The Feast of St. Philip and St. James | By the Rev. Jurinesz R. Shadrach
- 13 hours ago
- 4 min read
“If you had known me, you would know my Father also.”
Philip’s words in the Gospel— “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied”—
sound so familiar. Because they are. That longing to see God, to be sure, to have clarity— that is not foreign to any of us. It doesn’t come from unbelief. It comes from desire.
A desire to know that the One we’ve been praying to is real. That this love we’ve staked our lives on is not in vain.
And Jesus answers not with a defense, not even with comfort, but with a revelation:
“Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” In other words: “You already know. You already see. You just don’t realize it.”
That response is as breathtaking now as it was then. Because it means that in the face of Christ, God has made himself visible. Tangible. Knowable. Not as theory or abstraction, but in flesh and blood. If you want to know what God is like—look at Jesus.
If you want to know how God speaks, how God touches, how God loves—look at Jesus. There is no secret God hiding behind Christ. Christ is the full self-disclosure of God.
But it’s not just about seeing. It’s about becoming. If the Gospel were only knowledge, it would stop at curiosity. But for it to be Good News, it must change us. And this is what Saints Philip and James show us: that seeing the Father is not only a matter of vision, but of discipleship. That we don’t come to know God simply through study—but through surrender.
We don’t know much about Philip and James beyond these few glimpses. They’re not the central apostles. They don’t walk on water. They don’t recline next to Jesus at the Last Supper. But that’s what makes them so compelling. They remind us that faithfulness does not require fame. That holiness does not depend on headlines. Philip and James lived quietly. But they died boldly. James is said to have been martyred in Jerusalem. Philip in Asia Minor. Their end was their witness. Their death revealed what they had come to believe: that in following Jesus, they had seen the face of the Father.
And that’s the irony. The thing Philip longed to see was not revealed to him in the moment of asking—but in the road he chose to walk. They came to know God not through signs, but through suffering. Not by being lifted high, but by lowering themselves. They became like the One they followed. That is how they saw.
And it is a mirror for us, and especially for you, Sisters. You’ve given your lives to a path that does not promise glory. The world may never understand it. It may call it a waste. “Why throw away your youth in silence and service?” “Why take vows that limit your freedom?” “Why be hidden when the world urges you to be seen?” But you know. You’ve seen something. Or better yet—you’ve been seen.
You’ve been touched by mercy, called by name. And in that call, a deep joy has taken root. Not the kind of joy that always smiles. But the kind of joy that anchors you, even when everything else is uncertain. You don’t follow Christ because it’s easy. You follow because somewhere, somehow, you heard him say, “This is the way. Walk in it.”
That verse from Isaiah stays with me: “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” And you do. In morning prayer, in the washing of dishes, in the tending of the sick, in intercession for the world. In all the quiet acts of fidelity, Christ is seen again. Through your life, Philip’s question is answered: “Show us the Father.” And the world looks at you and begins to glimpse him.
Paul puts it so clearly: “We do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord,
and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake.” That’s what your life is. A vessel. A light
We may never be called to martyrdom in the way Philip and James were, but we are called to die daily—to our ego, our fears, our comforts. To become, bit by bit, what we already are: the Body of Christ. A sign of the Father’s love. A glimpse of the Son’s humility.
And yes, it will be misunderstood. We will sometimes feel foolish. We will wonder if it matters. But hear me: it matters. Every act of prayer, every gesture of care, every offering of time and silence is caught up in God. Nothing is wasted. Not when it is done in love.
Each morning we pray those words from the General Thanksgiving: “That we may show forth your praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives.” In your lives, Sisters, that is how the Father is made visible. That is how Christ is proclaimed—not always in words, but in wounds. Not always in power, but in presence.
So let the world think what it wants. Let it scoff. Let it question. You already know. You have already seen. And when you forget—as we all do—you return to this table. To this altar. Where Christ shows himself again, in bread broken and wine poured. The same Jesus who said, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father,” gives himself to you again. And you are fed. And you are sent.
Philip and James saw the Father not with their eyes, but through surrender. May we be granted grace to do the same. So that when the world looks at us—at our service, at our witness, at our quiet faithfulness—it may catch just a glimpse of the One in whose image we were made, and into whose likeness we are being transformed, day by day,
by grace. Amen.
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