1 Kings 19:9-18 | Psalm 85:8-13 | Romans 10:5-15 | Matthew 14:22-33
There is a phrase in today’s Gospel that we perhaps need to listen to with special attention at this time:
“Courage! It is I. Do not be afraid.”
Jesus says these words in the midst of a storm.
The disciples are in a boat, in the middle of the sea. Night is falling. The wind is blowing against them. The waves are battering the boat. And, just when everything seems uncertain, Jesus comes to meet them, walking on the water.
Perhaps this image is a good metaphor for the world we live in.
We too are navigating turbulent waters.
We live in a society marked by profound inequalities. There are people who don’t know if they will have enough food tomorrow. There are families expelled from their lands. Indigenous peoples continue to fight for the right to exist in their territories. Migrants cross borders seeking safety and dignity. Women continue to be victims of violence within their own homes. People are discriminated against because of their race, their origin, their social condition, their identity.
And at the same time, creation itself groans.
Forests burn. Rivers become diseased. Oceans fill with plastic. Species disappear. Extreme weather events become more frequent, and those who contributed least to the environmental crisis are often the ones who suffer the most from its consequences.
Our boat is being rocked too.
And perhaps the first temptation is the same as that of the disciples: fear.
But Jesus continues saying:
“Courage! It is I. Do not be afraid.”
This is not a promise that there will be no storms.
The Gospel never promised a life without storms.
The Christian promise is different: God does not abandon his people in the midst of these trials.
The first reading introduces us to another frightened man.
Elijah is hiding in a cave.
He had confronted the powerful of his time and now fears for his own life. He is tired. Discouraged. Perhaps even convinced that his mission has failed.
Then God asks him:
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
And something extraordinary happens.
A very strong wind is coming.
But God is not in the wind.
Then comes an earthquake.
But God is not in the earthquake.
Then comes the fire.
But God is not in the fire.
And finally comes what biblical tradition describes in a way that is almost impossible to translate: a soft voice, a murmur, the sound of profound silence.
And there Elijah recognizes the presence of God.
This should give us pause for thought.
Because we live in a society fascinated by noise.
Whoever shouts the loudest seems to be right.
Those who possess more power seem to have authority.
Whoever manages to impose their will appears to be the winner.
Even religion sometimes falls into this temptation. We confuse faith with power, spiritual authority with domination, Christian witness with imposition.
But Elijah discovers something profoundly different:
God does not need violence to be powerful.
The God of Scripture can be found in the voice we can barely hear.
Perhaps that is why one of the most important tasks of the Church is precisely to learn how to listen.
Listen to those whose voices have been silenced.
Listen to the poor.
Listening to women who are victims of violence.
Listen to indigenous peoples and traditional communities.
Listening to migrants and refugees.
Listen to children and the elderly.
Listening to those whom our society has decided don’t matter.
And we also need to learn to listen to our own creation.
Because the Earth has been speaking to us for a long time.
The rivers are speaking. The forests are speaking. The oceans are speaking. The climate is speaking.
And perhaps our difficulty is not the absence of signs.
Perhaps we are making too much noise to hear them.
That is why Psalm 85 presents one of the most beautiful images in all of Scripture:
“Mercy and truth have met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other.”
What an extraordinary image. Justice and peace kissing.
Because, biblically, there is no true peace without justice.
Peace is not simply the absence of conflict.
There is no true peace when a child goes hungry.
There is no true peace when a woman lives in fear within her own home.
There is no true peace when someone needs to hide who they are to avoid violence.
There is no true peace when people are driven from their territories.
And there is no true peace when we destroy the ecosystems on which the lives of future generations depend.
Therefore, the same Psalm that speaks of justice and peace also says:
“The earth will yield its harvest.”
In biblical spirituality, social justice and care for creation are not two separate agendas.
They belong to the same work of reconciliation.
Caring for human dignity and caring for the Earth are expressions of the same faithfulness to God the Creator.
Ultimately, there is no healthy humanity on a sick planet.
Then we come to the letter to the Romans.
Paulo asks a series of questions:
“How can they call on the one they have not believed in?”
And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard?
And how can they hear without someone preaching to them?
And how can they preach unless they are sent?”
And he concludes:
“How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!”
Perhaps we need to reclaim the power of these words.
Evangelizing doesn’t just mean talking about Jesus.
It means making the Good News of Jesus visible.
When we defend the dignity of a person under threat, we are proclaiming good news.
When we welcome those who have been rejected, we are proclaiming good news.
When we confront racism, violence, and discrimination, we are proclaiming good news.
When we protect a spring, restore a degraded area, or plant a tree thinking of people we may never meet, we are announcing good news.
Because our feet become the feet of those who bring hope.
And this brings us back to the Gospel.
Peter sees Jesus walking on the water and says, “Lord, if it is you, tell me to come to you.” Jesus replies with a single word: “Come.”
And Peter gets out of the boat. Perhaps this is one of the most important images for the Church of our time. Because the boat is necessary.
It offers security and represents what we know.
Our structures. Our traditions. Our temples. Our institutions.
All of this has value. But there are times when following Jesus means getting out of the boat.
Peter doesn’t walk on water because he discovered some extraordinary ability. He walks because he trusts in the one who called him. And when he begins to sink, Jesus extends his hand. This is perhaps a most beautiful image of the Church.
We are not a community of people who never sink. We are a community of people who have learned to reach out to one another because they first experienced the hand of Christ sustaining us.
And today, in Brazil, we celebrate Father’s Day.
Perhaps these readings will offer us an opportunity to also reflect on fatherhood.
Because being a father shouldn’t mean exercising power over someone.
Being a father means taking responsibility for someone.
It’s about caring.
It’s about protecting without imprisoning.
It’s about guiding without dominating.
It’s about learning to listen.
It’s about being present.
Perhaps one of the most beautiful images of Christian fatherhood is found in today’s Gospel: an outstretched hand when someone begins to sink.
There are many ways to exercise this calling of caring.
There are biological parents.
There are adoptive parents.
There are grandfathers who have become fathers.
There are stepfathers who choose to love like fathers.
There are men who have assumed paternal responsibilities for children they did not father.
And there are also people for whom this date brings longing, absence, conflict, or pain.
The Church needs to have space for all these stories.
Because no human family is perfect.
But all can learn something from God’s love.
And perhaps one of the greatest responsibilities of a father is to understand that his sons and daughters do not belong to him.
These are people temporarily entrusted to our care so that they can grow in freedom, dignity, and love
And there is an even greater dimension to this responsibility.
When we think about our sons and daughters, we need to ask ourselves:
What kind of world are we leaving for them? What kind of rivers? What kind of forests? What kind of cities? What kind of climate? What kind of society? What kind of democracy? What kind of culture of coexistence?
It’s not enough to say we love our children while we destroy the future they will have to inhabit.
Perhaps planting a tree is also a gesture of fatherhood.
Perhaps defending a forest is also an act of fatherhood.
Perhaps fighting against violence is also an act of fatherhood
Perhaps defending the rights of a child who is not our own is one of the most profoundly Christian ways of understanding what it means to be a father
Because Christian love always expands the boundaries of the family.
Brothers and sisters, the world will continue to present storms.
There will be headwinds. There will be times when we will be afraid.
There will be times when, like Elijah, we will want to hide in a cave.
There will be times when, like Peter, we will begin to sink.
But the message of Scripture this Sunday is remarkably simple: God continues to come to meet us.
Sometimes in silence. Sometimes walking on water. Sometimes through someone else’s hands.
And he continues, saying: “Courage! It is I. Do not be afraid.”
Therefore, let us be a Church that has the courage to leave the boat.
A church that listens before speaking.
A Church that stands alongside those whose dignity is threatened.
A Church that understands that defending human rights is not something peripheral to the Christian faith, but a consequence of recognizing the image of God present in every person.
A Church that cares for creation not as a resource that belongs to us, but as a gift from God entrusted to our responsibility.
And on this Father’s Day, may those who exercise fatherhood embrace an even greater calling: to teach by example that strength is not violence; authority is not domination; courage is not the absence of fear; and love is not possession.
To love is to care.
To love is to protect.
To love is to set free.
To love is to extend a hand.
And when we find someone sinking—whether it’s a person, a community, or perhaps creation itself—let us not remain comfortably inside the boat.
May we have the courage to extend a hand.
Because that is exactly what God did for us in Jesus Christ.
And even today, amidst the storms of our time, his voice continues to pierce the wind:
“Courage! It is I. Do not be afraid.”
Amen.
