Homily, St Peter & St Paul, June 2025, Fr John Henry

Last week, we celebrated the feast of Corpus Christi—the solemnity of the Body of Christ which draws us deep into the mystery of the Eucharist; the astonishing claim that Christ is present among us in bread and wine. That God took on flesh. That Jesus lived, died, rose again—and is still with us, truly and sacramentally, in the breaking of bread.

These are not simple ideas. They were not obvious to the first Christians, nor should we assume they come easily to us today. The Church has not arrived at its deepest convictions through tidy reasoning or quick agreement—but through centuries of faithful wrestling. Through questions and councils, through mistakes and corrections, through saints and heretics, through grace and, yes, through conflict. In short, through the persistent work of the Holy Spirit.

And today, as we celebrate the feast of St Peter and St Paul, we are drawn again into that long, faithful tension—because these two towering figures in the early Church are not remembered because they always agreed, or because they never made mistakes. They are remembered because, in all their differences, they bore witness to Christ.

Peter and Paul: different in temperament, background, and vision.

Peter: the rock, the shepherd, the one chosen by Christ to hold the Church together.

Paul: the missionary, the theologian, the one driven across boundaries of culture and geography.

They didn’t always see eye to eye. In fact, they clashed—publicly and sharply.

In Galatians 2, Paul recounts a dramatic episode in Antioch. He says, “When Cephas came to Antioch, I opposed him to his face, because he stood condemned.” (Galatians 2.11)

St Peter had been freely eating with Gentile Christians—sharing in the radical, table-breaking fellowship of Christ. But when certain conservative voices from Jerusalem arrived, Peter pulled back. He grew fearful. He distanced himself. Paul saw this as hypocrisy—an abandonment of the truth that in Christ, there is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free.

This wasn’t just a theological quarrel. It was a public conflict, a matter of identity and inclusion. And yet, this moment of friction did not fracture the Church. Instead, it revealed something essential: that unity in Christ is not the same as uniformity of opinion.

We remember St Peter and St Paul together today not because they were the same, but because they found unity in something deeper than agreement: they found it in Christ.

Our Gospel today focuses on Peter’s confession of who he comes to know Jesus to be.

Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?” And Peter replies, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus responds with immense affirmation:

“Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah… You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 16:17–19)

This is one of the most significant statements in the Gospels—one that has shaped Christian tradition and theology ever since. Peter is singled out, affirmed, entrusted. He becomes, in this moment, the visible centre of the Church’s unity. The rock.

And yet—just a few verses later, Jesus says to that same Peter, “Get behind me, Satan.”

The rock becomes a stumbling block.

Peter’s leadership and importance, then, is not based on strength or consistency. It is based on his capacity to keep returning to Christ. His willingness to learn, to fall, to be forgiven, to stand again. He is not the rock because he never falters—he is the rock because, even in faltering, he does not let go of Christ.

That’s important for us to remember. Because we often inherit the idea that leaders, founders, or saints are meant to be flawless. But scripture doesn’t give us flawless heroes. It gives us faithful ones—people like Peter who both proclaim truth and deny it, who both lead and stumble, who both receive keys to the kingdom and weep bitterly in a courtyard.

In the book of Acts, we find Peter again—this time not preaching or guiding, but bound in chains. A prisoner. Powerless. And yet, we’re told, “Suddenly an angel of the Lord appeared…” and the chains fell away. Not by Peter’s authority or brilliance. But by simple grace.

Again and again, the Gospel reminds us: the Church is not sustained by personalities or plans. It is sustained by the Spirit.

This is echoed in our Old Testament reading, from Zechariah—a vision of two olive trees, two anointed ones, feeding oil into the lampstand of God. And God says, “Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit.”

It is a vision of shared leadership, of mutual dependence. A vision where light is sustained not by one source alone, but by a generous plurality.

And that leads us, I think, to a profound challenge for the Church today.

Because if we’re honest, we still struggle with the temptation to tidy things up. To resolve tension too quickly. To choose clarity over complexity. And above all, to elevate one voice, one tradition, one culture, one theological style, to the exclusion of others.

But the witness of Peter and Paul—the very foundations of the Church—points us elsewhere.

It tells us that truth and grace often come through disagreement. That unity in Christ doesn’t erase difference, but transfigures it. That leadership in the Church doesn’t mean having all the answers—it means holding fast to Christ, especially when the questions get hard.

But of course this is not easy. It is far easier to preach about diversity than to practice it. We’re usually happy with diversity—so long as it stays within comfortable limits. But real diversity—the kind that matters—comes precisely when it challenges us. When it unsettles us.

Let me be honest. There are parts of the Church—perspectives and voices—that I find profoundly difficult.. People I believe cause much more harm than good. People who, I think, willfully close their hearts and minds to the huge detriment of others. People who use the most emaciated application of Holy Scripture to justify damaging ideologies and attitudes.

But here’s the thing, I also believe that part of what our faith demands is the humility to acknowledge that I might be wrong. That I am called to love and listen even when I disagree deeply. That I must resist the temptation to write others off.

This does not mean silence in the face of injustice. On the contrary—true respect means authentic engagement. It means standing up for the vulnerable. Taking risks for the Gospel. Speaking truth.

And perhaps, especially today, we must say: this also means not turning our eyes away.

Because when division festers into hatred, when people are reduced to categories, when religion is used to harden hearts rather than open them—we see the consequences in real human suffering.

We see it in the atrocities and horror of Gaza and the widening and frightening developments in the Middle East; cycles of violence, retribution, and political failure causing unimaginable suffering and destruction. We see what happens when justice is forgotten, when fear drives decision-making, when difference is no longer held in tension - let alone celebrated - but weaponised.

As followers of Christ—the Christ who broke bread even with his betrayer—we cannot look away. We are called to pray. To speak. To act. And to resist anything in our own hearts or communities that echoes the patterns of exclusion, violence, or indifference.

If Peter and Paul can disagree—and still be bound in Christ—then we too must believe that the hard work of holding together difference, of seeking peace, is not optional. It is Gospel.

And so what might this mean for us here at St Matthew’s?

Perhaps it’s a reminder to keep asking ourselves:

• How well do we allow space for real diversity—not just of background, but of thought?

• How do we encourage faithful disagreement and deep listening?

• Are we brave enough to speak honestly and humble enough to be changed?

Because the Church is not meant to be a monoculture. It is a Body. And every part is needed. Whether we like it not Not just Peter. Not just Paul. Not just the voices that sound like ours.

Today, we honour these two apostles—not in spite of their tension, but because of it. We remember that the Church has never been perfect. But it can be holy. And it is holy when it loves the truth enough to wrestle with it. When it trusts the Spirit enough to allow difference. When it holds Christ at the centre, and everything else with humility.

Peter and Paul remind us that we don’t need to be the same to be faithful.

We need only to return again and again to Christ, who calls us, who forgives us, who builds his Church not on perfection, but on love.

Thanks be to God.

Amen