Homily for the Fourth Sunday after Pentecost & Fourth Sunday of Matthew,
By Fr. Fadi Rabbat
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Beloved in Christ,
The Gospel today is simple, but it touches something very deep in the human heart.
A man comes to Christ carrying pain that is not even his own. “Lord, my servant is lying paralyzed… in terrible distress.”
He could have ignored it. He could have said, “This is not my problem.” But he does not. He carries another person’s suffering and places it before Christ.
We know this kind of pain.
A mother who cannot sleep because of her child.
A father who worries silently about his family.
A person praying for someone who has walked away from God.
Someone carrying a quiet illness, a hidden struggle, a loneliness no one else sees.
This Gospel begins there—with love that carries.
Saint John Chrysostom tells us that what makes this man remarkable is not his position, but his heart. He had authority, but he did not use it to dominate—he used it to care. And this is where faith always begins: not in ideas, but in love that turns toward Christ.
But then something even more powerful happens.
Christ says, “I will come and heal him.”
And the centurion answers with words we know so well: “Lord, I am not worthy that You should come under my roof; but only say the word.”
Saint Cyril of Alexandria says that in this moment, the centurion sees what others do not yet fully see—that Christ’s word is not like our words. When Christ speaks, it is not advice, it is not a wish—it is power. It is life. It is healing.
“Only say the word.”
Beloved, this is where the Gospel becomes very real for us.
Because we are people who hear the word of Christ all the time. We hear it in the Gospel. We hear it in the prayers. We hear it in the quiet moments of our conscience.
And yet, if we are honest, we often live as though His word is not enough.
We say we trust God—but we are overwhelmed with fear.
We pray—but we keep trying to control everything.
We ask for healing—but we struggle to believe it is possible.
The centurion stands before us today and shows us another way.
A quieter way.
A deeper way.
He does not argue. He does not demand signs. He simply trusts.
“Only say the word.”
And notice his humility: “I am not worthy…”
Saint John Chrysostom reminds us that this humility is what opens the door to Christ. Not perfection. Not strength. But a heart that knows its need for God.
Every Divine Liturgy, we say these same words before Holy Communion. And like the centurion, we do not say them to turn away—we say them as we come closer.
“I am not worthy… but come.”
And Christ does come.
He comes into our weakness.
He comes into our confusion.
He comes into our homes, our hearts, our lives—not because we deserve it, but because He is merciful.
And then Christ says something that should stay with us:
“Be it done for you as you have believed.”
As you have believed.
Not as you have feared.
Not as you have doubted.
But as you have believed.
So today, let us take something very simple from this Gospel.
Think of one person who needs Christ.
Carry them in your heart.
Bring them before Him.
And then, in the quiet of your prayer, say what the centurion said:
“Lord, I am not worthy… but only say the word.”
And trust—not perfectly, not completely—but honestly.
Because even a small, real faith opens the door for God to act.
And His word is still powerful.
His word still heals.
His word is still enough.
To Christ our God be glory, together with His eternal Father and His all-holy, good, and life-creating Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.
Homily for the Second Sunday after Pentecost & Sunday of Matthew, The Sunday of All Saints of Antioch and North America
By Fr. Fadi Rabbat
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, one God. Amen.
Beloved in Christ,
Today, on the second Sunday after Pentecost, the Lord speaks a word that created the whole history of the Church: “Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men.”
We hear these words so often that they risk becoming a phrase, something we admire from far away.
We imagine them as addressed to someone else—to Apostles, to monks, to clergy—but not to us. Yet in the Gospel there is no distance: the same Jesus who walked by the Sea of Galilee walks now into our life, into our parish, into this continent, and speaks the same living word: “Follow Me.”
The Holy Fathers tell us that this “Follow Me” is not a spiritual slogan, but a concrete call that re‑orders a human life from the ground up. For Peter and Andrew, for James and John, it meant leaving their nets, their boats, even their father, and entrusting their future to Christ. They did not yet know all doctrines or see all miracles; they knew only the One who called them—and that was enough.
Saint John Chrysostom says that the Lord drew them “not by threats, but by promises,” taking their own work as fishermen and lifting it to a new level, so that they might catch not fish that die, but human souls that are saved.
To follow Christ, then, is not simply to add religion to an already full life. It is to let Him define who I am and why I exist. It is to receive my identity not from my job, my success, my nationality, or my feelings, but from His gaze and His word.
The first disciples leave behind their nets, not because work is evil, but because they discover that they themselves were made for something greater than fish.
This is what we celebrate today when we keep the Sunday of All Saints of Antioch and of North America. The saints are nothing else than men and women who took this word seriously, in their own time and place.
In Antioch, where the disciples were first called Christians, the “Follow Me” of the Gospel blossomed into a whole vine of holiness: in Ignatius the God‑Bearer, who went to martyrdom calling himself “God’s wheat”; in Ephraim the Syrian, who poured out rivers of tears and hymns; in John Chrysostom, who gave the Church his golden preaching and his patient endurance of injustice; in countless martyrs, ascetics, hierarchs, and laypeople whose names only God knows.
And this same call, this same vine, reaches across oceans into the soil of North America. We see it in our father among the saints, Raphael, Bishop of Brooklyn. Born in Beirut to faithful Orthodox parents who had fled persecution in Damascus, he grew up as a son of Antioch, formed in her language, her piety, and her theology. Yet the word of Christ did not allow him to remain in safety. Hearing “Follow Me,” he first served and studied in the Old World, and then crossed the ocean to this new land, where so many of our Middle Eastern forebears were scattered without priests and without parishes.
Here he became a tireless shepherd—traveling by train and by ship, visiting factories and coal towns, blessing homes, preaching, celebrating the Mysteries, founding communities.
Through his ministry the scattered flock of Antioch in America was gathered and organized, and the foundations of our own Antiochian Archdiocese were laid.
In Saint Raphael we see today’s Gospel in flesh: a man who left homeland, comfort, and certainty so that Christ might make him a true “fisher of men” in the waters of this continent.
Around him, the Lord raised up faithful laymen lwho did not leave their professions, but offered them to Christ. They used their skills, their relationships, their influence to build parishes, to support clergy, to strengthen the life of the Church.
They show us that “Follow Me” is not heard only in monasteries and altars, but also in offices, shops, neighborhoods, and homes.
The saints of North America include parents who taught the faith to their children in small apartments, workers who kept the fasts in difficult conditions, benefactors who quietly sacrificed so that churches could be built.
When we name All Saints of Antioch and All Saints of North America together, we are saying something profound: there is one Church, one holiness, one call. The same Lord who spoke on the shore of Galilee spoke in Antioch, spoke in Brooklyn, and speaks here and now in El Paso.
The question is not whether He is speaking; the question is whether we are ready to answer as they did.
What, then, does it mean for us to follow Him today?
First, it means to let Christ enter our real life, not an imaginary one. Peter and Andrew are called in the middle of their workday. The Lord comes into our work, our studies, our family tensions, our tired evenings, and says, “Follow Me here.” We do not wait for the perfect moment; we respond in the circumstances we already have.
Second, it means to let go of the illusion of control. The fishermen leave their nets and boats—everything that made them feel secure and competent.
Following Christ always involves some leaving: leaving a habit of sin, leaving an unforgiveness we have protected, leaving an identity that is built on pride. We may not change our address, but we must allow Him to change the center of our heart.
Third, it means that our life becomes mission. “I will make you fishers of men” is a promise for every baptized Christian. Not all are apostles or bishops, but all are called to be a living invitation to Christ.
In the spirit of Saint Raphael and of many married martyrs like Father Habib and his Son Fr. Nicholas Khasheh , this can take many forms:
– A parent who prays with his children and brings them faithfully to the services.
– A student who refuses to be ashamed of the Gospel among friends.
– A parishioner who welcomes the stranger, listens to the lonely, visits the sick.
– A worker who is honest, gentle, and pure in a harsh environment.
In all these ways, nets are quietly being cast into the sea of this society.
Beloved, we often say that “these are difficult times,” and they are. But the Gospel was not first preached in easy times.
The sea was rough then too. The saints of Antioch lived through persecutions, heresies, political turmoil.
The saints of North America endured, pain, suffering, poverty, misunderstanding, and long years of obscurity.
What made them saints was not that their times were better, but that, in their times, they said “yes” to the same Lord.
Today, standing before the Holy Table, we are surrounded by that same great cloud of witnesses. Saint Peter and Andrew, James and John; Ignatius and Ephraim; John Chrysostom; Raphael of Brooklyn; the martyrs Fr. Habib and his son Fr. Nicholas; all the saints of Antioch and of North America—each one is a living proof that Christ keeps His word: “Follow Me, and I will make you.”
Let us, then, ask ourselves quietly: where is the Lord saying to me, today, “Follow Me”? Is it in a call to deeper prayer? To return to confession? To forgive someone I have held at a distance? To offer myself in service in this parish? To speak a word of faith where I have been silent?
Whatever it may be, let us not answer tomorrow. Let us answer now, as the fishermen did, “immediately.”
The Lord does not ask us to be holy in one step; He asks us to walk behind Him, one step at a time, trusting that He will make of our poor life something we cannot yet see—a small, real part of the holiness of Antioch and of North America.
May the prayers of all the saints who have shone forth in Antioch, and of all the saints of this land—especially our father among saints Raphael of Brooklyn and the other saints —strengthen us to hear and to follow the voice of Christ, that we too may become, in our measure, fishers of men and sharers in His eternal Kingdom.
To Him be glory, together with His Father who is without beginning, and His all‑holy, good, and life‑creating Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.
