This week, our Pillars team has been away together on a retreat cruise, and being out here on the ocean has given me a lot to think about. There’s something about being at sea that changes your sense of proportion. You walk out onto the deck – especially early in the morning, or late at night – and you look out.

Water. Sky. A horizon that seems to go on forever. And if it’s nighttime, maybe you can’t even see the horizon. You can just see darkness. And then you remember something. Beneath this ship are thousands of feet of water. An entire world is beneath us right now that we cannot see. Life is moving down there. There are depths most of us will never visit. Places sunlight never reaches. And whether I can see those depths or not makes absolutely no difference to whether they’re real. They’re there.

And there’s something about that which I think is very good for the human soul. Because we live in a world that has become very accustomed to the surface of things. We see something. We measure it. We analyze it. We explain it. We categorize it. We put it into a computer. We Google it. And pretty quickly, we begin to think we understand it. We’ve become remarkably good at explaining things. 

But I wonder if, somewhere along the way, we’ve lost something. I wonder if we’ve lost our capacity to stand before mystery. And I don’t mean mystery in the sense of a puzzle. A mystery novel has a mystery. You keep reading, eventually you find out who did it, and the mystery is solved. That’s not what Christianity means by mystery.

A Christian mystery is something you can truly know – but never exhaust. You can enter into it. You can know it more deeply. You can contemplate it for an entire lifetime. But you will never reach the bottom. Because ultimately the great mystery is God Himself.

And so here’s the question I want us to consider: Have we lost our capacity to stand before mystery? And maybe an even more troubling question: Has the Church lost some of her capacity to stand before mystery? Because I believe one of the deepest crisis we’re facing today is not simply that people have stopped going to Church. It’s not simply that people don’t know the Catechism. It’s not simply that vocations have declined. It’s not simply that our culture has become secular. These are all serious things. But I think there’s something underneath them. 

And that is – We have suffered a loss of supernatural faith. 

And that’s different. Because you can know Catholic doctrine and still begin to live as though the supernatural isn’t really real. You can say the Creed. You can go to Mass. You can know the correct answers. And yet, gradually – almost imperceptibly – Christianity can become something that exists primarily on the surface.

Something horizontal. Something manageable. Something reasonable. Something safe. And eventually Christianity becomes mostly about being a good person. Being kind. Helping the poor. Building community. Making the world a little better. All of those things matter. Of course they matter. But Christianity is infinitely more astonishing than that.

Christianity makes an outrageous claim. It says there is an invisible world. It says angels are real. It says grace is real. It says sin actually does something to the human soul. It says Heaven is real. It says Hell is real. It says the saints are alive. It says your guardian angel is not a children’s story. It says prayer actually matters. It says a priest can say words over a sinner, and sins committed perhaps decades ago are forgiven. It says water can be poured over the head of a child, and that child’s soul is changed for eternity. It says that bread can cease to be bread (while every physical appearance remains unchanged) and become God. 

That’s Christianity. That’s Catholicism. It is supernatural from beginning to end. So maybe the question isn’t simply: Do we still know what the Church teaches? Maybe the more uncomfortable question is: Do we really believe that the things the Church teaches are real?

There’s a reason the sea appears again and again in Sacred Scripture. For the ancient world, the sea represented something enormous and uncontrollable. Man could sail upon it. He could fish in it. He could cross it. But he could never master it. And throughout Scripture, God demonstrates His sovereignty over the waters.

Then we come to that extraordinary moment in the Gospel. Jesus and His disciples are crossing the Sea of Galilee. A storm arises. And this isn’t a little rain. The Gospel tells us the waves are breaking over the boat. The boat is filling with water. And remember – some of the men in that boat are professional fishermen. They know this sea. They know storms. They know boats. And they think they’re going to die. 

And where is Jesus? Asleep. I love that detail. The boat is being overwhelmed by the sea. The disciples are panicking. And God is sleeping in the stern.

They wake Him. “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” And Jesus gets up. He rebukes the wind. And He speaks to the sea. “Peace. Be still.” And immediately there is calm. 

Now, here’s what I find fascinating. The disciples were frightened by the storm. But after Jesus calms the storm, they experience something else. Awe. They look at one another and say: “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey Him?”

That’s the moment. They KNOW Jesus. They had walked with Him. They had heard Him preach. They had watched Him heal people. They had eaten with Him. But suddenly the veil lifts – just a little bit. And they realize: We don’t fully understand Who is in this boat.

Who is this? The wind obeys Him. The sea obeys Him. Creation recognizes its Creator. And maybe that question needs to return to the Church. Who is this? Who is Jesus Christ? Because if Jesus is simply a great moral teacher, Christianity isn’t particularly mysterious. If Jesus is simply a religious reformer, Christianity can be reduced to ethics. If Jesus is simply an inspiring historical figure, then we can admire Him. But if Jesus Christ is Who the Church says He is – God from God, Light from Light, True God from true God – then you don’t simply admire Him. You fall on your knees. 

I wonder sometimes if we have confused intimacy with God with casualness toward God. They’re not the same thing. The saints were extraordinarily intimate with God. Think of Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Francis of Assisi, Therese of Lisieux, Padre Pio. They knew God’s tenderness. They knew His mercy. They knew His closeness. But none of them thought God was small. In fact, the closer they came to God, the more overwhelming God became.

They adored. They trembled. They wept. They fell silent. They spent hours before the Blessed Sacrament. They understood something we desperately need to recover. God is near. And God is terrifyingly, wonderfully, infinitely OTHER. We have to hold both. Because if we emphasize transcendence without intimacy, God becomes distant. But if we emphasize intimacy without transcendence, God becomes ordinary. And God is not ordinary!

Maybe in our desire to make Christianity accessible, understandable, and welcoming, we have sometimes made it small. We have domesticated it. We have taken the lion and tried to make Him safe. But God is not safe. He is good. There is a difference. 

The God of Scripture is not manageable. Moses encounters Him in a burning bush and removes his sandals because the ground has become holy. Isaiah sees the Lord and cries: “Woe is me!” Peter realizes Who is standing in his boat and says: “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” Thomas sees the wounds of the risen Christ and cries: “My Lord and my God!” John sees the glorified Christ in Revelation and falls at His feet as though dead.

And yet we can sometimes walk into a Catholic church talking as though we’re walking into a coffee shop. Something has happened. Something has been lost. Not because God has become less holy. But because we have become less aware.

Maybe the ocean can help us understand the problem. We have become a civilization of the surface. We believe what we can see. We trust what we can measure. And what cannot be measured begins to feel less real. But Christianity says: The surface is not all there is.

Look at the ocean. I see water. That’s the surface. But beneath it is an enormous reality I cannot see. My inability to see it doesn’t make it less real. And that’s very close to the Catholic sacramental vision of reality. The Catholic looks at the visible world and knows: There is more. 

We see water poured over someone’s head. The world says: Water. The Church says: Something has happened to this soul. We see a man enter a confessional burdened by mortal sin and walk out ten minutes later. Nothing about his physical appearance may have changed. But Heaven sees something completely different. He was dead. Now he lives. We see a priest extend his hand and say: “I absolve you.” The world hears words. Faith sees Christ forgiving sins. We see a man and woman exchange vows before God. The world sees a ceremony. Faith sees a sacramental bond that did not exist moments before.

And then we come to the altar. We see bread. We see wine. The priest speaks the words Christ commanded. And our senses tell us: Nothing happened. It looks the same. It tastes the same. It weighs the same. A laboratory would tell you nothing changed. And the Catholic Church says: Everything changed. That is supernatural faith.

And this is where I think we need to examine ourselves. Because behavior eventually reveals belief. If I believe I am entering a building where religious people gather, I will behave one way. If I believe I am entering a place where Almighty God is substantially present, I will behave another way. And I do not mean that as a condemnation. I mean it as an examination of conscience – for me, for you, for priests, for bishops, for all of us. 

If we really believe what the Church teaches about the Eucharist, would anything change? Would our silence change? Would our reverence change? Would our genuflections change? Would our preparation for Mass change? Would the way we receive Holy Communion change? Would our thanksgiving afterward change? Would we arrive differently? Would we leave differently? Would our confessionals be fuller?

Because we are not talking about a symbol. We are talking about God. The same Christ who commanded the sea. The same Christ who walked on water. The same Christ who raised Lazarus. The same Christ who was crucified. The same Christ who rose from the tomb. The same Christ before whom angels bow. He is in the tabernacle. 

Do we believe that? Not – Do we know that is the correct Catholic answer? Do we believe it? Because those are not always the same thing. 

There’s another scene on the sea. The disciples are again in a boat. It’s night. The wind is against them. And suddenly they see someone walking toward them on the water. They’re terrified. They think it’s a ghost. And Jesus says: “Take courage. It is I. Do not be afraid.” 

And Peter says: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Jesus says: “Come.” And Peter gets out of the boat. 

Just think how absurd that is. Peter is a fisherman. He knows what happens when human beings step onto water. They sink. Everything Peter knows naturally tells him: You cannot do this. But Christ has spoken. And for one extraordinary moment, Peter trusts the word of Christ more than the evidence of his own experience. He steps onto the water. And he walks. That’s supernatural faith.

But then Peter does something very familiar. He looks at the wind. He looks at the waves. And he becomes afraid. And he begins to sink. And I sometimes wonder if that’s an image of the Church in our time.

We’re very good at studying the waves. We have statistics. Demographics. Polls. Surveys. Studies. Programs. Consultants. Strategies. Committees. Five-year plans. Ten-year plans. 

We know how many people are leaving. We know how many young people no longer identify as Catholic. We know the numbers. And those things can be useful. But none of them can save the Church.

Because the Church is not ultimately a human institution. The Church is supernatural. Her life comes from Christ. Her power comes from grace. Her soul is the Holy Spirit. And maybe sometimes we’re sinking because we’ve become more convinced of the power of the storm than we are of the power of Christ. 

For centuries Christians have called the Church the Barque of Peter. The ship of Peter. And it’s a beautiful image. Especially when you’re standing on an actual ship. Because a ship doesn’t exist to remain safely tied to the dock. Ships are built for deep water. And deep water is dangerous.

The Church has sailed through some terrible storms. Persecution. Heresy. Schism. Corruption. War. Scandal. Terrible popes. Weak bishops. Unfaithful priests. Confused generations. 

There have been moments when, humanly speaking, the Barque of Peter should have sunk. And yet here we are. Two thousand years later. Why? Not because Catholics are exceptionally competent. Church history will cure you of that illusion pretty quickly. Not because our leaders have always been courageous. They haven’t. Not because every generation has remained faithful. It hasn’t. 

The Barque survives for one reason: Christ is in the boat. And that brings me to a question I think we need to ask. We spend a great deal of time worrying about the storm. And there is a storm. But perhaps the greatest danger to the Barque of Peter is that those inside the boat no longer believe the Man sleeping in the storm is God. Think about that. Have we lost faith in Who is in the boat? 

Because once you lose that, everything changes. Then you have to save the Church yourself. Then everything depends on your strategy. Your program. Your personality. Your movement. Your preferred ideology. Your plan. And fear takes over. But the Church does not belong to us. She belongs to Jesus Christ.

This doesn’t mean we become passive. It doesn’t mean we ignore problems. It doesn’t mean we refuse to confront sin or confusion. Peter still had to row. The apostles still had to preach. The martyrs still had to die. But underneath all of it was this conviction: Christ is Lord.

There’s something else I want you to think about in regard to the ocean. If you look at the surface, you may see a bird. You may see a dolphin. You may see a whale. You may see another ship. Or you may see nothing. But underneath that surface is an entire world. And I think that’s a good image for something Christianity insists upon: The invisible world is real. 

We don’t talk about this enough. Angels are real. Not metaphors. Not cute little decorations. Angels. Pure spirits. Intelligent beings created by God. Your guardian angel is real. Right now. The saints are real. They’re not simply dead historical figures whose statues decorate our churches. They are alive in Christ. The communion of saints is real. The souls in purgatory are real. And yes – demons are real. The spiritual battle is real. 

Grace is real. Eternity is real. And at every Mass, something happens that our eyes cannot perceive. Heaven and earth meet. The sacrifice of Calvary is made sacramentally present. Angels surround the altar. The Church on earth worships with the Church in Heaven. But we walk around and think: Oh, it’s Sunday again.

Do you see the tragedy? The supernatural has become ordinary to us. Not because it is ordinary. But because we have lost our eyes for it. 

Near the end of the Book of Job, Job wants answers. And understandably so. He has suffered terribly. He wants God to explain Himself. Eventually God speaks. But God does something very strange. He doesn’t give Job a neat explanation of suffering. He asks Job questions.

“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?”
“Who shut in the sea with doors?”
“Have you entered into the springs of the sea?”
“Have you walked in the recesses of the deep?”

In other words – Job, do you understand creation? Do you understand the sea? Do you understand life? Do you understand death? Do you understand eternity? And Job becomes silent. Not because reason is bad. Catholicism loves reason. We have an enormous intellectual tradition. We have theology. Philosophy. Universities. St. Thomas Aquinas. Augustine. Newman. Benedict XVI. 

We seek understanding because truth matters. But reason must eventually recognize the difference between knowing God truly and comprehending God completely. You can know God. But you cannot contain Him. You can say true things about God. But you cannot exhaust Him. 

Eventually theology should lead to adoration. And that’s exactly what happened to Thomas Aquinas. This extraordinary intellect. This man who wrote page after page about God. Near the end of his life, after a profound mystical experience, Thomas stopped writing. He had glimpsed something. The greatest theologian in the Western Church eventually became silent before mystery. Maybe we need some of that silence again.

I believe the Church desperately needs a recovery of supernatural faith. And I want to be very clear. I don’t mean superstition. I don’t mean chasing extraordinary phenomena. I don’t mean becoming obsessed with private revelations or signs or predictions. I mean something much simpler. And much more radical. 

I mean believing God is truly real. Believing Christ is truly alive. Believing the Holy Spirit acts. Believing grace changes souls. Believing prayer matters. Believing sacrifice matters. Believing fasting matters. Believing confession does what Christ said it does. Believing the Eucharist is Who Christ said it is. Believing saints intercede. Believing angels accompany us. Believing demons oppose us. Believing eternity is real. Believing judgment is real. Believing Heaven is worth losing everything to obtain. 

Imagine what would happen if Catholics really believed those things again. Not simply affirmed them. Believed them. 

Imagine what would happen if a generation of Catholics woke up in the morning genuinely convinced: Eternity is real. That changes everything. 

The early Christians didn’t change the world because they had better programs. They changed the world because they were convinced something had happened. Jesus Christ rose from the dead. They believed it so deeply that you could threaten them with death and, in effect, they would say: You’re threatening me with Heaven. 

What do you do with people like that? Rome didn’t know. And eventually those Christians transformed an empire. Not because they controlled the culture. But because they possessed supernatural faith. 

As I have been on this ship, I go out onto the deck sometime, and I feel so small. And that is not a bad thing.

We spend so much of our lives trying to become important. Trying to control things. Trying to understand everything. Trying to manage everything. Maybe the soul occasionally needs to remember: I am a creature. I don’t have to understand everything. God is God. And I am not. And that is very good news. 

I look at the ocean. I can’t control it. I can’t see its depths. I can’t comprehend everything happening beneath me. But God can. 

The sea is vast. God made it. The stars are immense. God called them into existence. The universe contains galaxies whose size we cannot begin to imagine. God holds them in being. And that God knows my name. That God knows every sin I have committed. Every wound I carry. Every fear I hide. Every prayer I have whispered. And that God became man. For me. For you. 

That God entered the womb of the Virgin Mary. That God allowed Himself to be nailed to a Cross. That God entered death. That God rose from the grave. For me. For you. And that God waits for you – in a tabernacle. 

God doesn’t need to become smaller so modern man can understand Him. Modern man needs to become small enough to adore Him. 

The days I have been here I have looked at the ocean, and I cannot see its depths. But they are there. And I cannot see the angels. But they are there. I cannot see grace. But it is real. I cannot see the saints. But they are alive. I cannot see the souls in purgatory. But they are real. I cannot see eternity. But we are moving toward it. And we cannot see Christ with our bodily eyes when we kneel before the tabernacle. But He is there. 

We have become a civilization of the surface. And perhaps, if we are truthful, we have sometimes become a Church of the surface as well. We need mystery again. We need silence again. We need holy fear again. We need wonder again. We need adoration again. 

And maybe – more than anything – we need to believe again. Not vaguely. Not sentimentally. Not simply because Catholicism is our heritage or our culture or the religion of our parents. We need to – believe supernaturally. 

Because the storm is real. The waves are real. The darkness is real. But so is Christ. And He is still in the boat. The Church still belongs to Him. 

And even now – even in the middle of the storm – even when it seems that He is asleep – the wind and the sea still obey Him. 

May Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

Bishop Joseph E. Strickland
Bishop Emeritus