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| A wordle created from my homily this weekend at our university's liturgical service. Below is the homily |
When you watch a person die, it
changes you. To see the body cease to breathe, to watch it become completely
silent, to comprehend that this person is gone and irretrievable … it leaves you
speechless. One can only imagine, then, the horror of watching a death come
violently, accompanied by torn and bloody flesh, pleading eyes, anguished cries
of pain, an aura of evil blanketing the scene.
Flesh was not made to be bruised
and torn, human heart not meant to be broken, eyes not intended to grow dull along
with the a final gurgling breath. Seeing a human being suffer anguish begets
anguish. Trauma gives birth to trauma in the souls of those who witness
violence. Fear, --choking, suffocating, scalding fear— fear becomes the unrelenting
taskmaster of those who witness a violent death, and confusion serves as Fear’s
sidekick.
And so it is for the eleven remaining
disciples of our Lord. They are – as we look in on them now – completely
traumatized, confused, lost. In the space of a few hours last Thursday, their
peaceful evening among the olive trees became a nightmare heralded by an angry
mob. Their Lord was tried and condemned, beaten and lacerated, mocked and
humiliated in full view of many eyes. He was made to drag His own cross up the
hill to His execution spot. He was nailed up amid the jeers, jeers of people
that He and His disciples knew. Jeers of people whose condemnation of their
beloved Lord had crushed the disciples’ deepest, most heartfelt hopes, ripped
their shining expectations to shreds.
At the end of it all there was that
and one last ragged breath, that horrible final cry, and then … the silence, …
the utter finality of death. He was gone.
Now it is a couple of days later. Who
can blame these heartbroken disciples for holing up in a room behind a locked
door? Who can blame them for believing that they might be living on borrowed
time, that the Gethsemane mob would show up for its next victims? Who can blame
them for sitting silently, hour after hour, tears sometimes unstoppable, perhaps
sobbing as memories washed over them? Who can blame them for picking through
the threads of their shared history, talking and questioning, trying to discern
some pattern, some meaning, some shred of an answer. “Why?” And “What?” And
“How?” And, because a couple of them had reported that his body had gone
missing, that someone had said He had risen, there was the question of, “Where?”
There is disappointment. There is
anguish. There is fear. There is confusion. There is turmoil in the pit of the
stomach. And there is loss. Such deep, deep, wrenching loss.
And then… “Peace… be with you.”
They look up in disbelief. The door
never opened. But there He is, marked by the unmistakable signs of His recent
torture. And then… Pandemonium erupts. First astonishment and disbelief. Then joy-filled,
yelling, laughing, jumping, shouting … a pandemonium of exultation. John later
describes it as if Jesus responds rather demurely. John reports simply that
Jesus says it again, but He just HAS to
have had the biggest, happiest grin on His face when He says it:
“Peace … be with you.”
Peace.
This is no flat, two-dimensional
word. Peace. Peace is shalom: as rounded as the word sounds. Hearty. Whole. Peace
be with you. The root verb in Hebrew
from which Shalom comes, means completeness. Perfection. Fullness.
Peace … be with you.
It signifies tranquility, safety,
harmony, prosperity, health. There is no room in Shalom for agitation or
anxiety or discord. There is no loneliness in Shalom. It is Peace right down in
the core of your being.
When I picture that kind of Peace,
it’s like standing in a place overlooking water, feeling the evening breeze on
my face and watching the setting sun paint sweet light on the mountains. When I picture that kind of Shalom, it’s like
sharing a wholesome meal with people I love, laughter drifting through the
conversation, eyes twinkling, the storytelling drawing us toward one another, weaving
our bonds of belonging stronger. When I
picture that kind of Peace, it’s like finishing a long, long walk and finally
sitting down as the tide of endorphins rises, taking a well-earned rest and
relishing the knowledge that I have finished what I set out to do. Well-being.
Shalom. Peace.
Peace … be with you.
After He says it the first time, Jesus
shows them the marks of violence on His body. And they rejoice. It is
Jesus! He is alive! Even though they don’t even begin to understand the why and
how, there is an overwhelming flood of relief. If He is there with them,
everything will somehow be okay.
And so, John writes later in his
gospel, Jesus says it a second time, after the rejoicing: “Peace be with you.” This is something I do not want you to forget,
my children. You can surrender your fear. Give up to me your turmoil and
confusion. In the middle of the confusion, in the middle of events which have
no answers, in the middle of all you have yet to do and to suffer for My sake, when
you have no idea what is next or how to survive or how you can get through this
in one piece, do not forget… Peace … be with you. As I send you
out in the same way my Father sent me, Peace… be with you. As I breathe on
you and the Holy Spirit falls on you, Peace… be with you. As you forgive
others, Peace… be with you. As you call people to account for their
sins, I do not want you to forget: Peace… be with you.
Eight days later they are together
again, and Thomas is with them. He’s the critical thinker, the one who operates
on evidence and data, the one who needs tangible comfort. He, too, is
traumatized, horrified, besieged by his vivid memories of the crucifixion. Thomas
is struggling. He is suffering.
And then Jesus once again shows up
unannounced, greeting them with those words, “Peace be with you.” Peace be
with you when you wrestle with a lack of evidence for things I call you to
believe in. Peace be with you when
you can’t rid yourself of those images of senseless violence. Peace be with you when people around
you seem to accept faith so easily, and you cannot. I long for you to have
Peace, Shalom, completion, perfection, fullness. Peace be with you.
As we continue to follow the
writers of the new testament, we see that they often bestow peace upon the
recipients of their letters. Paul writes it. Peter writes it. John writes it. Jude
writes it. “Peace to you.” “Grace and peace to you.” “Grace, mercy and peace to
you.” “Mercy and peace and love to you.”
Always … peace.
Take a few moments each day for
this: Stop, take a deep breath … and soak in the good news that Jesus is with
you. Know His peace. He is with you despite closed doors. He is with you
despite traumatic memories, perplexing problems, threatening circumstances, deep
loneliness or great losses. Know that He has blessed you with Shalom:
completion, perfection, fullness. Let it settle down into you. Know that there
is relief, and that although it may not make sense right now, with His blessing,
His sending and His Spirit breathed on you, you can be at peace.
Peace … be with you.
