Christopher Thomas
Sermon for Third Sunday of Easter, Year B – 4/18/21
Acts 3:12-19
Psalm 4
1 John 3:1-7
Luke 24:36b-48
“Peace!”
“Peace, be with you!”
“Peace!”
I wonder, how long, it took for “peace” to settle in, that day, so very long ago. Really, peace? Of all things.
“Peace!”
After all, all that we have been through, you and I, all of us, across all of these many days, these weeks, these months, the endless dark nights of the soul, of all things, you say to me “peace?”
They, we, are startled and terrified, of this sight, in the night, behind our hidden walls, gazing upon what can only at best be described as ghastly, ghostly, this sighting of Jesus.
“Peace!”
Ok, if you say so, for hasn’t that been the way of this thing all along? “Ok, because you say so.”
No, it’s real because I’m hungry, and you feed me. I’m naked and you clothe me. I have no shelter, and you tent me, if only for one of the long dark nights of my soul. I am real. I am not a ghost, not even the Holy Ghost.
How do you know this?
Because you know that very same ache, somewhere deep in your own soul, your own dark night, and I came to you, and I fed you, and I clothed you, and I tented you, and I was not a ghost. I was real. That is how you know, that you know, that you know, that this story, this Jesus story, is real, and not some made up fiction.
Peace!
We’ve known our own dark night, haven’t we, this past year and change? We know first-hand the oppressive power of a force we do not fully understand, we cannot control, cannot see, and we somehow fear has the power to divide us and conquer us and drive us underground, and by virtue of that, doubt the God in whom we profess our faith. “Are you still out there, God?” “Are you seeing all this?” “Where have you gone?”
I have some idea what those disciples must have thought, huddled in their upper room, dazed and confused, scared of what had been, fearful of what might come. Paralyzed and gripped by the drama that unfolded and continued (and, quite frankly, continues) to unfold. Stories of this sighting and that, a hand in the side here, a walk to Emmaus there. All the while, the world plows on, stifling and suffocating, oppressing and dominating, working to eradicate any and all traces of this thing called Jesus.
But Jesus would have none of it! Jesus would not be held down. He never left. He was always there. He is always there. He will always be there.
There is a reason, a distinct reason, why we pass “the Peace of Christ,” when we pass “the Peace of Christ” in our services. We pass Christ’s peace after we confess and are absolved of our sin, our separation from God; we repent and return, ever again to God’s loving embrace, partaking of Christ’s most holy and sacred Eucharistic feast, God’s feeding of us, reaffirming our place in the heavenly banquet cycle. Passing Christ’s peace is an essential part of that redemptive process.
And so, passing Christ’s peace is a loving act. Passing Christ’s peace is a reaffirming act. Passing Christ’s peace is a redemptive act. Passing Christ’s peace is a rejoining act. Passing Christ’s peace is a risky act. Passing Christ’s peace is a daring act. Passing Christ’s peace is a dangerous act. If taken seriously, passing Christ’s peace may even lead you to the ultimate sacrifice, someone else over you.
Risky? Daring? Dangerous? Scary? Sacrificial?
That’s not what I thought “peace” was!
Peace requires something of me. Good news, the Great Good News of the Gospel (for that is what Gospel is), is not Gospel, without response. You have to DO something WITH Gospel, respond to Gospel, for it to BE Gospel.
And sometimes, when we can’t find the Gospel, in our dark nights, the Gospel, Jesus, finds us, seeks us out, in the simplest of ways.
“Have you anything that I might eat?”
“Why yes, of course, Jesus! In the midst of my fear, have some fish!” “You fed us; the very least we can do is feed you!”
That seems a completely reasonable request. In that moment of feeding Jesus, of giving Jesus some food, we forget, if only for a moment, our fears, our insecurities, our anxieties, our own desires, and wants, and concerns, and focus our attention on the other. And in that moment, what we get in return is peace. The disciples experience peace. The “Peace of Christ” that passes all understanding, the “Peace of Christ” that we exchange week in and week out.
On that day, in that day, each day, and every day since, Jesus proves beyond a shadow of a doubt to each of his disciples, all of us, his very much resurrected humanity, by presenting himself to us. I know you have seen him. I have as well!
There are some who say that the church of Jesus Christ, the body that is represented by all of you, us, here today, is irrelevant, a relic of the past, and fading with the boomer generation into quaint history. After all, we’ve been hunkered down, isolated in our own COVID-paralysis, for the last year.
I would posit that our relevance hinges on our ability to recognize Jesus Christ, and not only the Jesus of history. For it is when we can no longer see Jesus around us, and witness Jesus around us, and witness to Jesus around us, that we become irrelevant.
Did you feed me? Did you clothe me? Did you sit with me, and shelter me? Did you come to see me over at the convention center, or down on the border? Did you stand with me when I was taunted, or teased, or bullied? Did you protest when I was racially profiled? Did you say anything when I died under someone’s unjust knee? Did you put an arm around me and comfort me when my sister, or my mother, or my brother died of COVID-19? Did you cry with my mother? Did you see me when I was huddled sleeping under the awning of the public library or the freeway overpass? Did you see me in front of you at the grocery store, or on the street corner, or at the next gas pump? Did you do more than just put up a sign in the front yard?
What is keeping you from seeing Jesus?
For the truth of the matter is, folks, Jesus is here, all around us. Jesus never left us. Jesus is just waiting, to be fed, and to give peace.
“Peace, be with you!”
Look around.
Amen.
