Tag Archives: peter

A Sermon for The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 16, Year A)
August 23, 2026

Text: Matthew 16:13-20

Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Earlier this year, I was wandering through a used bookstore when I came across a book by Nadia Bolz-Weber called Accidental Saints. Some of you may be familiar with Nadia. She’s a Lutheran pastor and author, and she’s probably not what you would expect when you hear the words “Lutheran pastor.”

She’s covered in tattoos. She’s very open about her complicated past, and she’s known for being pretty blunt and honest about her own struggles with faith.

I’d heard of the book before, and it was only a few dollars. So I picked it up, brought it home, and did what I often do with books I intend to read: I put it on the shelf.

And there it sat for several months.

Until recently, when I picked it back up and started reading.

And there’s one story in particular from the book I want to share with you this morning.

Several years ago, Nadia was invited to speak at a national youth gathering in New Orleans.

And it wasn’t just a youth retreat with fifty or sixty kids. We’re talking about tens of thousands of teenagers gathered inside the Superdome.

And at first, Nadia wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. When she was invited to speak, she said no.

She didn’t think she was the right person for the job. She didn’t think she knew how to talk to teenagers. And she certainly didn’t think she had anything to say that they would find meaningful.

The organizers asked her again, and she still said no.

But eventually, she agreed to do it.

And almost immediately, she began wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into.

She asked people what they thought she should talk about. She bounced ideas off of trusted friends and family members.

Nothing seemed right.

And there was something else.

Not everyone was happy that Nadia Bolz-Weber had been invited to speak at the event.

Her story isn’t exactly neat and tidy. She had struggled with addiction. She had spent years away from the Church. Her path to becoming a pastor had been anything but ordinary.

And there were people who wondered whether someone with a story like hers was really the person who should be standing in front of thousands of teenagers talking about Jesus.

I imagine that only made the question in the back of her mind that much louder:

“What could someone like me possibly have to offer?”

But then something happened on the way to New Orleans.

On the flight there, Nadia was sitting next to a teenage girl named Chloe. Chloe had pink bangs, and she was quiet and kept mostly to herself.

And as they began to talk, Nadia discovered that Chloe knew something about what it was like to feel different—to feel like maybe she didn’t quite fit the mold of what other people expected her to be.

Nadia knew something about that, too, and as they talked, she began to realize something.

Maybe she didn’t need to figure out how to become the kind of person who could speak to thousands of teenagers.

Maybe the thing she had to offer was simply her own story.

Finally, the moment came.

Nadia walked onto that stage in the Superdome and looked out at thousands of young people.

And she told them the truth.

She told them about herself. About the ways she had struggled. About the mistakes she had made. About the ways her life hadn’t always followed the nice, straight path we imagine a Christian is supposed to follow.

She didn’t give them some polished version of herself.

She gave them the truth of who she was.

And somehow, God was at work in all of it.

The person who was convinced she had nothing to say to these teenagers connected with them in a way she never could have imagined.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that story this week—and about how easy it is to believe that we have to be the perfect Christian, or the perfect disciple, before God can really use us.

And I think our Gospel reading for this morning has something to teach us about that.

In our lesson from Matthew, Jesus asks the disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?”

They give him the answers they’ve heard. Some say John the Baptist. Others say Elijah, Jeremiah, or one of the prophets.

But then Jesus makes the question personal.

“But who do you say that I am?”

Peter answers the question.

“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus responds, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah,” and then he says something extraordinary:

“You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.”

Of all the disciples, Peter is the one who first confesses Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of God.

If you know anything about Peter, you know he’s anything but the perfect disciple.

He isn’t a scholar or religious leader.

When Jesus meets him for the first time, he’s working as a fisherman with his brother Andrew when Jesus simply says, “Follow me.”

And Peter does.

From that point on, Peter follows Jesus faithfully—but not perfectly.

As we heard in our Gospel lesson a couple weeks ago, Peter is the one who sees Jesus walking across the water and actually has enough faith to climb out of the boat and walk toward him.

But then he notices the wind and waves. He becomes frightened and begins to sink.

“Lord, save me!” he says.

That’s Peter.

Faithful enough to climb out of the boat but frightened enough to doubt.

And perhaps the best example comes right after the story in today’s Gospel.

Peter has just answered correctly.

He says to Jesus, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus praises him and calls him the rock on which he’ll build his church.

But then, only a few verses later, Jesus begins explaining to the disciples that he must go up to Jerusalem, suffer, and die.

Peter pulls him aside and rebukes him.

And Jesus responds, “Get behind me, Satan.”

That’s quite a turn in the story.

One moment, he says to Peter, “On this rock I will build my church.”

A few verses later, he says, “Get behind me, Satan.”

And of course, much later in the Gospel, Peter says to Jesus that even if everyone else abandons him in his time of need, he will never leave him.

And we all know what happened there.

On the night when Jesus is arrested, Peter denies even knowing who Jesus is. Not once, but three times.

And yet this is the man Jesus chooses.

Because Jesus knows Peter.

He knows his courage and his fear.

His faith and his doubts.

He knows Peter will sometimes get things right and sometimes fall short.

And still Jesus looks at him and says:

I will use you to build my Church.

Not some future version of you.

Not the Peter who’s finally figured everything out.

Just you.

I wonder how many of us have a hard time believing that about ourselves.

Because it’s easy to fall in the trap of believing that God can only use us if we’re the perfect disciple.

We think to ourselves, “If I only knew the Bible better…”

Or “If I only prayed more…”

Or “If only my faith were stronger…”

Or “If only I hadn’t made those mistakes…”

Maybe then God could use me.

So we hold back.

Because somewhere deep inside of us is that same question Nadia was asking herself:

What could someone like me possibly have to offer?

And if you think priests and clergy are immune to that question, I’ve got something to tell you.

We aren’t.

There are moments in my own life—even after eleven years of being a priest—when I question myself and wonder what in the world God was thinking when he called me to this ministry.

But one of the amazing things about Scripture is that it’s filled with so many beautiful examples of how God calls imperfect people—like Peter—to do extraordinary things.

Throughout history, the Church has been filled with imperfect people. People who were courageous one moment and frightened the next. People who loved Jesus but also struggled to be faithful.

People like Peter and Nadia.

People like us.

And maybe that’s where God’s grace comes in.

God doesn’t expect us to be perfect.

God meets us where we are and begins working through us there.

God takes what we have to offer and does things with it that we never could’ve imagined.

That’s what Nadia discovered at that youth gathering all those years ago.

She thought she needed the perfect message or the perfect words.

But all she really needed was to be herself.

And God used it.

Some of the things she thought made her unqualified to speak were the things that allowed her to connect with those teenagers.

And I wonder if that’s sometimes true for us, too.

Maybe some of the things we wish we could erase from our past are the very things that allow us to recognize someone else’s pain.

Maybe our struggles have taught us compassion.

Maybe our failures have taught us humility.

Maybe the places where we’ve needed grace the most have become the places where we can offer grace to someone else.

God can use all of it.

When I hear Jesus say to Peter, “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church,” I hear something wonderfully hopeful for all of us.

You don’t have to have everything figured out.

You don’t have to have the perfect words.

You don’t have to become some perfect version of yourself before God can work through you.

You just have to be willing to offer what you have.

Your gifts.

Your experiences.

Your story.

Your faith—even when it’s not perfect.

Your authentic self.

God is asking for you—just as you are.

Whatever you may think you have—or don’t have—to offer, you are enough.

Jesus looks at you just as he did with Peter and says, “I will use you.”

Not some future version of you.

Not the you who’s finally figured everything out.

Just you.

Amen.