Saints Peter and Paul



Sometimes at Mass, back when we used to receive from the chalice, you may have noticed a small particle of the host floating in the Precious Blood and wondered why it was there. It’s not an accident. After the breaking of the bread, the priest deliberately places it there—a gesture rooted in a rich tradition, centuries old, and full of meaning.

In the earliest days of the Church, only the bishop would celebrate the Sunday Eucharist. The faithful gathered at the cathedral, the beating heart of the Christian community. But as the Church expanded and spread, it became impossible for the bishop to be everywhere at once. So helpers—early presbyters or priests—were ordained and sent out to offer the Eucharist in communities across the diocese. Yet even as the Church grew outward, it sought to preserve a visible expression of its inner unity.

To that end, the bishop would send a fragment of the host consecrated at his own Mass to the outlying communities. At the local celebration, the priest would place this fragment into the chalice during the Eucharist. It was a powerful gesture: a sign that their local celebration was deeply connected to the bishop’s—and through him, to the whole universal Church. The small piece of host you might see floating in the chalice today is a remnant of that ancient practice—a quiet but profound reminder that we are one Body, even when dispersed.

Today, as we celebrate the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul—towering apostles of the faith—we’re once again invited to reflect on this theme of unity: unity under the Bishop of Leeds in our local Church, and unity under the Bishop of Rome, Peter’s successor, in the global Church. That’s why, at every Mass, we pray for Pope Leo and Bishop Marcus. Their names, like the fragment in the chalice, symbolize our belonging—our communion with the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church.

Many of our Protestant brothers and sisters, by contrast, have experienced a different ecclesial journey. Once separated from the wider Church, history shows that new denominations tend to continue splintering. During my time serving with the U.S. Navy, I worked alongside chaplains from 108 different sending Christian churches. Among the Baptists alone, there were more than 60 distinct groups: Southern Baptists, Free Will Baptists, Primitive Baptists, Old Time Missionary Baptists, Strict Baptists, Regular Baptists, Reformed Baptists, Separated Baptists, Separated Baptists in Christ—the list went on. Many of these divisions arose from theological disagreements or disputes over worship and governance.

The Catholic Church, for all its faults—and we know they are real—has held fast to unity, though not without sacrifice. Holding together a global communion requires humility, patience, and perseverance. It demands that broad parts of the Church—across cultures, languages, and centuries—remain in dialogue, even amid tension. This unity, though costly, is rooted in Christ’s own prayer: “Father, may they be one, as you and I are one” (John 17:21). We saw that unity expressed again just a few weeks ago, when the College of Cardinals quickly came to consensus in electing Pope Leo—a sign of the Spirit still at work, guiding the Church in continuity.

Peter and Paul themselves were not united by personality. In fact, they were radically different. Peter was a rugged Galilean fisherman—impulsive, practical, often overwhelmed by the mystery unfolding around him. He was the one who swore allegiance and then faltered, who stepped onto the water only to sink, who proclaimed Jesus as Messiah and then denied Him three times. And yet, Jesus called him the rock on which He would build His Church.

Paul, by contrast, was refined, urbane—a scholar, a Roman citizen, steeped in Jewish law and fluent in Greek rhetoric. He didn’t meet Christ by the lakeshore but on the road to Damascus, in a blinding light that shattered his old life and set the Church’s mission on a new trajectory.

And yet, these two giants—so unlike in temperament and background—together sustained the early Church in a creative, even holy tension. Peter offered solidity; Paul offered vision. Peter stood firm at the gates; Paul pressed forward into new lands. The Church stands on the confession of Peter and is forever shaped by the insight and passion of Paul. His letters still form the bedrock of Christian theology 2,000 years on.

Both apostles gave their lives in Rome, dying under Nero’s persecution. Tradition holds that Peter was crucified upside down on Vatican Hill around AD 64. He was buried in a simple grave over which a basilica was eventually built.

In 1939, while preparing a tomb for Pope Pius XI beneath St Peter’s Basilica, archaeologists uncovered an ancient necropolis. Near a red wall, about 23 feet beneath the papal altar, they found graffiti reading “Peter is here.” In that space, wrapped in cloth of purple and gold, were the bones of a robust man in his sixties, of Semitic origin—consistent with a Galilean Jew of the first century. The Church, as it turns out, was quite literally built on Peter’s tomb.

Then, just nineteen years ago, a sarcophagus was discovered near the Basilica of St Paul Outside the Walls. It bore the inscription: “Paul, Apostle, Martyr.” Carbon dating of the remains inside strongly supports the tradition that this was Paul’s final resting place, having been executed during the same wave of persecution.

So today, in honouring Peter and Paul, we’re not just recalling long-dead heroes. We’re remembering the very foundations of our faith—the blood, sweat, and fearless witness that gave birth to the Church we now inhabit. Their example—so different, yet united in Christ—still lights the way forward.

Their legacy lives on here among us: in our diocese, shepherded by Bishop Marcus; in our communion with parishes around the globe; and in our connection to Peter’s successor, Pope Leo. And that tiny fragment of host that floats quietly in the chalice? It still speaks. It still proclaims: we are one.