Hero to Zero – That’s probably how Simon Peter had to feel.  And I mean almost literally in the span of a few minutes. The Church divides this Gospel from the passage we heard last Sunday, so it can sound as if some time has passed. But it hasn’t. This is the very next scene.  Just a refresher – Jesus has just asked His disciples: “Who do people say that I am?” And Simon Peter gets it exactly right: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And Jesus is thrilled. He tells Simon that this isn’t something he figured out because he was smarter than everybody else. God the Father revealed this to him. Jesus changes his name telling him “You are Peter” The Rock on which I will build my Church. He entrusts him with the keys to the Kingdom.  This fisherman has just gone from one of the Twelve to the first Pope. Pretty good day.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time — August 30, 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.
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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

And then today’s Gospel happens. Jesus explains what being the Messiah actually means. He will go to Jerusalem, be rejected, suffer, be killed and rise. Peter basically says: Absolutely not. “God forbid, Lord! No such thing shall ever happen to you.”   And Jesus turns to the guy He has just called the rock and says:  “Get behind me, Satan!” Talk about hero to zero.  Imagine Peter standing there thinking: Did He just call me Satan? Five minutes ago I was the first Pope. Now I’m Satan?

What happened? I think what happened to Peter is something every Christian eventually discovers: You can get Jesus right and still get following Jesus wrong. Peter knows who Jesus is. He loves Jesus. He believes in Jesus. He wants to be with Jesus. Peter’s problem isn’t that he stopped loving Jesus. Peter’s problem is that he started trying to lead Jesus.

Jesus says, “We’re going to Jerusalem.” Peter says, “No, we’re not.”

Jesus says there will be a cross. Peter says, “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Peter wants Jesus. He just wants Jesus according to Peter’s plan. And I don’t think that’s terribly difficult for us to understand.

Because we do the same thing. We don’t reject Jesus. We don’t necessarily stop believing. We just start negotiating. Jesus, obviously I want You in my life. But here’s what I want my life to look like. Here’s the relationship I want. Here’s the career I want. Here’s what I need people to think about me. Here’s what’s off limits. Here’s what I’m absolutely not willing to surrender. So, Jesus, come with me. Bless this. Make this work..

And Jesus says: That’s not quite how discipleship works. You don’t lead Me. You follow Me. That’s why His words to Peter are interesting: “Get behind me.” Get back where a disciple belongs. Behind the Master. Following.

And maybe that’s an especially important Gospel for us on this first Sunday of a new academic year.  For some of you, everything is new right now. New campus. New roommates. New classes. New friendships. Maybe the first time living away from home.  Maybe you’re excited. Maybe you’re overwhelmed. Maybe you’re pretending not to be overwhelmed. And whether you’re a freshman or you’ve been here for years, there’s something about the beginning of a school year that feels like a reset.  Who am I going to be this year?  What am I going to get involved in? Who are my friends going to be? What am I going to study? What am I going to accomplish?

And those are legitimate questions.

But Christianity asks a deeper one: Who is going to form me?

Because you are going to be formed this year.  So am I. None of us gets to remain neutral.  Friends will form us. Professors will form us. Social media will form us.

What we watch and listen to… Our ambitions… Our fears… Our habits will form us.

And hopefully prayer, Scripture, the Eucharist, Confession, Christian friendship and Jesus Christ will form us.

That’s exactly what St. Paul is getting at in the second reading:“Do not conform yourselves to this age, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.”

St. Paul knows the world is always applying pressure. Think like this, everyone else believes it… want that, you need it… Be angry or afraid about this… Everybody else is doing it…

And the Gospel isn’t simply telling us to be weird or contrary for the sake of being contrary. It’s asking: Are you being conformed, or are you being transformed? Because those are very different things.

Conforming means the world around me tells me what my life should look like and I squeeze myself into that mold. Transformation means I let Jesus change me into the person He created me to be. And transformation sounds beautiful until Jesus tells us how it happens: “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.”

That’s the part Peter doesn’t like.

Truthfully, it’s the part I don’t like either.

Because we sometimes imagine conversion as basically becoming a somewhat nicer version of ourselves. Pray a little more. Swear a little less. Be more patient. Go to Mass. Try not to be a jerk. All good things which I still struggle with myself (well except getting to Mass, I have that one pretty well covered) But Jesus is talking about something much more radical. He is saying there are things inside of us that are going to have to die. Our need to control everything. Our need for everybody to approve of us. Our need always to be right. Our image of what our lives are supposed to look like.

And sometimes the hardest things to surrender aren’t bad things. They’re good things that we’ve started needing too much.

I was reminded of that just the other day.

I ran into one of my professors from when I was in the seminary. While we were doing the usual catching up — “How have you been?” “What’s going on?” — and then out of nowhere he said: “So are you ever going back on satellite radio? I used to love catching you on there. I don’t know how many times I wanted to call in just to bust on you.” I laughed because I hadn’t even known he listened. And it brought back something that I really haven’t spoken about publicly.

For a number of years I was part of a Catholic comedy show on Sirius/XM satellite radio. It started with occasional appearances, and eventually I was co-hosting a couple of days every week. And I loved it. It was funny. It was creative. We could talk about serious things without always sounding serious.  The host, my friend Lino Rulli wasn’t exaggerating when he said his three biggest heroes where Howard Stern, David Letterman and Pope John Paul II… so that gives you a clue as to the what the show is like and it was great.

And one of the things I particularly loved was that the audience included people who might never voluntarily walk into a Catholic Church. Some had left the Church. Some were suspicious of it. But they would listen. They’d laugh. And occasionally something about faith would get through. That is incredibly valuable. As the show became more successful, my involvement became bigger than I ever imagined it would be. At one point there was a gathering for fans of the show. We had a theater that held around 300 people, and it sold out almost immediately. People came from all over. And I remember looking around thinking: This is unbelievable.  And it was humbling. And exciting. And fun.

But something else was happening too. It was becoming harder for me to figure out where the radio personality ended and the priest began. Where joking around and doing bits fit with the fact that I had also made promises at an altar.

At the same time, the Catholic Church was going through an incredibly painful period. Horrific revelations of abuse and scandal were coming out again, including the terrible revelations involving former Cardinal Theodore McCarrick here in our own Archdiocese.

And I was struggling. Because on one hand I thought: This radio thing is reaching people.  It’s successful. People enjoy it. Maybe this is evangelization. And all of those things were true. But there was another question that I wasn’t quite ready to ask: Is this helping me become the priest Jesus is asking me to be?

Then one night something happened it crystallized for me. I was at an ordination in Norwich, Connecticut. A former FOCUS missionary from here at Montclair State, Michael Bovino was being ordained a deacon and he had asked me to vest him with the deacon’s stole. For a priest, that’s an incredibly moving thing. I had known Mike when he was a missionary. I knew something of the journey that had brought him there. And now I was watching him lie prostrate on the floor during the Litany of the Saints. Watching him make promises of prayer, obedience, celibacy and service. Watching him give his entire life to Christ and His Church. I was deeply moved.

After the Mass I walked outside into the parking lot. And I heard someone calling my name. Which surprised me because I was in Connecticut and didn’t know many people there. I turned around. And this guy made some goofy joke to me. Nothing offensive. Nothing wrong. But I immediately knew: He’s a listener. He knows me from the show.

And I can’t really explain why, but it hit me hard. I had just watched this young man lay down his life for Christ. I had just vested him for ordained ministry. And standing in the parking lot, this guy knew me primarily as the priest who said funny things on the radio.

And the thought that flashed through my mind was probably harsher than it needed to be:  Have I made my priesthood into a joke?

Again, the guy hadn’t done anything wrong. The radio show hadn’t suddenly become evil. The people involved weren’t doing anything wrong. The moment exposed something in me. Something had gotten out of order. I had started caring a little too much about being funny. Being recognized. Having an audience. Being part of something successful.

And I had to ask myself a question that I really didn’t want to ask: If Jesus asks me to let this go, will I?

That’s where I understand Peter. Because sometimes Jesus starts talking about Jerusalem, and we say: “God forbid, Lord.” Anything but that. I’ll follow You anywhere else. I’ll give You anything else. Just not that.

And suddenly Jeremiah’s words from the first reading don’t sound quite so dramatic: “You duped me, Lord.”  Jeremiah the prophet is not walking away from God.  He’s a man who said yes to God and discovered that the yes was going to cost far more than he expected. He has preached God’s word and people mock him for it. He’s tired and frustrated. He’s basically saying: This is not what I thought I was signing up for. And he even tries to quit. “I will not mention him. I will speak in his name no more.”  I’m done.

But then Jeremiah says God’s word becomes like a fire inside him. He can’t shut it off.  Because underneath his anger, underneath his frustration, underneath everything he has lost— he still knows God is God.

And that’s discipleship. Not never struggling. Not never questioning. Not never saying, “Lord, I don’t like this.” Discipleship means that ultimately He gets the final word.

That’s what St. Paul calls becoming a living sacrifice.

That’s a strange expression if you think about it. A sacrifice usually dies once. A living sacrifice has to keep offering itself. Again and again: My plans. My relationships. My ambitions. My future. My success. My failures. My whole life. “Here, Lord. It’s Yours.”

Taking up the cross doesn’t mean looking for misery. It doesn’t mean tolerating abuse.  It doesn’t mean every annoying person or difficult class is “my cross.” I remember a student complaining about homework and calling it “his cross.”  No that’s your responsibility right now…

The cross is the cost of remaining faithful to Jesus when following Him costs us something.  Sometimes the cost is huge. Often it’s incredibly ordinary. Walking away from something everybody else is doing. Ending a relationship you know is pulling you away from God. Going to Confession and admitting something you’ve been hiding. Getting out of bed and going to Mass when nobody would know if you didn’t. Standing for something you know is true when it would be much easier to keep your mouth shut. Or letting go of something good because God is asking you to make room for something better.

For me, eventually, that meant stepping away from the show. No explosion. No dramatic fight. No declaration that everyone else was wrong. I remained friends with the people involved. I still respect what they do. I simply realized: Jesus has to be able to tell me no. Because if Jesus can never tell me no… if Jesus can never redirect my plans… if Jesus can never challenge one of my opinions… if Jesus can never ask me to give something up… then I’m not really following Jesus. I’ve created a Jesus who follows me.

And that Jesus cannot save me.

So maybe that’s the question I’d leave all of us with as we begin this academic year:  Who’s leading whom?

When you picture the year ahead, maybe you already have plans. And that’s great. I hope you dream big.  Work hard. Make friends. Study. Join things. Have fun. Figure out what gifts God has given you. I hope this is an incredible year for you.

But leave Jesus enough room to interrupt it.

Leave Him enough room to surprise you. Leave Him enough room to close a door. Leave Him enough room to open one you never imagined. Leave Him enough room to say:

“No. Not that.” Or: “Come this way.” Or even: “Take up this cross and follow Me.”

Because maybe the prayer at the beginning of a new school year isn’t: “Jesus, please make all my plans work out.”

Maybe it’s: “Jesus, don’t let me become anything other than who You created me to be.”

Remember – Peter’s story doesn’t end with “Get behind me, Satan.” Jesus doesn’t fire Peter. He doesn’t take the keys back. He doesn’t say, the other apostles were right, “I picked the wrong guy.”

He says: Get behind me. Get back where you belong. Follow Me. Start again. And eventually Peter will learn. The man who once wanted Jesus without the cross will become a man willing to give his own life for Jesus. That’s transformation.

And that’s what Jesus wants for every one of us. So whether you’re brand new here tonight, whether you’ve been here for years, whether your faith is incredibly strong right now or whether you’re not even sure why you walked through these doors—

Jesus isn’t asking you tonight to have the next four years figured out.

He’s asking something much simpler. And much harder. Will you let Me lead?

Because you can get Jesus right and still get following Jesus wrong.

You can call Him “the Christ, the Son of the living God” – and still spend your life telling Him where He is allowed to take you.

So this year, maybe the prayer is simply:

Jesus, You lead. I’ll get behind You. And I’ll follow.