The Rev. Joseph Farnes
All Saints, Boise
Proper 10B
When the news of yesterday afternoon’s violence hit social media, many of my clergy friends began posting prayers for peace. The prayer attributed to St Francis popped up – “Lord, make us instruments of your peace.” A laudable prayer, one that speaks to our deeper desire for peace, compassion, and hope.
Yet what came to mind for me was a line from the prophet Jeremiah: “They have treated the wound of my people carelessly, saying, ‘Peace, peace’, when there is no peace.” (Jeremiah 6:14, 8:11). That line echoed in my head – we pray for peace, we long for a return to some semblance of quiet and civility. But … was that quiet and civility true peace?
We Americans have historically looked around the world at governments and societies ripped apart by violence. We’ve seen violent, terrible rhetoric put into action, and we breathe a sigh of relief that we don’t imagine it could ever happen here. But couldn’t it? And didn’t it?
American history is littered with examples of violence. Sometimes it was at the hands of the government, sometimes it was at the hands of armed groups who could operate as the government ignored it, and sometimes it was more invisible: maybe not physical violence, but forced economic deprivation, misogyny, and racial segregation sure are violent in the harm they cause. A good number of us have blessedly only experienced small bits and pieces of outright or subtle violence. That little bit is what has passed for peace for us. By comparison, we felt at peace because the misery and violence of the world felt so far away from us; it was not on our doorsteps day after day. And so we are shocked – the fear so much of the world feels day after day now seems to roar nearby.
This calls us to a deeper empathy and understanding with those who endure this, and who endure much worse. What we thought was peace for us, was not peace for everyone; what we thought was peace was not true peace because it was not a full, true peace for every person and for all people; and our peace cannot be separated from the peace of others.
What we feel most clearly, I think, is the fear that the political violence that has plagued most of human history could boil over right here and right now. Are we afraid that we could we find ourselves like St John the Baptist in today’s Gospel reading, at the whims of the powerful, the wealthy, the well-armed? Could such violence turn its eye toward us?
Every year, on Ash Wednesday we connect with our mortality, that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. It’s not comfortable. It’s not easy to talk about. We avoid it. We’re afraid of it. But death is always there. We remember that Christ was crucified – a supreme example of violence. And we also recall that Christ has conquered death in his resurrection.
We as Christians proclaim that we follow Christ, crucified and risen. We proclaim in our creed, we proclaim in our baptism, we proclaim in our Eucharistic Prayer that Christ is risen; we proclaim that Christ is present to us in the breaking of the bread, that Christ is present among us as we worship God.
It’s true. We believe it. I believe it. No matter what happens, Christ is victorious, and thus fear is not the last word in my life. I can be afraid and my heart can be pounding and my mind can be racing with anxious thoughts, but, even in the midst of all that, I can still hold close to Christ, the deepest desire in our hearts. I can be left adrift on a turbulent, violent sea with no glimpse of peace or safety to be found and fear is all around, and yet there, too, is Christ.
Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord, as St Paul says in his letter to the Romans. And this man was chased, imprisoned, and finally beheaded. He knows what he’s talking about. I believe Paul with all my heart.
Christ says he abides with us always in the Gospel of John. I believe Christ himself, for he is Lord and Savior. He gives a peace that the world cannot give – a real peace, a durable peace, a peace that makes room for our fears and calls us to a greater hope in God.
And other saints through the centuries attest to this. St Benedict in his Rule calls us to “prefer nothing to the love of Christ.” The entirety of our life, drawn into Christ. No matter what – waking or sleeping, working or sitting in quiet, in the midst of a little bit of peace or in the middle of chaos – our hearts and Christ’s heart knit together in one with each act of love toward God and neighbor.
And St Julian of Norwich in her Revelations – yes, yes, some of you may be aware of the phrase, “All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well” – there is a Great Deed that God shall do that shall bring the deepest misery and pain of the world into the fullness of God’s rejoicing. But you know what I especially treasure in her? She says that God is close to us even at the “time of our necessity.” What does she mean? God abides in our souls even when we’re going to the bathroom. The medieval St Julian does not share our modern sensibilities about what’s polite for God. The peace and presence of God – even on the potty! Such is the wonderful graciousness of God, and the unshakeable dedication of Christ, and the strength and courage of the Holy Spirit!
The presence of Christ is with us: this is a true gift of peace. A peace that pushes us past a comfortable quiet for ourselves, toward justice and peace for all people, a true peace for all the world. A peace that holds us and anchors us in the midst of any storm – peace in our fear; peace in the midst of violence; peace in the midst of chaos and uncertainty. Even if the storm does its very worst, the peace of Christ holds us still, now and to eternity. This is the peace of God which passes all understanding – peace that keeps us in the knowledge and love of God and of his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.