The Real Measure of Authority

Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, Apostles

Readings: Acts 12:1-11 / 2 Tim 4:6-18 / Mt 16:13-19

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time in airports.

And there’s a place in every airport, after you pass through security and awkwardly put your shoes back on, but before your gate opens and the plane arrives, where travelers sit, waiting.

They’ve left one place behind, but haven’t yet arrived at the next.

They’re in a kind of limbo, a liminal space, a neutral zone.

This space can be filled with excitement—children chattering about their vacation destination—but it can also hold uncertainty and grief.

One traveler has just hugged someone goodbye.

Maybe they’re heading somewhere new, but leaving behind something they’ve loved.

Every trip, every move, every transition brings loss.

Loss of familiar turf, routines, relationships, even identity.

That’s why transition, even when it’s good, is hard.

I stand before you today in a liminal space of my own.

This is my last weekend here at St. Joseph’s.

Some of you know a little about the journey that I’m beginning.

But all of us, at some point, have found ourselves in this kind of in-between: letting go, setting out for somewhere new, but you’re not there yet.

It’s here—in this neutral zone, between the pain of loss and the hope of what lies ahead—that the Lord comes to meet us.

Consider the first reading.

St. Peter is in prison.

It seems like he’s already lost everything: his freedom, his security, even the future he might have imagined for himself.

And Herod intends to make an example of him.

The only future opening up before him now seems likely to be short and painful.

And yet, in the very heart of that dark, liminal space, the Lord sends an angel.

Suddenly, light shines in the night.

The chains fall away.

And Peter hears a voice saying: “Get up quickly.”

Not a complete plan, just the next step. Get up. Get dressed. Get moving.

Personally, I would have liked a bit more of a plan. “Where exactly are we going?”

But then, fear floods our hearts with questions in moments like these.

“Who am I to risk taking this step?”

“What if I get it wrong?”

“What if I’m mistaken?”

“What if it’s not the voice of an angel at all, but just my own delusion?”

If we listen to it, the voice of fear binds up our hearts, leaving us paralyzed.

Fortunately, God knows what we’re like.

That’s why He usually gives us just enough light for the next step, not the whole map, all at once.

Because He’s not interested in feeding our fearful desire for control; He’s interested in relationship.

Not just delivering us to our destination, but walking with us along the way, so we can get to know Him and learn to trust Him, step by step, until fear starves in our hearts.

St. Peter knew this. It’s the way Jesus treated him from the beginning, that day beside the lake, when he saw him at a distance and said, “Come, follow me.”

And in the Gospel today, we heard the high point of his story with the Lord, when Jesus said to him: “You are Peter. And upon this rock I will build my Church.”

That’s the voice, not just of God commanding, but of a friend, putting fear to death, strengthening and affirming him for the mission to come, saying: “I see you. I choose you. I call you by name.”

And when Jesus gives Peter the keys—the power to bind and to loose—He gives the whole Church a mission: not to guard the gates of heaven, but to unlock them and fling them open wide.

That, dear people, is the real measure of authority in the Church.

Peter is not Heaven’s gatekeeper, nervously checking that the good stay in and the bad stay out, like an overzealous prison guard.

No, his is the authority of a liberator, the authority of the Messiah, the Savior, the one sent to release those who have been wrongly bound.

Just as the angel was sent to Peter himself in the prison, to break through the darkness and strike off his chains, so too Peter and the entire Church is entrusted with this salvific task.

To enter the prisons where people today are chained by fear, or by shame, or the lies that others have told them...

To touch them gently and say, “Get up and go. The door is open.”

To lead them through the maze of their doubts and open the iron gates and set them free.

That’s the Church does, at her best.

That’s what we celebrate today, as we commemorate our fathers among the saints, Peter and Paul, and their courage in responding to God’s invitation to greater freedom.

Paul tells us today, “I am already being poured out like a libation.”

He paid no heed to the voice of fear; he did not hesitate to pay the price required to become who he was meant to be, even though it would cost him everything, because he knew that Christ had already given everything for him.

And here, today, at this Holy Mass, in this “liminal space” between Heaven and Earth, Christ extends the same invitation to us: to get up, take the next step out of the places fear has held us in prison, whatever it may cost, and follow Him into freedom.

His love doesn’t wait for us to become someone else.

He loves us now, as we are.

And in that love, we find the courage to get up and take the next step.

Dear friends, wherever you may find yourselves today, let’s not listen to the voice of fear.

Listen to the voice of God.

The chains may feel heavy, the gates may look solid, but they will open.

The path may be hidden, but God is walking with us.

So don’t be afraid to lose what must be lost.

Take the next good step, and trust that Christ goes before us, leading us all into the freedom we were made for, always, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.