A couple stood on the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset in the summer of 2020 and said, “I do.” Like so many couples that year, they had watched their wedding plans slowly unravel. The ceremony with family and friends, the reception, all the details they had spent months planning – one by one they had to be changed, scaled back, and eventually abandoned because of COVID restrictions.  Finally, they reached the point where they decided: we just want to get married.  So they found an officiant, went to the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset, and exchanged their vows.  No guests. No photographer. No elaborate setup. Just a bride in a simple white gown, a groom dressed casually, an officiant, and the skyline of New York around them.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the 21st Sunday in Ordinary Time — August 23, 2026. I’m always grateful for those who return each week, and especially for those who share these reflections with friends, family members, and others through social media. If something here speaks to you, I’d be grateful if you would pass it along to someone who might need to hear it as well.
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, encouragement, and continued support mean more than you know. Thank you for being part of this ministry and for helping these homilies reach far beyond the place where they are first preached..   Sincerely in Christ -Father Jim

A woman riding her bike from Manhattan to Brooklyn happened to notice them. Something about the scene made her stop. She quietly took a few pictures on her phone, careful not to interrupt, and then continued on her way. Later that evening she posted one of the pictures online with a simple message: “If you were getting married on the Brooklyn Bridge this evening, I’ve got some photos for you.” A few days later, the couple was found.  And remarkably, those photographs turned out to be the only pictures they had of their wedding.

There’s something particularly moving about that story. So much of what they had imagined for that day had been taken away. The guest list, the celebration, the photographer, the carefully made plans—all gone.  But the most important thing remained. They still said yes. And because one complete stranger happened to recognize that something important was taking place, that quiet “yes” wasn’t lost.  She saw something. And she said something.

Today’s Gospel gives us another one of those moments — another moment when someone sees what is really happening and finally puts it into words.  Except this “yes” will change far more than a wedding album.

Simon has been watching Jesus for a while now.  He has seen thousands fed with almost nothing — not once, but twice.  He has watched the blind regain their sight, the lame walk, storms become calm.  He has watched Jesus walk on water. Simon himself even stepped out of the boat and walked on water — at least until he started thinking about what he was doing and nearly drowned. So Simon Peter has seen all of it.  Every miracle, every teaching, every conversation, every mile walked alongside Jesus has been doing something inside him.  He just hasn’t found the words for it yet.

Then Jesus asks: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” And everybody has an opinion. John the Baptist. Elijah. Jeremiah. One of the prophets.  Which are all flattering answers.  Jesus is clearly important. Jesus is clearly holy. Jesus is clearly somebody worth listening to.  But they are all wrong. Because you can admire Jesus and still completely misunderstand Him. You can call Him a great teacher, a prophet, an inspiring religious figure, a champion of the poor — and still miss who He actually is.

So Jesus makes the question personal: “But who do you say that I am?”  And Simon Peter answers: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

That may be one of the most important sentences any human being has ever spoken.   And I love that it comes from Simon Peter.  Because he isn’t the calm, polished, carefully measured Apostle.  He speaks too quickly. He acts before thinking. He gets things wrong. He is courageous one minute and terrified the next.   But in this moment, he sees clearly.  Everything that has been slowly coming together in his heart finally becomes words: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

And Jesus tells him something extraordinary: “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah. Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my heavenly Father.”

That’s something we need to highlight or underline – Simon Peter didn’t figure this out.  He didn’t reason his way to this understnading or graduate to it.  Faith isn’t an achievement.  It’s a revelation.  God opens eyes first – the head follows later.

But Jesus doesn’t stop there.  Peter tells Jesus who Jesus is.  And Jesus tells Simon Peter who Peter is. “You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church.” Simon the fisherman becomes Peter the Rock.

And that is the pattern for every one of us:  When we start to see Jesus clearly, we start to see ourselves clearly too… when we discover who Jesus really is, we begin to discover who we really are. Not the version or categories that the world sells us: Successful, Failure. Popular, invisible. Attractive, unattractive. Enough, not enough.  And all of those labels can change overnight.

Jesus sees deeper. He looked at Simon and saw Peter. He looked at a fisherman and saw a rock. He saw not only who Simon was at that moment, but who grace could make him become.

And He does the same with us.

Then Jesus gives Peter the keys of the Kingdom of heaven. That image isn’t accidental. In the first reading from Isaiah, the key of the house of David is given to Eliakim, the steward entrusted with authority in the king’s household:  “When he opens, no one shall shut; when he shuts, no one shall open.”

So when Jesus gives Peter the keys, He is doing something very deliberate. Christ the King is entrusting Peter with care for His household — the Church. And look at the person Jesus chooses. Peter.  The same Peter who will soon misunderstand Jesus. The same Peter who will fall asleep in Gethsemane. The same Peter who will swing a sword when he shouldn’t.  The same Peter who will deny three times that he even knows Jesus.  That’s the rock.

Which should tell us something very important about the Church. Jesus never promised that the Church would be made up of flawless people.   He promised something much better:  that He would remain faithful to His Church even when the people in it failed Him.

And then comes that powerful promise: “The gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it.”

We sometimes picture this wrong.  We imagine the Church hanging on for dear life while evil attacks from every direction. But Gates don’t attack. Gates keep people in. Jesus isn’t describing a defensive posture.  Jesus is not picturing His Church hiding behind walls. He’s announcing an invasion.  The kingdom of death itself will not be able to hold its ground against what He is about to accomplish. Because the decisive battle is coming. The Cross. The tomb. And then the empty tomb.   Sin will do its worst. Death will do its worst. Hell will do its worst. And Jesus Christ will walk out of the grave.

Christianity was never supposed to be about simply trying to survive an evil world until we get to heaven. We have been sent into it. To bring light where there is darkness. Mercy where there is sin. Hope where there is despair. Truth where there is confusion. Life where the world has become accustomed to death.  That’s the mission Christ gives His Church. And it begins exactly where today’s Gospel begins: “Who do you say that I am?”

Because our answer changes everything. If Jesus is simply one religious voice among many, then we can listen when we agree with Him and ignore Him when we don’t. If Jesus is merely a moral teacher, we can take the parts we find inspiring and leave the difficult parts behind.

But if Peter is right — if Jesus really is the Christ, the Son of the living God — then He cannot simply be one part of our lives, relegated to some corner.  He becomes the center around which everything else is arranged.

And that’s where this Gospel becomes uncomfortable. Because eventually, our lives answer Jesus’ question for us.

We can say the Creed every Sunday. But our schedules answer the question. Our relationships answer it. What we do with our money answers it. Who and what we forgive—and refuse to forgive—answers it. What we look at when nobody else is watching answers it. What we turn to when we’re lonely, afraid, tempted, angry, or hurting answers it.

Our lives are constantly saying something about who we believe Jesus is.  And none of us gets that answer right all the time. Peter certainly didn’t. But Peter kept coming back. He fell. He was forgiven. He failed. He got back up. And gradually the words he spoke at Caesarea Philippi became the shape of his entire life. “You are the Christ.”  Eventually Peter would give his life rather than deny those words again. That’s what happens when faith moves from something we say to something we live.

The couple on the Brooklyn Bridge received photographs they never knew existed because someone happened to recognize that an important moment was unfolding and refused to let it pass unnoticed.

Peter recognized something infinitely greater. He looked at Jesus and, by God’s grace, finally saw Him clearly. And because Peter saw Jesus differently, he eventually saw himself differently. A fisherman became a rock. A coward became a martyr. A sinner became a saint.

And Jesus Christ is still doing that. Still looking at imperfect people. Still calling them by name. Still seeing in them something they cannot yet see in themselves. And still asking the question that no one else can answer for us: “Who do you say that I am?”

Because sooner or later, our answer to that question becomes our life.
So don’t just give Jesus the right answer today.
Build your life on it.
“You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
And if that is true— then live like it.