairing farm equipment. His family was immense; there were 47 Rother children from different branches of the family living around Okarche. Stan grew up in a loving family atmosphere permeated by the Faith.

Grace was moving in Stan’s life, however, and the boy discerned the priesthood around age 18 in 1953. (Coincidentally announcing his decision to enter seminary on the exact same day his sister announced her decision to enter the convent!) Stan had the support of his family and community, but his path would not be easy. Stanley was sent to the seminary at San Antonio, Texas, where Stanley floundered in Latin, failed his courses, and was sent home after six years, declared unfit for the priesthood.

It was only the personal intervention of his bishop that secured him a second chance at Mount St. Mary’s in Emmitsburg, Maryland, where he finished his studies and was ordained on May 25, 1963, for the Diocese of Oklahoma City-Tulsa.

Five years of parish work followed. Then, in 1968, Fr. Rother was recruited for the diocesan mission in Guatemala at Santiago Atitlán, a Tz’utujil Maya town on the shore of Lake Atitlán, ringed by volcanoes and reachable from the capital only by a long mountain road. It was there that the farm boy who could not master Latin learned Spanish and then Tz’utujil, an unwritten Mayan tongue with no grammar to consult and no textbook to memorize.

Fr. Stan threw himself into his assignment with zeal, earning the love and respect of the indigenous Tz’utujil. His parishioners affectionately called him Padre A’plas, their rendering of his middle name, Francisco.

His work was immense; the Tz’utujil had been without a regular parish priest for over one hundred and fifty years, were poorly catechized, and lived in extreme material poverty. Fr. Rother worked tirelessly to better their spiritual and material condition. He labored on a translation of the New Testament into their language. He introduced better farming methods, helped establish a co-operative, a school, a clinic, organized a catechist program, and a Catholic radio station for catechesis. He even fixed their broken-down farm machinery.

By 1975, he was serving some 22,000 souls nearly alone, as many other missionary priests had withdrawn due to the escalation of the Guatemalan Civil War.

The escalation of the civil war into the highlands around Lake Atitlán was problematic for Fr. Stan. The indigenous were mistrusted by the Guatemalan government, which viewed indigenous villages as potential beds of leftist insurgency. Fr. Stan’s humanitarian work among the Tz’utujil made him suspect. To teach an indigenous farmer to read, to organize a co-op, to preach to the poor in their own tongue were all interpreted by the military government as sedition, and those who did such things were marked as subversives.

The violence reached the highlands by 1980, and it touched Fr. Stan’s community personally: his catechists disappeared and were later found beaten and dead. Fr. Stan would walk the roads to recover the bodies and bury them, and he carried food to the widows and orphans the war left behind. His radio station was smashed and its director murdered.

Fr. Stan knew he was in mortal danger. In a letter home that Christmas, he wrote the sentence for which he is now remembered: “the shepherd cannot run at the first sign of danger.” Even so, circumstance forced him into a strategic retreat. In January 1981, he learned that his name stood eighth on a death list, and his parishioners insisted he return to the U.S. for his own safety.

Fr. Stan reluctantly came home to Oklahoma, but he was unhappy and restless. He stayed only three months and constantly talked of returning to Santiago Atitlán. Those who saw him then recall a man distracted, restless, plainly elsewhere. His brother told him bluntly that they were waiting to kill him, but Fr. Stan was undaunted. He returned to Guatemala to great rejoicing in time to keep Holy Week with his people.

On the night of July 28, 1981, three masked men entered the rectory and seized a nineteen-year-old boy, Francisco Bocel, holding a gun to his head to make him lead them to the priest. The boy knocked at the utility room door and called out that they had come for him. Fr. Stan opened it. They wanted him alive; Fr. Stan fought them, and they shot him in the head. He was forty-six. His body went home to Okarche, but his heart, at his people’s request, remains buried beneath the church at Santiago Atitlán to this day.

When reviewing the life of Bl. Stanley Rother, it is hard not to be impressed by his heroic fortitude. He possessed a remarkable devotion to his mission, refusing to leave despite the obvious danger to his life. Bl. Stanley’s love for Christ was deeply “incarnated” through his fidelity to a particular place and a particular people. Fr. Stanley was no theologian and certainly no political activist. He was a humble pastor who had bound himself to a flock and would not be driven off.

In this sense, he reminds us of another missionary martyr, St. Isaac Jogues, who likewise would not abandon his mission in New France, despite the obvious dangers which eventually claimed his life. This is the great lesson of Bl. Stanley Rother’s life. We are accustomed to imagining sanctity as a kind of mystical ascent, a leaving-behind. Bl. Stanley’s holiness consisted in staying put, regardless of what sorts of obstacles were thrown into his path.

Another interesting parallel with St. Isaac Jogues: St. Isaac’s last act was to open the door of a wigwam he was summoned to. St. Isaac knew it was a trap; he knew his killers were lurking within waiting for an excuse to strike him down. St. Isaac went in anyway, believing it was the vocation of a priest to go when summoned. Similarly, Bl. Stanley’s last act was to open a door. His gunmen knocked on the door of his room late at night and Bl. Stanley answered—and why wouldn’t he? What if it was one of his flock who needed him? This “opening” is surely an apt analogy for the openness to God’s will that characterized the heroism of every martyr-saint.

In commemoration of the forty-fifth anniversary of Bl. Stanley’s death, the Archdiocese of Oklahoma City has partnered with the Oklahoma-based film studio Lampstand Story Company to produce a magnificent new documentary on the life of Bl. Stanley Rother. American Martyr: The Stanley Rother Story traces the life and virtues of Fr. Stan from his birth in Okarche all the way up to his martyrdom in Santiago Atitlán. With a run-time of 106 minutes and an excellent narration by Martin Sheen, American Martyr is a fabulous introduction to the life of Bl. Stanley.

I knew little about Bl. Stanley Rother before watching this film, and I must admit I was deeply moved. I will certainly be adding Bl. Stanley to my growing list of heavenly patrons. If you’re interested in learning more about the first native-born U.S. martyr, I highly recommend checking out American Martyr: The Stanley Rother Story.

Bl. Stanley Rother, ora pro nobis!

“The good shepherd giveth his life for his sheep.” (Jn. 10:11)

Editor’s Note: If the lives of modern saints, blesseds, and venerables featured on Catholic Exchange have strengthened your faith, please consider a gift; our mission is to help make saints of our readers, one story at a time. Donate to the Saints in Our Time Campaign today!

To learn more about American Martyr: The Stanley Rother Story, visit RotherDoc.com. The movie is scheduled for release for two nights only in English, August 25-26th, and one night only in Spanish, August 27th.

Image by Julitomenchu on Wikimedia Commons

For as long as I can remember, I have loved St. Francis and St. Clare. When we were planning a trip to Italy, I convinced my husband to make Assisi one of our stops. It was every bit as beautiful and peaceful as people describe.

But the greatest gift that I received from that trip was the realization that the world of Francis and Clare was ordinary. It was that ordinariness, imbued with profound love of God, that made it so extraordinary.

The Church that Francis Built

And suddenly, I could see it clearly. Francis’s work, my work, your work—there is dignity in the work of our hands, when it is offered to God.

The Clothes of Francis and Clare

In the lower level of the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi, there is a side chapel filled with his clothes. In a room to the left of St. Clare’s tomb in the Basilica of St. Clare, there is a similar room.

I stopped to gaze at both displays for a long time. The realness of their clothes surprised me. Clare’s habit was simple and rough. There was nothing extraordinary about it. The same was true of Francis’s habit, which was heavily patched and mended. Their sandals were worn.

But these clothes were really worn by them. These ordinary, ordinary clothes were used daily by a real man and a real woman. It was a powerful reminder that these saints really lived—and they wore ordinary clothes, and ordinary sandals, just like you and me.

The Tombs and Lady Poverty

The most memorable part of Assisi was getting to visit the burial places of the saints. It was surreal, kneeling before the tomb of Francis, who is surrounded by the tombs of his friends.

I was looking forward to having the opportunity to kneel and pray at the tomb of St. Clare. I handed my toddler to my husband and went to kneel and pray. But as I prayed there, I could hear my little one fussing. She was tired from traveling, and she was wanting me to hold her and nurse her. My husband was trying to comfort her, but I could hear her crying as I prayed. I cut my prayer time short to go and hold her.

And as I sat in the Basilica of St. Clare, feeling my little one’s body relax in my arms, I realized something. Clare and Francis embraced Lady Poverty. I looked down at my little girl, knowing that my greatest poverty as a mother of young ones is time (especially time to myself). And suddenly I realized—my youngest daughter is my Lady Poverty.

In her littleness, her needs are constant. When we traveled around Italy, she quickly decided that she wanted Mommy—and only Mommy—to carry her every day. I loved having her along, but by the time we reached Assisi, I was feeling overwhelmed by the culture and by caring for a toddler in a different culture. But sitting mere feet away from the body of St. Clare, I received the grace to see that Christ had given me my own Lady Poverty to embrace and love—my vocation to marriage and motherhood.

Gazing at my husband and youngest child as I prayed, I realized that my ordinary work was no less important than Clare’s. My Lady Poverty may look very different, but it is what God is calling me to embrace.

We all have a Lady Poverty that Christ is calling us to embrace. We all have fears and anxieties and comforts that we are reluctant to relinquish. But what if we gave them to Christ and embraced the poverty in our own lives—monetary, poverty of time, poverty of personal space, poverty of not being able to have children, poverty of loneliness, etc? What if that Lady Poverty were our means to sainthood?

Like Saints Francis and Clare, that is our call—sainthood in ordinariness.

Image from Wikimedia Commons

The angels will go out and separate the wicked from the righteous and throw them into the fiery furnace, where there will be wailing and grinding of teeth.

I was reflecting recently on the many faces of sadness, grief, and sorrow during the recently concluded 2026 soccer World Cup. We saw grown men and women, players and fans, weeping and lamenting, because they were eliminated from this prestigious tournament held every four years.

Then the thought crossed my mind: If people can wail and lament their failure to win a soccer World Cup, imagine the regret and anguish that will come from missing out on eternal life. Imagine the endless torment for the souls that have been brought into the kingdom of God in baptism and then lose the glorious gift of living eternally with Him.

This is the image that comes to mind when I reflect on Matthew 13:44-52, where Jesus speaks about the kingdom of heaven. There is first a time of gathering in which people, good or bad, are brought into the kingdom: “The kingdom of heaven is like a net thrown into the sea, which collects fish of every kind.” This is what happens in baptism, where God makes us His own people, irrespective of our virtues or vices.

Some of those brought into the kingdom strive to become righteous by cooperating with God’s grace. They do anything, endure all things, and sacrifice what is necessary to possess the kingdom of God. They are the ones who “out of joy go and sell all that they have” to remain in that kingdom. They have eternal gladness and joy.

Then some are brought into the kingdom but do not strive for eternal life. They fail to do what is necessary, or endure or sacrifice anything for fullness of life with God. They become the wicked who have only eternal regret and anguish: “The angels will go out and separate the wicked from the righteous and throw them into the fiery furnace, where there will be wailing and grinding of teeth.”

So, how can we face the anguishes of the present life and still strive for eternal life? How can we overcome the temporal regrets and anguishes and strive for eternal gladness and joy? In St. Paul’s letter to the Romans (8:28-30), we find three ways that we can do so.

1. Be Firmly Grounded in God’s Love for You

Because of God’s undying love for each of us, “we know that all things work for good for those who love God.” As long as we have a fervent love for God, God will work for our eternal good in all things. We may not attain our temporal goals and desires, but God will work things out for our eternal good, which is a much greater good.

For example, let us reflect briefly on what happens to us in the sacrament of Reconciliation. We slowly lay aside our pride and ego and bring to confession our horrible and shameful sins. Jesus does not just wash us clean by the power of His blood. He actually infuses His love and grace into our hearts so that we can love and serve God more faithfully than we had done in the past. We have a firmer hope and determination to attain heaven simply because we believe in His merciful love for us even in our sins and miseries.

We cannot be overcome by the grief and regrets of this life if we have such a fervent love for God in our hearts even in the face of sin and evil.

2. Strive to Be Faithful to God’s Purpose in Everything

St. Paul reminds us that “we are called according to God’s purpose.” God has a loving purpose in calling us and in all that He gives and permits in our lives. If we are going to attain eternal gladness and joy, we must labor to be faithful to the divine purpose in all things and not seek our own selfish purpose.

God said to King Solomon, “Ask something of me and I will give it to you.” The king could have asked for a long life as king, the death of his enemies, or for earthly riches. However, Solomon’s greatest desire was to be faithful to the divine purpose in making him king. He replied, “Give your servant an understanding heart to judge your people and to distinguish right from wrong. For who is able to govern this vast people of yours?” (1 Kgs. 3:5,7-12). God was so pleased with his reply that He gave him all the wisdom that he desired and even more.

How faithful are we to the divine purpose in God’s gifts of time, treasures, abilities, and talents? Are we using our bodies to praise and serve God? Are we making use of our God-given genders to serve Him as male and female, or are we futilely trying to change our genders? Are we using our relationships with others to cultivate our pure love for God, i.e., to love others for God’s sake, or are we in relationships for the sake of what we can get? Are we seeing in our trials and sufferings a means of selfless love for God and others?

The more that we are faithful to God’s purpose in all these things, the more that we can overcome the regrets and anguishes of this life and aim for eternal gladness and happiness of heaven.

3. Be Christlike

In the words of St. Paul, “For those God foreknew He also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son, so that He might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters.” We are not just called to be good, but to be Christlike in our actions and relationships with God and with others. Like Christ, we aim for loving fidelity to the will of God in all things and in loving service to others as our brothers and sisters.

The more that we tend towards Christlikeness, ready to share in His experiences and to do what He did out of love for God, the more that we will experience moments of victory and triumph over the painful things of life. Regrets and anguish cannot have the final word in our lives if we are becoming like Christ because we will surely experience divine consolation and victory: “As we have shared much in the sufferings of Christ, so through Christ do we share abundantly in His consolation” (2 Cor. 1:5).

My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, there are many things in this life that can leave us feeling sorrow, anguish, and even regret. Maybe it is a failed marriage or business. Maybe it is deteriorating health or rejection from loved ones. It may be persistent struggles with sin and lingering shame. Maybe we have many disappointments in life.

We must remember that these things, no matter how painful they are, cannot separate us from the love that God has for us as His children in His kingdom. Listen to St. Paul on this:

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creatures will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Rom. 8:38-39)

We must have strong faith that we are part of God’s kingdom even now. We continue to strive for eternal life because we know that His love for us is strong and unchanging. These painful things of present life also cannot hinder us from striving for eternal life if we keep in mind that the greatest anguish and regret is to be a member of God’s Church here on earth and still lose out on eternal life in the next.

Our Lord Jesus Christ assures us that He came so that “we might have life and have it abundantly” (Jn. 10:10). He became one like us, suffered, died, rose from the dead, and gives us His Spirit so that we might live with Him for all eternity. He brought us into His kingdom, and He is laboring for our eternal communion with Him. He surely does not want us to live in eternal regret and anguish.

Thus, He comes to us in each Eucharist to give us the grace to abide in His love, live according to His purpose in all things, and to become more like Him. If we hold onto our faith and strive till our last breath for eternal life, we will surely attain eternal joy and gladness and avoid eternal regret and anguish.

Glory to Jesus!!! Honor to Mary!!!

Photo by Zulmaury Saavedra on Unsplash

Human beings of every generation have faced a particular direction for worship. This is true of most world religions of documented history. Muslims pray toward Mecca because it is the Qibla—the unified direction of worship commanded by Allah in the Quran. The ancient Jews would pray toward Jerusalem, as they awaited the reconstruction of the Temple. Christians have traditionally prayed facing East (ad orientem); toward the True Temple that was rebuilt in three days (Jn. 2:19).

In his new book, Ad Orientem: The Direction That Changes Everything, Dr. Peter Kwasniewski eloquently reminds readers that facing East is not an arbitrary liturgical custom, but a deeply biblical one. He writes:

Scripture passages call Christ “the Orient” or say that He ascends to the east, or that He will come from the east. For example, Jesus says of Himself, in Matthew 24:27: “As lightning cometh out of the east, and appeareth even into the west: so shall the coming of the Son of man be.”

The Church has always intentionally oriented herself not toward the faithful, but toward Christ and His Second Coming. When priest and people face the same direction (ad orientem), they are not turning their backs on one another. Rather, they are turning toward Christ and awaiting His glorious return. The entire congregation then journeys together toward the heavenly Jerusalem.

Rowing the Ship Together

Before the time of trains, planes, and automobiles, a common method of transportation was by boat and ship. Ancient ships often required coordinated rowing as a fueling mechanism. Greek, Roman, and Viking ships relied on people with oars rowing together in unison. A rowing leader—the keleustes in Greek or hortator in Latin—would dictate the rhythm as the rowers would follow along in synchronized movements. Every eye looked forward. Every oar moved with the same rhythm in the same direction. Their unified direction allowed the ship to reach its final destination.

This analogy offers a remarkable parallel to the Holy Mass.

The Church has always understood the church building as analogous to a ship. The central gathering area of the faithful in pews is called the nave, from the Latin navis, meaning “ship.” This is where we derive words such as “naval” or “navigate.” The Fathers of the Church also understood this analogy. They described the Church as the Barque of Peter, carrying the Christian faithful safely through the storms of this world toward the safe shores of heaven.

In this sacred vessel, the priest does not stand as an entertainer facing an audience. He stands at the helm, leading God’s people toward Christ. When priest and the people face East together—or at least face the same liturgical direction—they bear a resemblance to the crew of a ship fixed upon one destination. No one is looking at one another for directions. Everyone is looking toward the Lord.

This is exactly why ad orientem instills such profound theological declaration. The priest is not “turning his back to the people.” Instead, he is standing with the people, united in a common act of worship. The congregation is not gathered around itself; it is gathered around Christ. Priest and faithful alike become fellow pilgrims, fellow rowers, journeying together toward the Kingdom.

Sacred Music: The Rowing Sea Chanties

Sacred music beautifully reinforces this shared orientation.

On an ancient ship, rowers would sing sea chanties, which rhythmically united every stroke of the oar. Similarly, the sung Mass unites every heart in prayer and worship. The General Instruction of the Roman Missal teaches that “among the faithful, the unity of their hearts should be more clearly shown by their unity in song.”

The priest, like the ancient keleustes, establishes that rhythm. Musicam Sacram teaches: “By his singing, the priest proclaims and expresses the mystery of the liturgy; his voice invites the faithful to join in.” His sung dialogues are not interruptions between the “real music.” They are the very foundation upon which the rest of the music is built upon.

Indeed, the Church teaches that the first musical priority in any Mass is the priest’s own singing and the people’s responses. The singing of the priest is the first degree (the first priority) of singing in the Mass. Musicam Sacram states:

The first degree may be used even by itself, but the second and third, wholly or partially, may never be used without the first. In this way the faithful will be continually led towards an ever greater participation in the singing. (Musicam Sacram, 28)

When the priest sings, “The Lord be with you / Dominus vobiscum” and the people respond, “And with your spirit / Et cum spiritu tuo”, the Church breathes together. These dialogues become the rowing chant of the Mystical Body of Christ, binding priest and people into one unified act of worship.

The connection between ad orientem and sacred music is striking. Both direct our attention away from ourselves and toward God. Both cultivate unity rather than performance. Both remind us that the liturgy is something we enter—not something we create.

When the priest faces East and chants the sacred texts entrusted to him by the Church, he becomes less visible so that Christ may become more visible. His personality fades into the background as the eternal High Priest shines forth.

Every aspect of the liturgy should point the faithful in the same direction. The architecture, the altar, the music, the incense rising heavenward, the crucifix, the candles, and the common orientation of priest and people all proclaim one reality: we are journeying toward Christ.

Our modern culture constantly encourages us to turn inward—to focus on ourselves, our preferences, and our own experiences. The liturgy teaches precisely the opposite. It teaches us to look outward and upward. It teaches us to seek the Lord who comes from the East, “as lightning cometh out of the east, and appeareth even into the west.”

Every Mass is a voyage toward eternity.

The nave is our ship.

The priest stands at the helm.

The faithful labor together with one heart and one voice.

And all are facing the same destination.

Ad orientem is ultimately not about where the priest stands. It is about where the Church is going. When priest and people together face the Lord, the liturgy reveals its deepest meaning: we are a pilgrim people, journeying through this world toward the rising Son, eagerly awaiting the day when He will come again in glory.

Photo by Marise Guignard on Unsplash

Jesus walking on water and calling Peter to meet Him outside the boat—recorded in Matthew 14:22-33—is one of the most recognizable and memorable episodes in all the Gospels. It sticks in our minds, certainly, because it is an amazing miracle. It stands out also, I think, because so many of us identify with Peter’s initial response of faith and his subsequent lack of trust.

Still, there is much value to be gained by pondering this episode beyond those two points. In fact, another fruitful way to ponder is watching the episode unfold from the vantage point of a disciple in the boat. I place myself there, as though I am part of this small band of followers of a rabbi from Nazareth.

Just before evening, the beginning of the new day, Jesus sends me, along with the rest of the disciples, to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. This isn’t altogether difficult, or out of the ordinary. Our group is in and around these waters frequently. I may be a little hesitant to board the boat at night, but I am filled with confidence and trust at this moment. I have already seen our rabbi calm a violent storm on this same sea, providing peace when none seemed available (see Mt. 8:23-27). And, just hours before, I witnessed Him, somehow, feed a crowd of perhaps more than ten thousand persons with five loaves and two fish (see Mt. 14:13-21).

As the night progresses, though, our group has moved “a long way from the land,” the place of our security. The wind is against us, and waves are beating against our boat (verse 24). Then, something happens “in the fourth watch of the night” (verse 25), that is, the darkest part of the night. I think I notice a figure walking toward us. But, without the aid of rays from the sun beginning to peek over the horizon, it is incredibly difficult to see clearly in that moment. So, I am confused, even “terrified” (verse 26). My mind, formed by our culture and religion, cause us immediately to think this is a ghost. My fellow travelers think so, too, because we all cry out “in fear” (verse 26).

Speaking directly into our confusion and fear, a voice speaks: “Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid” (verse 27). I know this voice. It calls into my mind previous miracles I have witnessed. It is the most peaceful voice I have ever heard. As soon as I hear it, my fear and anxiety fade. I wonder if the others hear it the same way.

Then, our friend and de facto leader, Peter, makes a bold—even brash—comment, as he is prone to do. “Lord,” he says, “if it is you, command me to come to you on the water” (verse 28). It seems to me this comment is almost a challenge. Why would Peter ask for this miracle, instead of simply asking Jesus to reveal His identity? He just witnessed a multiplication miracle on the shore the day before.

The voice responds, simply, “Come” (verse 29). This voice has always packed so much into few words. And, when I hear it, I want to respond along with Peter. I feel compelled to leave the boat by the power of this voice. But, I remain seated, thinking to myself, “Well, this is a bit scary and, after all, he didn’t call me.”

I watch Peter exit the boat, walking toward our rabbi on the water (verse 29). At that moment, I begin having multiple thoughts and emotions. I am surprised that he trusts enough to exit the boat because, again, my reason tells me this is impossible. I am anxious about the results because, after all, I have felt the waves and the wind. I am amazed when my friend walks on water without sinking. As my friend makes his way to Jesus, whom I notice more clearly, I am in a bit of awe that my friend has left the relative safety of the boat for the sake of something unknown, unfathomable. None of us knew for certain what or who was out there, and Peter still walked out into the dark, deep, mysterious water.

These thoughts are interrupted quickly. I begin to notice the wind and the waves picking up. Apparently, my friend notices, too. I can tell he is afraid now, and then I watch him begin to sink. In that moment, I hear him call out to Jesus, our rabbi, “Lord, save me” (verse 30). What happened to Peter? Why did he start to sink? How far will Jesus let him be submerged in the water? Will Jesus rescue Peter at all? Does He have the power to rescue? All these questions race through my mind in a split second.

My questions and fears last only a moment because I see Jesus reach out and lift up Peter. As soon as Peter is secure again, Jesus asks a question: “O you of little faith, why did you doubt” (verse 31)? Is He talking only to Peter, or is He also directing that question to me and the others in the boat? Could I have walked out there if I had not found myself in timid doubt? Did I doubt that Jesus would not be able to command the wind and the sea (see Mk. 4:35-41), or that He would not rescue one of His most devoted disciples?

Finally, Peter and Jesus return to our boat, and immediately “the wind ceased” (verse 31). I notice the calm that comes into our boat with Jesus’ presence, and I am immediately reminded of the peace that came with His voice just moments ago. Every bit of the peace I feel when I am traveling around Galilee comes into the boat with Him in this moment. I have thought before that I do not want to be apart from this great teacher, because of how I feel when I am near Him. I make that decision again. And, in the same moment, I wonder if He did not plan this whole experience, just so Peter and the others and I would desire even more to be near Him.

It seems that the others in the boat are having similar thoughts and feelings. I gather this because all of us have the same reaction. We all realize this man is unique among all men, that He has power over and above anything we can imagine. He must be more than human, we think. So, we exclaim in worship, “Truly you are the Son of God” (verse 32). Without saying any words, all of us collectively know this is the right reaction, not just to what we have witnessed, but to who this man is.

Surely, any of us who engage in an Ignatian meditation exercise like this one come to know that Scripture is “living and active” (Heb. 4:12). In this or any other passage of the Bible, I can find countless details, themes, and questions that apply to my real-life situations and experience, today. Everyone experiences the winds and waves, the things in life—large or small—that bother and frighten us, the things that cause us to take our eyes off the Lord. We experience doubt and the inability to trust. Ultimately, pondering this or any Gospel episode ought to bring us to ask: What habits and dispositions are developing in my heart? Then: How do these realizations cause me to turn my mind and heart more fully toward the Lord?

Author’s Note: This meditation was aided in large part by Christ Walking on the Sea by Amédée Varin.

Image from Wikimedia Commons

The Venerable Archbishop Sheen, soon to be known as Blessed Fulton Sheen, was a man of many gifts. We should add, however, that his gifts were lavish and reflected a most generous God. He was a clear-headed philosopher, a brilliant essayist, and possessed an illuminating way with words. He was not quite the philosopher that St. Thomas Aquinas was. As an essayist, he tipped his cap to G. K. Chesterton. And as a writer, he knelt before Shakespeare. He was skilled at telling jokes, but he was indebted to those who coined them. He bowed his head before his four favorite writers: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. He may not have been the world’s most accomplished polyglot, but he did have proficiency, in addition to his native tongue, in Latin, Greek, French, Italian, and German. In his rules for speaking, he suggested that the speaker tell a story in which he comes out second—that a display of humility is essential. Despite his many gifts, Sheen was not so much proud of his gifts as thankful to a beneficent God. His gratitude far exceeded whatever vestige of pride he had.

Sheen came in second, even a far distant second, from stalwarts who preceded him, but there was one gift he had that no doubt would have topped Aquinas, Chesterton, and Shakespeare. And that was his voice. That resonant voice was first heard in a room above his father’s hardware store on May 8, 1895. His uncle would say that “You could hear him crying for three blocks.”

That voice, transmitted over radio and television, imprinted on tapes, and heard from the pulpit was needed to render with beautiful clarity the richness of his message. God did not shortchange him. Archbishop Sheen was not only “America’s Bishop”—an identity that Thomas C. Reeves chose to title his biography—he was the “Voice of the Catholic Church.”

Concerning his voice, one writer had this to say:

Bishop Fulton J. Sheen’s voice was famous for its rich, theatrical, and commanding tone. He had a rapid-fire yet deeply articulate speaking style, characterized by a booming oratorical resonance, dramatic pauses, and a slight Midwestern-tinged American accent that made his Catholic radio and TV broadcasts incredibly magnetic.

Sheen was considered a master of the “pregnant pause,” using a moment of silence to allow the point he was making to sink in before he delivered the punch line. He had a great voice, but he also knew how to use it to achieve the best results.

He was dubbed “God’s microphone.” This is an amusing hyperbole that Sheen would not have accepted, though it seemed to suit him. John Facenda achieved national fame as a narrator for NFL films. His voice was so well suited for conveying the power and glory of national league football games that he was known to his fans as “The Voice of God.” The human voice has the power to mesmerize, as delivered by male crooners. It also has the ability to thrill and inspire, as in grand opera.  

Sheen audio tapes are being advertised as “The voice that brought the faith to millions.” Sheen would have pointed out that it was not his voice that brought faith to his listeners, but the grace of God. Nonetheless, just as a church, as well as priests’ vestments, should be beautiful, it is fitting that the voice of the homilist should also be beautiful.

While it is reasonable to state that Archbishop Sheen was “The voice of the Catholic Church” during his time, there was another “voice” from which Sheen distanced himself. That was the Voice of America. In 1949, he wrote an article that was published in the New York Times criticizing the Voice of America broadcasts to the Soviet Union that emphasized material glories while ignoring spiritual and moral values. People tuned into the Voice of America “are not sighing for a day,” Sheen wrote, “when they will have our business men selling them our tractors, but rather they are sighing for the churches and monasteries which can be rebuilt when Russia once again becomes holy.”

We do not know what the voice of God is like. The Bible informs us that God spoke to Moses at the “burning bush” and identified Himself with words of profound significance: “I Am Who Am.” The sound of the real voice of God is unknown to us, yet it confirms the fact that the “voice” is of such intense importance that it is an aspect of the divinity.

What we listen to is of vital importance. Truth and falsehood are equally comfortable in the ear. The mind must discern which voice we should follow. Bishop Sheen’s voice will not fall into silence. Technology that was not available at the time of the burning bush will prevent Sheen’s voice from slipping into oblivion. We can trust the voice of Bishop Sheen. It is linked with the Word of God.

Sheen taught that the voice is a crucial instrument of divine communication. He emphasized that the voice should blend truth with love. He stated that a person’s ultimate “voice” is how well he lived. He also believed that it is through the voice, more than through any other medium, that the Gospel message is communicated. Christ Himself did not write a single word. His mission was largely by word of mouth.

We ask Blessed Fulton J. Sheen to raise his voice on our behalf before the throne of God.

Image from Wikimedia Commons

On August 9th, the Church observes the Liturgical Memorial of St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein).

Thirty-five years ago, two Polish missionaries of the Conventual Franciscans, Fr. Zbigniew Strzałkowski and Fr. Michał Tomaszek, were martyred in Peru. Until the very last moment, they could have saved their lives by withdrawing from their missionary work. To do so, however, would have meant abandoning the faithful entrusted to their care.

Had Edith Stein, the Carmelite nun, taken matters into her own hands sooner and not concerned herself with the fate of her sister, she most likely could have escaped to neutral Switzerland and saved her life. God yet had other plans, and she was determined to remain faithful to Him in every respect.

When the Germans invaded Holland, the Gestapo finally came for her and her sister, Rosa Stein, who had also converted. Taking Rosa by the hand, Edith said simply, “Come, we are going for our people.” In 1942, she died in the gas chambers at Auschwitz, a German concentration camp.

MARTYRDOM AND ACCOLADE

Back to our Franciscans.

“I met Zbigniew just a few days before his martyrdom and asked whether they had been receiving threats. He smiled, and after a moment of silence replied, ‘We cannot abandon the people. You never know what may happen, but if they kill us, bury us here,” recalled Sr. Marlene Trelles.

At that time, the communist organization Shining Path (Sendero Luminoso) was terrorizing the country and eventually came to regard the presence of the Franciscan missionaries as a significant obstacle to its revolutionary campaign.

The terrorists surrounded the friary, tied up the two priests, and drove them out of town. They executed the two friars with two shots to the backs of their heads. Beside their bodies, they left a message: “This is how the lackeys of imperialism die. Long live the People’s Guerrilla Army.”

The two Polish friars were killed because people had fallen prey to a godless ideology. The Carmelite nun from Wrocław (Breslau) was killed because others had succumbed to a different plague: the ideology of racial supremacy. These were the fruits of two totalitarian systems—the Red and the Brown.

Crowds of faithful gathered for the funeral to bid a final farewell to their beloved priests. Many were already praying to God through their intercession.

On August 12, 1991, the Government of Peru posthumously awarded the martyrs the nation’s highest honour, the Order of the Sun of Peru. Three decades later, on December 8, 2022, Polish President Andrzej Duda conferred on both friars the Grand Cross of the Order of Merit of the Republic of Poland in recognition of their missionary service, their outstanding commitment to those in need, and their efforts to promote education among the people of Peru.

On December 5, 2015, Fathers Michał Tomaszek and Zbigniew Strzałkowski, OFM Conv., were declared Blesseds.

VENERATION

To this day, the people of Pariacoto and Chimbote have not forgotten the two Polish friars. They continue to speak of them with deep affection, and many who remember the Franciscan missionaries still turn to them in prayer.

“Many people ask for prayer cards containing second-class relics. The cards feature photographs of the missionaries along with small pieces of the clothing they wore in Peru. We have prepared them in nine languages—Polish, English, Spanish, French, German, Russian, Lithuanian, Slovak, and Japanese. These prayer cards have already reached every continent,” said Brother Jan Hruszowiec, promoter of the martyrs’ cause.

“On Oct. 13, 2025, we presented our beloved Mother at Jasna Góra in Częstochowa with a votive offering: the 100,000th rosary containing relics of our martyrs. We also chose Jasna Góra as the place to inaugurate the observance of the 35th anniversary of their martyrdom—not in Poland, but at the National Shrine of Our Lady of Czestochowa in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. I had the grace of being there on February 7–8th to celebrate the opening of the anniversary year with the faithful.

The shrine holds special significance for the Polish-American community. It is also worth noting that, after Poland, the United States is home to the second-largest number of places in the world where first-class relics—fragments of our martyrs’ bodies—are preserved. “Today, they are venerated at 72 locations across the United States,” Brother Jan shared on another occasion.

A GUEST FROM BEYOND

From June 1 to 10, 2022, Marco de Angelis served as a Caritas volunteer in Owo, Nigeria. On June 5th, while attending Mass, he experienced the worst nightmare of his life.

Among those caught in the terrorist attack was his friend, Osagie, 38, whose only son, Tony, had stepped outside to buy snacks because neither of them had eaten breakfast. As he reached the church entrance, the gunmen opened fire. While others ran for cover, Osagie rushed toward her son in a desperate attempt to save him. In that terrifying moment, Marco remembered the prayer cards he was carrying.

Because of space limitations, the original account, published on the official Franciscan website, has been shortened and stylistically adapted for English-speaking readers.

Marco tells his story:

“I prayed in my own words, asking Fathers Zbigniew and Michał for help. Moments later, a young man appeared out of nowhere. He grabbed my shirt, pulled me towards Mrs. Osagie, and together we eased her to the ground. Supporting her head, he urged us to lie flat beneath the wooden pews. […]

From where we lay, we could see bodies scattered across the church grounds. Many were already dead; others were still clinging to life. […]

I asked the young man his name several times, but he never answered. Instead, he urged Mrs. Osagie and me to stay among the bodies. When I asked once more who he was, he simply said he had come to help us.

Holding Osagie’s hand, he gently told her to let go of her son, explaining that he had already died and that she must try to escape. He assured her that her son would soon be home with our Father in Heaven.

I was in shock. Nothing made sense. Once the gunfire subsided, I ran to a nearby house, where members of the rescue team found me and took me to hospital.

The following day, I returned to Owo to search for the man who had saved Mrs. Osagie and me. I asked local residents and the Franciscans, but not a soul recognised the man I described.”

After returning home, Marco began to suspect that the mysterious rescuer was one of the two Blesseds, although he had appeared much younger. Sister Barbara, a Polish nun, strengthened that conviction when she showed him photographs of the missionaries taken in their youth. Marco became convinced the man was Fr. Zbigniew.

A year later, he met Osagie again and showed her the same photograph.

“Osagie, was this him? Was he the one who saved us?”

With tears in her eyes, she replied, “It was him.”

Marco then asked whether she still thought about her son. She said she had come to accept his death and believed that her little boy, who had died as a martyr, was with Jesus Christ.

The terrorist attack claimed the lives of forty-one people, including children and the elderly. Those who survived continue to carry the physical and psychological scars of that day.

In closing, let us reflect on these words of Sacred Scripture:

The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them. They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us, utter destruction. But they are in peace. (Wis. 3: 1-3)

Image by Francisofmconv from Wikimedia Commons

“Before filling the glass with good liquid, the bad one must be poured out.”

I don’t need to tell you the story of St. Augustine—no, not you, readers. You know already of the great saint, whose conversion story is perhaps the most famed ever written. His life gave birth to the concept of the Augustinian journey—the story of a man who sins, who rejects the call to conversion for years, but who ultimately makes atonement and returns home to his true self. This Christianized version of Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey has been applied to characters across history, literature, and film—including, surprisingly, Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster, critical smash, The Odyssey. 

It’s key to note here—and this is where the “surprisingly” comes in—that I’m referencing Nolan’s Odyssey here, not Homer’s. Yes, it’s an adaptation, and quite a faithful one at that, both in its structure and in its presentation of the main hallmarks of the 3000-year-old story. But Nolan brings a decidedly Augustinian lens to his interpretation—dare I say, translation—of the story, especially in how he sees the character of Odysseus.

Purists will argue with me, I’m sure, that such an interpretation does not reflect the Homeric concept of virtue in the book and would be foreign to that age. And that this Odysseus, furthermore, has more in common with other Nolan protagonists than with the Odysseus of the text. To these I say: yes, fine. But, just as translators of the work across the centuries have brought their own societal ideas, prejudices, and biases to their translations, Nolan does as well here, offering what is his most Christian work yet as a result.

Was this purposeful? Perhaps not. But Nolan was born and raised Catholic. The Baptismal mark remains and has colored his work in the past (especially in his Dark Knight trilogy). To find it here, in an adaptation of one of the key foundational texts of Western Civilization, makes it a rich, deeply rewarding film—one with five moments I especially want to highlight.

Spoilers, of course, follow. Yes, the book is 3,000 years old. I get it. But Nolan adds in key differences that are worth saving for your own viewing.

I. “The Power of a Sacrifice is in the Cost of the Person Making It”

Early in the film, Nolan has Penelope (Anne Hathaway) recount to Telemachus (Tom Holland) stories of the father he never knew, including the final night before he left his beloved Ithica for Troy. That night, Odysseus (Matt Damon) told Penelope why he had to go off to war—despite his misgivings with it. He warns Penelope that King Agamemnon (Benny Safdie) sacrificed his own daughter for favorable winds and would not hesitate to do the same with their own son, Telemachus, if Odysseus refused to aid him. 

Penelope, justifiably horrified, calls this monstrous. Odysseus replies, “the power of a sacrifice is in the cost of the person making it.” 

Here, Nolan immediately lays out a contrast between Agamemnon and Odysseus, showing Odysseus willing to sacrifice himself for his son, his family, his Ithica, if it means protecting all of them. For him, “of course love is a sacrifice.” He willingly accepts that he may never return, if it means protecting what he holds most dear. The power is in the cost, indeed.

The Christian concept here is evident—“no greater love than this”—but it’s also a fascinating starting point for a character who will later need to find his way back to this version of himself again.  

II. “Zeus’ Law”

Now, this is less a single moment than a key theme running throughout Nolan’s version of The Odyssey. Over the course of the film, characters encourage each other to treat strangers like they’re a god in disguise. Telemachus tells characters on more than one occasion that they have “wise eyes, Athena’s eyes.” Odysseus, upon reaching the cave of the fearsome Cyclops, says that his crew has nothing to fear because of “Zeus’ Law” (spoiler: Odysseus was wrong). 

We see, in this Greek world, a people who believed that the divine touched and influenced everything in their lives. The existence of the divine was simply a given, seen in the waves, in the wind, in the storm. This extended all the way down to the way people were meant to treat each other—thus, Zeus’ Law.

Nolan’s concept of it is based on the Greek concept of xenia, one of the most important themes of Homer’s poem. He interprets xenia, however, through what can only be described as a distinctly Christian lens, seeing it more as “treat each person like they’re made in the image and likeness of God.”

Telemachus insists that every stranger be given a place at the table in his father’s house for that reason. Penelope insists, near the end of the film, that Odysseus—in the guise of a beggar—have his feet washed for this same reason as well. 

With this theme, Nolan is commenting on something that has been lost in our modern times that must be regained again. Strangers deserve love. They deserve respect. They deserve hospitality. To do otherwise is to violate Zeus’ Law—to violate all that is meant to be sacred between men.

Breaking this law is the great sin that plunges Odysseus into the horrors that follow—but more on that later.

III. “Accept Your Punishment”

After Odysseus and his crew leave Troy, they encounter horror after horror at each stop they make. They hope for hospitality, for Zeus’ Law, but are instead given pain and death from giants, witches, and, yes, gods themselves. All due to their sins at Troy and after. 

At one point, after the witch Circe (Samantha Morton) horrifically turns Odysseus’ crew into pigs, she warns him that “your men don’t want you to defy the gods. But the gods say only you make it home.”

Odysseus replies without hesitation, “then I defy the gods.”

He, once again, refuses to accept his fate and stubbornly fights back against the divine. For this, his crew is lost, and he is left alone on the island of the sea nymph, Calypso (Charlize Theron). He spends the next seven years there, eating lotus flowers, all to forget the pain and suffering he has both endured and wrought by his own hand. He is a man who knows what he has done but is unable to atone. 

“Make me pure, Lord…but not yet.” So said Augustine. And so also says Odysseus. 

Before reaching Calypso’s island, Odysseus heard the song of the Sirens—one of the most stunning sequences of the film—and only then admits what had been haunting him since Troy. Why he had been up late, weeping to the goddess Athena each night. The song, for him, was “a song of all the promises I failed to keep. And it told me I don’t really want to go home.”

As he slowly remembers everything that happened to him, he recounts this story to Calypso. When she challenges him that he had not been ready to go home over these past seven years, Odysseus quickly replies, “I am now. Help me go home.” 

Odysseus, at long last, accepts his sins. But to return home, he must accept the god Poseidon’s punishment on the open ocean. Here, atonement and baptism are both intertwined and necessary—the only way he can finally return home not just to his beloved Ithica, but truly to himself.

IV. “What if the Odysseus You Knew Had Lost His Way?”

Near the end of the film, Nolan offers his most key contribution to Homer’s text, the scene that recontextualizes the film entire. After Odysseus has returned to Ithica in the guise of a beggar, he is asked to speak with Penelope. Nolan stages this scene so that Odysseus is speaking to his wife through a screen—a deliberately evocative image, bringing to mind countless confessionals seen across the centuries. 

Here, in this moment, Odysseus confesses to Penelope his great sin—the song of all the promises he failed to keep when he left his home for Troy, all those years ago. 

What if the Odysseus you knew lost his way? What if…one night, in a strange city, he saw things that made him think the home he knew couldn’t possibly be there anymore. What if…when he left the belly of the horse, and opened the gates of Troy, he saw ten years of rage pour into that city in one night?

We left them a gift, an offering of peace, that they took into their home. We violated all that’s ever sacred between people. It turned a fight into a hunt.

To burn the walls of Troy was to burn the world entire. Including his home.

Nolan takes the story of the Trojan Horse, one of the most famous in all of Western Civilization, and marks it as a tragedy, smashing Zeus’ Law to pieces and breaking the world itself apart as a result. What was presented as a gift was instead a betrayal. In this world, strangers do not bring knives into the homes of those who welcome them in. But, with this trick, all of that was shattered. Violent deeds, violent ends. For all.

Each stop on Odysseus’ journey home reinforces that awful truth. And it is only by confessing his sins, by admitting what he had done and what he had failed to do at Troy and since, that Odysseus can begin to move forward towards a future where Zeus’ Law can be rebuilt again.

V. “Chasing the Escaping Sun”

At the very end of the film, Odysseus accepts exile after killing all the suitors in his home, taking one last punishment to restore order to his house—and to the world—again. What he has committed, killing men in his own home, violating the laws of hospitality one last time, deserves punishment. One he gladly takes, giving the throne to his son and leaving to head into the unknown West with his beloved Penelope.

This decision plucks the bow of Catholicism one last time with resounding effect. After a good confession, atonement must be made if there is to be any absolution. As they sail into the West, Odysseus fears that his sins and their consequences will be forgotten, but Penelope believes that civilization can be rebuilt again—a task that will fall to the next generation. 

All humans fall. But only in the course of accepting our sinful nature, confessing, and making atonement can there be hope for a next generation to do just that. This was true for Odysseus. It is true for us as well.

Some of these themes exist in Homer’s original text, but not all—and certainly not interpreted in this manner. Nolan retells the Odyssey in his own distinctly Western way, one born from his own Catholic upbringing. Nolan pulls not only from Homer but from the entirety of Western tradition in his telling, looking to Virgil, to Dante, and yes, even to Augustine. He’s not the first to Christianize Homer’s text—Clement of Alexandria even did so around 200 A.D.—and he won’t be the last.

Does this make for an absolutely pure adaptation of Homer? No, something that I am sure some classicists will take issue with. They certainly took issue with 2004’s Troy, another cinematic retelling of Homer that I also called out for its many liberties, particularly its cynical agnosticism. Nolan, with his take on Homer, takes far fewer liberties, while also retaining the importance of the laws of the gods—but some liberties he takes, nonetheless.

A 1:1 adaptation? Surely not. Maybe not the adaptation some classicists wanted, but the adaptation today’s culture needed. Here, with one of the foundational texts of Western Civilization, Nolan’s current obsession with the story of sin and the Fall of Man (see Tenet and Oppenheimer) reaches its zenith: his Odyssey aches for a salvation that secularism has failed to offer, that can only be found in the divine.

Nolan’s take is a fascinating one, a translation all its own, and one that brings Christian, civilizational values back to the forefront of popular culture. That, truly, is something worth celebrating.

Photo by Silas Baisch on Unsplash

This Sunday’s Gospel tells us that Jesus let the apostles struggle for many hours in a violent storm before going to them.  Why did He wait so long?

Gospel (Read Mt. 14:22-33)

After the miraculous feeding of the five thousand (last Sunday’s Gospel), Jesus sent both His disciples and the vast crowd away.  The disciples took a boat to the other side of the lake; Jesus would eventually join them there.  In the meantime, He “went up on the mountain by himself to pray.”  Whenever we see Jesus retreating to solitude for prayer this way, it reminds us that He was a sojourner here.  His original and permanent life is in Heaven, in communion with His Father.  Like Him, we are also sojourners here.  Like Him, we also need solitary times with our Father.

Meanwhile, the apostles encounter a horrific storm at sea.  The Greek word describing this storm, which is translated as “tossed about by the waves” in English, literally means “harassed, tortured.”  Even for seasoned fishermen, this was quite a storm.  Jesus goes to them in “the fourth watch of the night,” or between 3:00 and 6:00 am.  The apostles had quite likely been battling this storm most of the night.  

Why did Jesus wait so long to go to them?  Was He so absorbed in prayer that He was unaware of their plight?  As the episode unfolds, we increasingly feel that there was a point Jesus wanted to make, a lesson He wanted to teach His friends.  If so, this reminds us of Jesus’ purposeful delay in going to his dying friend, Lazarus.  In that case, Jesus chose raising a man from the dead as a more powerful testimony to Himself than a simple cured illness would have been.  Was that same dynamic at work here?

Ironically, when Jesus approaches the disciples “walking on the sea,” they are terrified, not relieved.  They do not recognize Him.  They think He is a “ghost.”  Why did they have that reaction?  Certainly they didn’t expect to see Jesus (or any human being) walking on water.   They had struggled so long against this frightening storm that, in their exhaustion, they had only fear and dread of this appearance.  If they were thinking of Jesus at all, maybe they wondered if He would be waiting on the other side for them, if they made it there.  Perhaps they were disappointed He hadn’t made the trip with them in the boat.  

Then, as He had done once before (see Mt. 8:23-27), He could have calmed the sea with a command.  Here in the tempest, where the sea seemed to be winning its battle against them, the sight of a man walking on water was too strange and ominous for them.  They, literally, “screamed” with fear.  They did not feel the nearness of Jesus; on the contrary, they felt completely abandoned.

As their fear reached its height, Jesus “immediately” speaks to them:  “Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid.”  The sound of Jesus’ voice assures them this is no ghost.  No matter what their eyes told them, or what their imaginations conjured up, it was the Word Jesus spoke that calmed their fears.  Translated literally, Jesus says, “Take heart; I am.”  For these Jewish apostles, this self-identification had enormous significance.  God, through the prophet, Isaiah, had once said about Himself:  “’I am the LORD, your Holy One, the Creator of Israel, your King.’  Thus says the LORD, Who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters’” (Isa. 43:15-16).  God’s covenant name in Israel was “I am.”

We might wonder why Jesus didn’t calm the sea at this point, as He had done previously in a similar situation.  There, He had been in the boat, asleep, when the frightened apostles woke Him up to save them.  He stilled the waters with a command, and the apostles marveled, asking, “Who is this?”  Why did Jesus let the storm waters continue to rage this time?  The wonderful Scripture commentator, Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis, has a brilliant comment on this:

“It is crucial that [the disciples] now derive trust and strength from the very place…that a moment ago was to them a source of keenest fear.  For this is the chief feature of the Paschal Mystery, that new life should emanate from the place of death…[Jesus] comes to comfort them out of the heart of the storm, where He Himself has been a major cause of their agony.  In a pattern that would repeat itself at Calvary, they do not want to look for their Lord in the place of fear.  Thus, Jesus must shatter the submarine monster of fear from within, once and for all.”  (Fire of Mercy, Heart of the Word, II, pg 377)

When we understand this, we understand the next part of the story, too.  Peter longs to join Jesus on the water.  Was that out of love for Him, or out of curiosity about a spectacular phenomenon?  When Peter goes onto the water, does he expect Jesus would then silence the storm?  

When the wind and the waves continue, Peter loses his focus.  They become more real to him than Jesus.  Feeling himself begin to sink, he cries out, “Lord, save me!”  He must have been physically quite close to Jesus—just one grasp away—but his fear of the storm got the better of him.  His descent into the dark, watery abyss (what Leiva-Merikakis calls “the awful gravity of fear”) restores Peter’s vision.  He knows himself to be a weak man, no match for the storm.  His only hope is Jesus.  One cry for help was all it took.  Jesus’ strong hand catches and saves him.  With it comes a penetrating question, “Why did you doubt?”

When Jesus and Peter get into the boat, the storm stops.  No command, no miracle.  The storm had served its purpose.  What effect did all this have on the apostles?  “Those who were in the boat did him homage, saying, ‘Truly, you are the Son of God.’”  They are not wondering Who He is anymore.  Jesus had given them a remarkable testimony to Himself.  In addition, He taught them an important lesson about themselves.  These men were destined to do “even greater works” than Jesus (see John 14:12), but Peter’s experience on the water showed them they wouldn’t be able to do anything without Him.  Lastly, Jesus taught the apostles not to fear the storm, even when He doesn’t immediately still its turbulence.  He surprised them by appearing in its midst; He can surprise us that way, too.

Possible response:  Lord Jesus, help me remember that in the heart of the storms I experience, I must look for You.

First Reading (Read 1 Kgs. 19:9, 11-13)

These verses describe a scene in Israel’s history that followed a remarkable confrontation between the false prophets of Baal and God’s prophet, Elijah, on Mt. Carmel.  The people of Israel had wantonly given themselves to the idolatrous worship of Baal.  God told Elijah to call all the people together, along with the false prophets, in order to prove once and for all that there is no god in Heaven but the LORD.  

Elijah called down fire from Heaven in a powerful demonstration of God’s presence; all the false prophets were killed.  When the queen of Israel, Jezebel, a worshipper of Baal, heard of this, she called for Elijah’s death.  He had to flee for his life to the mountain of God, Horeb.  This was not exactly how he thought the victory at Mt. Carmel would turn out!

Elijah wanted to talk to the LORD, and the LORD agreed, telling him, “Go outside and stand on the mountain before the LORD; the LORD will be passing by.”  This is reminiscent of the time Moses wanted to see more of God’s glory on this same mountain hundreds of years earlier, and “the LORD passed by” (see Ex. 34:6).  It is also foreshadows the many times in the Gospels Jesus is described as “passing by” (see Mk. 6:48; Mt. 20:30; Lk. 18:37), providing testimony to His divinity.  As Elijah took his place, there were lots of fireworks as the LORD passed by (wind, earthquake, fire), but the LORD did not speak out of these.  This is in contrast to the time when the LORD called Moses and all His people to meet with Him at Horeb (also called Sinai) after He delivered them from bondage in Egypt.  

“And Mt. Sinai was wrapped in smoke, because the LORD descended upon it in fire; and…the whole mountain quaked greatly…Moses spoke, and God answered him in thunder.” (Ex. 19:18-19)

Perhaps this is what Elijah was expecting; instead, the LORD spoke in “a tiny whispering sound.”  This scene is rich in prophetic meaning, as we well know.  Eventually, the LORD would speak His Word in human flesh, even in the tiny, helpless sound of an Infant in a manger.  Our Gospel reading helps us to see that the elements of nature, with all their great force and power to frighten us, are no match for the Lord of all creation.  Jesus is God’s still, small Voice.  It was the sound of Jesus’ Voice over the crashing fury of the storm that comforted the apostles:  “Take heart; it is I.  Have no fear.”

Possible response:  Lord Jesus, help me listen for Your Voice when fear fills my ears with my own.

Psalm (Read Ps. 85:9-14)

The psalmist recounts the mercy of the LORD in saving him from death:  “Near indeed is salvation for the loyal.”  He envisions a day when those who trust in the LORD will have their steps guided by His loving hand.  At that time, “Justice shall walk before him, and prepare the way of his steps.”  Had Peter kept his eyes on Jesus, he would have experienced this truth literally.  Instead, he had to cry out for help.   All who are rescued from death, against all odds (that would be us), can echo the psalmist’s refrain:  Lord, let us see your kindness, and grant us your salvation.

Possible response:  The psalm is, itself, a response to the other lectionary readings.  Read it again prayerfully to make it your own.

Second Reading (Read Rom. 9:1-5)

Here St. Paul expresses his great agony over the rejection of Jesus as Israel’s Messiah by most of his contemporaries in Judah.  He says, by way of emphasis, that he himself would be willing to be cut off from Christ if that could make a difference for his kinsmen.  In this, he follows the example of Moses, who was also willing to be “blotted out” (see Ex. 32:32) for the apostasy of God’s people in the wilderness.  What makes Israel’s rejection of Jesus so bitter for St. Paul is that their entire history, as God’s chosen people, prepared them to receive, not reject, Jesus.  

Even in our discussion of this Sunday’s readings, we can see how thoroughly Jesus lived His life in fulfillment of the Old Covenant Scriptures.  Jews listened to these Scriptures over and over in their synagogue services and Temple liturgies.  The psalms, especially, were a constant part of their Jewish life, because they were the prayers of God’s people.

For example, we have to wonder if Peter, as he started to sink into the waves, had this psalm running through his head:  “Save me, O God!  For the waters have come up to my neck.  I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold; I have come into deep waters, and the flood sweeps over me.  I am weary with my crying; my throat is parched.  My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God” (Ps. 69:1-3).

God showed up in Egypt to save His people from slavery; He showed up in the manger to save His people from sin and death; He showed up on the waters of the storm to save Peter.  How St. Paul longed for his kinsmen to accept Christ, “the Messiah. God who is over all be blessed forever. Amen.”

Possible response:  Lord Jesus, strengthen us in the Church, Your covenant people today, so as not to be indifferent to You through self-satisfaction and empty ritual.  Help us to see You as You constantly show up in the center of all we do.

Image from Wikimedia Commons