I’ll admit it: I’m not much for calculating the odds, but it’s pretty rare for June 29th—the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul—to land on a Sunday. Maybe once every six years or so, depending on how the leap years fall. For most Catholics, unless you’re one of the daily Mass regulars, this feast usually slips by quietly. But today, it takes center stage, and that’s actually pretty special. Because this celebration gets right to the heart of what makes us uniquely Catholic.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for THE SOLEMNITY OF SS. PETER & PAUL (June 29, 2025). Your support means a great deal to me, and I’m deeply grateful for the many who share these messages with their friends, families and social media followers. If you’ve found meaning in these words, I’d be grateful if you’d share them with others who might benefit.

And for those who prefer listening, you can find the audio version on SoundCloud HERE or subscribe to the podcast on iTunes HERE. Your comments, messages, and the way you’ve embraced these homilies continue to inspire me.  Sincerely in Christ -Father Jim

Let’s think about these two men. Peter and Paul couldn’t have been more different. Peter was a fisherman—hardworking, honest, a little rough around the edges, not exactly known for his schooling or sophistication. He was impulsive, the kind of guy who spoke first and thought later, but always from the heart. Paul, on the other hand, was the intellectual. He had status, education, the respect of his peers. He was precise, passionate, and—at least before Christ—pretty sure he had all the answers.

And yet, both of them had their lives completely upended by a personal encounter with Jesus Christ. Peter, called to be the first Pope—the rock on which the Church would be built. Paul, recruited in dramatic fashion to bring the Gospel to the Gentiles, the rest of the world. Two extremes, and yet together they become the pillars the Church stands on.

What I love about this feast is how it forces us to look at their humanity. Tonight’s Gospel, from John, is one of my favorites. It’s that moment after the resurrection when Jesus meets Peter on the shore. Remember, this is the same Peter who swore up and down at the Last Supper that he’d stick by Jesus no matter what—only to deny even knowing him a few hours later, not to some powerful official, but to anonymous faces in the crowd. That kind of failure leaves a mark.

So here’s Peter, carrying his shame, still trying to process the joy and shock of the resurrection. And Jesus asks him, not once but three times: “Do you love me?” It’s a moment loaded with meaning—almost as if Jesus is giving Peter the chance to undo those three denials. But there’s even more going on beneath the surface. When Jesus asks, “Do you love me more than these?” what does he mean? More than the other disciples? More than the fishing nets and the comfort of his old life which he had gone back to at this moment? More than anything or anyone else?  St. John’s Gospel often leaves us with these questions of uncertainty as to which of these Jesus meant or if it was all of the above.

Even the word “love” gets complicated. In Greek, there are different words for love — Jesus asks if Peter loves him with “agape,” a self-giving, divine love twice. Peter answers with “phileo,” a brotherly, human love. The third time, Jesus shifts and asks Peter if he loves him with that same brotherly love. Peter, hurt, says, “Lord, you know everything; you know I love you.” In other words, “You know my weaknesses, my limitations, my failure. You know I don’t have that agape love, that I wish I did, but there’s no way I’m going to speak first without thinking anymore… But you know I have this phileo brotherly human love… It’s all I have and I’m giving you everything I’ve got.” And that’s enough for Jesus.

What matters is that Peter never forgets his need for Jesus. His strength comes not from being perfect, but from keeping his eyes fixed on Christ. And one day, that love and humility will give Peter the courage to lay down his life for Jesus—on a cross not far from where his bones rest today, beneath the altar of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

Then there’s Paul. He comes on the scene a little later, after Pentecost. At first, he’s Saul, the rising star of the Pharisees, convinced that these new Christians are a threat to everything he holds sacred. He’s zealous, relentless, and, in his own mind, completely right. Then the Risen Christ knocks him off his horse—literally—and asks, “Why are you persecuting me?” That encounter changes everything.

A lot of us remember how Paul is blinded, then healed and baptized by Ananias. But what we sometimes forget is what happens next: Paul disappears into the desert for three years. He basically has to unlearn everything he thought he knew about God and let it all be reshaped by his encounter with Jesus. It’s humbling. He probably assumed he’d be the perfect person now to convince his fellow Jews, but instead, they turn on him. He’s rejected, beaten, imprisoned, nearly killed. All his intelligence and debating skills can’t save him. It’s only when Paul lets go of his own strength and relies completely on Christ—on the power of the cross—that his life finds its true purpose.

So what does this mean for us, here and now? Maybe you relate to Peter—maybe you’re sincere but flawed, trying your best but painfully aware of your mistakes. Or maybe you’re more like Paul—driven, determined, maybe a little too confident in your own plans, only to find yourself humbled by life’s curveballs. Whatever end of the spectrum Either way, both saints show us that it’s not about being perfect or having all the answers. It’s about letting Christ meet us where we are, about not being afraid to start again, and about realizing that our weakness is not a barrier, but the very place where God’s grace can do the most.

Today, we don’t just remember Saints Peter and Paul as distant heroes from another age. We stand in their legacy. They show us that holiness isn’t about spotless records or flawless faith. It’s about letting Christ turn our weakness into strength and our failures into new beginnings. Peter and Paul — who knew their failures, weaknesses and brokenness in far greater detail than the glimpses we get from scripture — were men who let Jesus change their story—men who learned, sometimes painfully, that everything starts with surrender.

Pope Benedict XVI, the 265th successor of St. Peter, understood this deeply. He said, “Only the person who entrusts himself totally to God finds true freedom, the great, creative immensity of the freedom of good.” That’s the risk and the promise of the Christian life: to put ourselves, as we are, into God’s hands, and to discover what only He can make of us.

So as we celebrate these two giants of our faith, let’s not just admire them—let’s imitate them. Let’s dare to let Christ into the messiest parts of our lives, trusting that He can make something world-changing out of even our smallest “yes.” Peter and Paul show us what’s possible when ordinary people give everything to God.

May we have that same daring trust. May we let God write His story through us—here, now, today.

Saints Peter and Paul, pray for us.