Homily 50 — Matthew 14, verses 23 to 36

“And when he had sent the crowds away, he went up on the mountain by himself to pray; and when evening had come, he was there alone. But the boat was by now in the middle of the sea, battered by the waves, for the wind was against them.” [a]

Why does he go up on the mountain? To teach us that solitude and withdrawal are good when we are going to pray to God. That is why, you see, he is always withdrawing into the wilderness, and often spends the whole night there in prayer. He is teaching us to look earnestly, when we pray, for the kind of quiet that the time and the place can give. For the wilderness is the mother of quiet; it is a calm and a harbor that sets us free from every turmoil.

So he went up there for this purpose. But the disciples are battered by the waves once again, and go through a storm equal even to the earlier one. The difference is that before, they had him in the boat when this happened to them, and now they were alone by themselves. In this way, gently and step by step, he rouses them and urges them on toward better things, until they can bear everything nobly. So we see that when they first faced that danger, he was there, though asleep, ready to bring them relief at once. But now, leading them on to a greater degree of endurance, he does not do even this. He goes away, and lets the storm rise in the middle of the sea, so that they could not look for any hope of rescue from anywhere. And he lets them be tossed by the storm all night long, to wake up thoroughly, as I suppose, their hardened heart.

For that is the kind of fear that the hour of night and the rough weather produce together. And along with this heartfelt sorrow, he also threw them into a greater longing for himself and a constant remembrance of him.

So he did not come to them at once either. For “in the fourth watch of the night,” it says, “he went to them, walking on the sea.” He was teaching them not to look hastily for rescue from the dangers pressing on them, but to bear whatever happens with courage. In any case, just when they expected to be rescued, their fear grew worse again. For “when the disciples,” it says, “saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, ‘It is a spirit!’ And they cried out in fear.” Yes, and he does this constantly: when he is about to take our terrors away, he brings other things on us, worse and more alarming. We see that this happened then too. For along with the storm, the sight troubled them as well, no less than the storm did. That is why he neither took away the darkness nor showed himself plainly at once. He was training them, as I said, by keeping these fears going, and teaching them to be ready to endure.

He did this in the case of Job too. When he was about to take away his terror and his trial, he let the end grow harder to bear. I do not mean because of his children’s death or his wife’s words, but because of the insults of his servants and of his friends. And when he was about to rescue Jacob from his hardship in a foreign land, he let his trouble be stirred up and made worse. First his father-in-law overtook him and threatened him with death; then his brother came right after, and hung the most extreme danger over his head. For since a person cannot be tried both for a long time and severely, when the righteous are about to reach the end of their contests, God makes their struggles harder, because he wants them to gain the more. He did this in Abraham’s case too, when he appointed as his last contest the one about his child. For in this way even things unbearable become bearable, when they come on us with their removal close at hand, right at the door.

So Christ did the same at that time, and did not reveal himself until they cried out. For the sharper their alarm, the more they welcomed his coming. Then, when they had cried out, it says, “At once Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘Take courage; it is I. Do not be afraid.’”

This word took away their fear and gave them confidence. For since they did not recognize him by sight, because of his astonishing way of moving and because of the hour, he makes himself known by his voice.

What then does Peter say, always so eager, always springing forward ahead of the rest? [c]

“Lord, if it is you,” he says, “command me to come to you on the water.” He did not say, “Pray and plead,” but, “Command me.” Do you see how great his eagerness is, how great his faith? Yet this very thing often puts him in danger, because he asks for things beyond his measure. So here too he asked for something exceedingly great, but out of love alone, not for show. For he did not say, “Command me to walk on the water,” but what? “Command me to come to you.” For no one loved Jesus as he did.

He did this after the resurrection as well: he could not bear to come in with the others, but leaped out ahead. And it is not only love that he shows, but faith too. For he believed not only that Jesus could walk on the sea himself, but that he could lead others on it as well; and he longs to be near him quickly.

“And he said, ‘Come.’ And when Peter had come down out of the boat, he walked on the water and came to Jesus. But when he saw the strong wind, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried out, saying, ‘Lord, save me!’ And at once Jesus stretched out his hand and caught him, and said to him, ‘You of little faith, why did you doubt?’” This is more wonderful than the earlier miracle, and that is why it is done after it. For once he had shown that he rules the sea, he carries the sign on to something still more marvelous. Then he only rebuked the winds; but now he both walks on the sea himself and lets another do so. If he had asked for this to be done at the start, Peter would not have taken it so well, because he had not yet gained such great faith.

Why then did Christ allow him? Because if he had said, “You cannot,” Peter, eager as he was, would have contradicted him again. So he convinces him by the facts, so that from then on he may be more sober. But even so Peter does not hold out. Having come down, he grows dizzy, for he was afraid. The waves caused the dizziness, but the wind produced his fear.

John, though, telling this same event, says that “they gladly took him into the boat, and at once the boat was at the land they were going to.” So it was when they were about to reach land that he got into the boat.

So Peter came down from the boat and went to him, delighting not so much in walking on the water as in coming to him. And after he had overcome the greater danger, he was about to come to harm from the lesser — from the force of the wind, I mean, not of the sea. That is what human nature is like: it often achieves great things and then shows its weakness in lesser ones. So it was with Elijah toward Jezebel, with Moses toward the Egyptian, with David toward Bathsheba. So it was with this man too. While their fear was still at its height, he found the courage to walk on the water; but he could no longer stand against the onset of the wind — and this while he was near Christ. So true is it that being near Christ does no good at all, if one is not near him by faith.

This also showed the difference between the Master and the disciple, and calmed the feelings of the others. For if they were indignant in the case of the two brothers, much more would they have been here; for they had not yet been given the Spirit.

But afterward they were not like this. On every occasion, for example, they give Peter the first place of honor, and put him forward when speaking to the people, although he was rougher in manner than any of them. And why did Jesus not command the winds to stop, but stretched out his own hand and took hold of him? Because faith was required of Peter. For when our part is missing, God’s part also comes to a standstill. So, to show that it was not the force of the wind but his lack of faith that had brought him down, he says, “Why did you doubt, you of little faith?” So if his faith had not been weak, he would easily have stood against the wind too. And that is why, you see, even when he had caught hold of him, he lets the wind go on blowing, to show that no harm comes from it when faith is firm.

And just as when a nestling has left the nest too early and is about to fall, its mother carries it on her wings and brings it back to the nest, so Christ did.

“And when they had come into the boat, the wind stopped.”

Before this they had said, “What kind of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?” Now it is not so. For “those who were in the boat,” it says, “came and worshiped him, saying, ‘Truly you are Son of God.’” Do you see how step by step he was leading them all higher and higher? For by walking on the sea himself, by commanding another to do so, and by keeping him safe in danger, he made their faith great from then on. Then he rebuked the sea; now he does not rebuke it, and shows his power more fully in another way. That is why they also said, “Truly you are Son of God.”

What then? Did he rebuke them for speaking this way? No, quite the opposite: he rather confirmed what they said, by healing those who came to him with greater authority, and not as before.

“And when they had crossed over,” it says, “they came to the land of Gennesaret. And when the men of that place recognized him, they sent word into all that surrounding country, and brought to him all who were sick, and begged him that they might touch the hem of his garment; and as many as touched it were made completely well.”

For they did not come to him as before, dragging him into their houses, asking for the touch of his hand and for a spoken command from him. In a far higher way, with more self-denial and more abundant faith, they tried to win healing for themselves; for the woman with the flow of blood had taught them all to be earnest in seeking wisdom. And the evangelist, showing also that he visited the various districts at long intervals, says, “The men of that place recognized him, and sent into the surrounding country, and brought to him those who were sick.” Yet the interval, far from destroying their faith, made it even greater and kept it strong.

Let us also, then, touch the hem of his garment — or rather, if we are willing, we have him whole. For his body is set before us now: not his garment only, but his very body; and not for us only to touch it, but also to eat it and be filled. So let us now come near with faith, every one of us who has any illness. For if those who touched the hem of his garment drew so much power from him, how much more those who possess him whole? Now to come near with faith is not only to receive the offering, but also to touch it with a pure heart, and to be disposed as one who is coming to Christ himself. For what if you hear no voice? Still you see him laid out before you. Or rather, you do hear his voice too, since he is speaking through the evangelists. [i]

Believe, then, that even now it is that very supper at which he himself sat at table. For this one is in no way different from that one. It is not that a man makes this one while Christ made the other; both this one and that one are his own work. So when you see the priest handing it to you, do not think that it is the priest who is doing this, but that it is Christ’s hand that is stretched out.

It is just as when the priest baptizes: it is not he who baptizes you, but it is God who holds your head with unseen power, and neither angel nor archangel nor anyone else dares to come near and touch you. So it is now as well. For when God begets, the gift is his alone. Do you not see how people here who adopt sons do not leave the act to slaves, but are present at the court themselves? In the same way God has not entrusted his gift to angels, but is present himself, commanding and saying, “Call no one Father on earth.” He does not say this so that you should dishonor those who gave you birth, but so that you should put above all of them the one who made you and enrolled you among his own children. For he who has given the greater — that is, has set himself before you — will much more not disdain to share his body with you.

Let us listen, then, both priests and those under them, to what we have been granted; let us listen and tremble. He has given us our fill of his own holy flesh; he has set himself before us, sacrificed.

What excuse, then, will we have, when we feed on such food and commit such sins? When we eat a lamb and become wolves? When we feed on a sheep and plunder with violence like lions?

For he commands that this mystery be kept always clean, not only from violence but even from mere hostility. Yes, this mystery is a mystery of peace; it does not let us cling to wealth. For if he did not spare himself for us, what do we deserve if we spare our money and squander our soul, the soul for whose sake he did not spare himself?

On the Jews God bound, in their feasts every year, a reminder of his special kindnesses to them; but for you he does it every day, so to speak, through these mysteries.

So do not be ashamed of the cross. For these are our sacred things, these are our mysteries; with this gift we adorn ourselves, with this we are made beautiful.

And if I say that he stretched out the heavens, spread out the earth and the sea, and sent prophets and angels, I say nothing by comparison. For the sum of his kindnesses is this: that “he did not spare his own Son,” in order to save his servants who had become estranged from him.

So let no Judas come to this table, and no Simon; for both of these perished through greed. Let us run from this pit, then. And let us not think it enough for our salvation if, after stripping widows and orphans, we offer a cup of gold set with jewels for this table. No, if you want to honor the sacrifice, offer your soul, for which it was slain; make that golden. But if your soul remains worse than lead or potter’s clay while the vessel is of gold, what is the good of it? [k]

So let this not be our aim, to offer golden vessels only, but to offer them from honest earnings too. For these are the kind that are more precious even than gold: the ones that carry no wrong done to anyone. For the church is not a gold foundry or a workshop for silver, but an assembly of angels. That is why it is souls we require, since in fact God accepts these vessels for the souls’ sake.

That table at that time was not of silver, nor was that cup of gold, from which Christ gave his disciples his own blood. Yet everything there was precious and awe-inspiring, because they were full of the Spirit.

Do you want to honor Christ’s body? Do not neglect him when he is naked. Do not honor him here with silk garments while you neglect him outside, perishing from cold and nakedness. For the one who said, “This is my body,” and made it so by his word, is the same one who said, “You saw me hungry and did not feed me,” and, “Since you did not do it for one of the least of these, you did not do it for me.” For this body here does not need coverings, but a pure soul; but that one needs much care.

So let us learn to live strictly, and to honor Christ as he himself wants. For the honor most pleasing to the one being honored is the honor he himself wants, not the one we think best. Peter too thought he was honoring him by forbidding him to wash his feet; but what he did was not an honor, but the opposite.

So you too, honor him with the honor he himself laid down, by spending your wealth on the poor. For God has no need at all of golden vessels, but of golden souls.

I say these things not to forbid such offerings from being provided, but to require you to give alms along with them, and before them. For he does accept the first, but much more the second. In the one, only the giver benefits; in the other, the receiver does too. Here the act can even seem an occasion for showing off; but there, all is mercy and love for humankind.

For what good is it when his table is full of golden cups, but he himself is perishing from hunger? First feed him when he is hungry, and then decorate his table lavishly as well. Are you making him a cup of gold, while you do not give him a cup of cold water? And what good is that? Are you furnishing his table with cloths spangled with gold, while you do not give him even the covering he needs? And what good comes of it? For tell me: if you saw someone without the food he must have, and instead of relieving his hunger you first covered his table with silver, would he thank you? Would he not rather be indignant? Or again, if you saw someone wrapped in rags and stiff with cold, and neglected to give him a garment, but built golden columns and said that you were doing it in his honor, would he not say you were mocking him, and think it an insult, and the most extreme insult at that?

Think the same way about Christ, then, when he goes about as a wanderer and a stranger, needing a roof over his head. You neglect to take him in, while you decorate the floor and the walls and the tops of the columns, and hang up lamps on silver chains; but him, bound in prison, you will not even look at.

I say these things not to forbid generosity in these matters, but to urge you to do those other works along with these — or rather, even before these. For no one was ever blamed for not doing these things; but for those, hell is threatened, and unquenchable fire, and punishment with the evil spirits. So do not, while you adorn his house, overlook your brother in distress; for he is more truly a temple than the building is. [o]

And these treasures of yours will be liable to be carried off by unbelieving kings, by tyrants, and by robbers. But whatever you do for your brother when he is hungry, a stranger, and naked, not even the devil will be able to plunder; it will be stored up in a treasury no one can break into.

Why then does he himself say, “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me”? Why, for this very reason we should give alms all the more: because we do not have him hungry always, but only in this present life. But if you want to learn the full meaning of the saying as well, understand that it was said not with the disciples in view, though it seems so, but because of the woman’s weakness. That is, her disposition was still rather immature, and the disciples were raising doubts about her; so he said these things to revive her. And to prove that he said it to comfort her, he added, “Why do you trouble the woman?” And as for our truly having him with us always, he says, “Look, I am with you always, even to the end of the world.” From all this it is clear that this was said for no other purpose than that the disciples’ rebuke might not wither the woman’s faith, just then budding.

So let us not bring up these sayings now, which were spoken as a particular arrangement. Let us instead read all the laws about almsgiving that are set down in the New Testament and in the Old, and let us be very earnest about this matter. For this cleanses from sin: “Give alms, and all things will be clean for you.” This is greater than sacrifice: “For I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.” This opens the heavens: “Your prayers and your alms have gone up as a memorial before God.” This is more necessary than virginity: for this is why those virgins were thrown out of the bridal chamber, and this is why the others were brought in.

Let us consider all these things, then, and sow generously, so that we may reap in far greater abundance, and attain the good things to come, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever. Amen.