Sacrifices

Amos 5:16-24

John 17:20-26

In ancient Israel the center of religion was the temple in Jerusalem. Before that it was the tabernacle that they constructed during their time in the wilderness. There was, for hundreds of years, a single place the people went to worship the Lord.

And the central act of religion was sacrifice. Not prayer, not reading from scripture or singing hymns, but sacrifice. The book of Leviticus provides in detail all the written laws about how and why to make sacrifices to God. They were called offerings, and there were several kinds. There was a guilt offering, a sin offering, an offering of well-being, a thank offering. The offering might be the grain from your fields, but more often an animal was required – a bull, a sheep, a goat. And if you could not afford one of these larger animals, you could bring two turtle doves. They would be given to the Priest, who would sacrifice them on the altar. It seems barbaric to us. But it could have been worse. Much worse.

Because in some ancient cultures the appropriate sacrifice might be a human child. Israel had neighbors who did this. In fact, there is archeological evidence from ancient civilizations all around the world that this kind of sacrifice was practiced. Probably in very desperate circumstance. It stemmed from the belief that their gods – gods of rain, fertility, war, whatever it might be – required this kind of appeasement. Ancient Greek literature includes narratives of warriors making sacrifices of children, which indicates that, while it might have been uncommon, it was known to have been done.

It is hard to fathom in our day and age, isn’t it? Even among the scholars who study the ancient world, there are some who refuse to believe that the people they have devoted themselves to studying could really have done such a thing. But the evidence is overwhelming.

If we try to understand sacrifice, we know that it involves giving up something good – even something precious – for the sake of something even better, or necessary. So, for example, people who were starving through years of drought, when all their fervent prayers remained unanswered, might come to believe that their gods are waiting for them to offer something really valuable. So they made the sacrifice, and then hoped that it would be enough.

Sometimes it works the other way around – you try to draw a bargain with your gods. You make a promise to the gods that you will do a certain thing if only they will give you what you need. 

There is an example of this sort of sacrifice in the book of Judges. A man named Jephthah, a warrior, needed some extra courage for the battle he was about to begin, so he made a bargain with the Lord: bring me victory and I will sacrifice to you the first person or thing that comes out of my door. He triumphed in battle, then he returned home. And as he approached his house, the door opened, and a person came out singing. It was his daughter. A terrible thing, but Jephthah felt obliged to hold up his end of the bargain. 

Jephthah is not celebrated in the scriptures, though. He is held up as a tragic character, who made a terrible mistake. He was borrowing a custom from other cultures, which we sometimes do. There is a veritable smorgasbord of idols, values, and practices at our fingertips, things that do not bear the reflection of our almighty God, yet are readily available and we can sample at will. Cutting a bargain with God is one. Always a mistake. Our God is not about transactions.

We read these tales – the story of Jephthah, or stories about human sacrifice in other cultures – and we are appalled by them. We do not want to believe they really happened. They are anathema to us, counter to all we hold dear. I think.

I thought. 

But I have come to the point at which I believe that we the people of the United States are practicing child sacrifice.

For we watch this happen again and again and again. In Colorado, in Connecticut, in Kentucky, in Pennsylvania, in Virginia, in Florida, in Texas, in so many places we see this horror replay. Each time we are flooded with anguish. But then we dry our tears and carry on and do virtually nothing different.

We take steps like “hardening” schools, hiring school security officers, training local police. We run schoolkids through active shooter drills. Nothing that we do seems to be enough, though.

We talk a lot about reforming gun laws – banning assault weapons, strengthening background checks. We talk about the mental health problems that seem to afflict the ones who carry out these mass shootings. But the talk doesn’t lead to anything more. In the halls of government, it doesn’t even lead to very much talk anymore.

If we really want to protect our dear children, we would do whatever it takes, wouldn’t we? If we really cherish our children, why wouldn’t we make a massive, concerted all-out effort to keep them from becoming human sacrifices? 

I have heard some say that these terrible events are simply the price of freedom, but I cannot accept that. I don’t doubt that freedom has a certain price, but I steadfastly reject the notion that our children should be paying it. 

Nor do I believe that God wants that either.

We have a story in the book of Genesis in which father Abraham is summoned by God to take his son Isaac up the mountain and make him a sacrifice. Abraham is obedient to God and so he takes an armful of firewood and his son Isaac up the mountain. At the very last minute an angel of the Lord intervenes, stopping Abraham’s hand. A ram appears to take the place of Isaac. 

This is possibly the hardest story in the whole of the Bible. The point of the story is that in the end God did not require this of Abraham, although it is a terrifying way to get to this assurance. Here is what I believe this is about:

All the peoples around Israel practiced this form of sacrifice to their gods. It was commonly accepted that such things were sometimes necessary – the price of freedom, perhaps they said. And the Hebrew people wanted to know, needed to know: was their God any different? Did they dare believe that their God would be merciful and compassionate in a way the other gods were not? and the answer is yes. The answer is yes, and the way to learn this is through a lesson they could never forget. In this story, the God of Israel says yes, I am different. I am not like these other, lesser gods of the world. So I command you: turn away from all those other gods, those lesser, menacing, evil gods; follow me and you will live.

Turn away from whatever idols you might be worshiping. Turn away from your cynicism and your apathy. Turn away from your fears that prevent you from standing up against injustice, against cruelty, against oppression. 

Our God is a God of love, of unity, of justice, of peace. 

It is not too much for our God to demand that we commit ourselves to these same things. It is not too much for our God to demand that we use our words, our minds, our bodies, whatever power and influence we have to bring more love, more justice, more peace to the world, and especially to our children. Remember, they are all our children. There is no such thing as “other people’s children.” It is not too much that we should be obedient to God’s command. If we call ourselves people of faith. 

Jesus prayed that we, the church, might be one, united in him, so that the love of God would be known in the world, through us. The world will know God only by what we do and what we say; we had better be true. Or else, in the words of the prophet Amos, the day of the Lord will, indeed, be a terrible darkness.

Photo: The sacrifice of Isaac. Talmoryair, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Do You Want to Be Made Well?

 Revelation 21:10; 21:22-22:5                 

John 5:1-9 

One of my favorite places in the world is a pool in Austin Texas called Barton Springs. Barton Springs is a natural limestone pool that is fed by an underground stream – the Edwards Aquifer. The water is constantly bubbling up into the pool from what they call the mother spring, which is located under the diving board. The constant flow keeps the water a cool 68 degrees year-round. No matter how hot it gets, and it gets really hot, a dip in Barton Springs is refreshing.

There are people who can be found at Barton Springs every day. They go to swim laps in the 900-foot-long pool, or just to sit on a rock and chat with friends. There are people for whom this is church. There is something about these waters that seem to bring healing to the body, mind and soul.

There is a statue just outside the pool area of three men in swimsuits, sitting together on a rock deep in conversation. These are three well-known writers from Austin – Frank Dobie, Roy Bedichek, and Walter Prescott Webb. In their lives, they were seen at Barton Springs every day for years. They came for the waters and the friendship – and the intellectual stimulation. They called their perch the Philosopher’s Rock. The statue is there for the sake of remembering these three men, but also as a tribute to the wonder of this place, which nourishes the body, the mind, and the soul. Sort of like the pool of Beth-zatha.

I don’t know any more than you do about the healing waters of Beth-zatha. We are told that periodically the waters are stirred up and this is the moment when it would be advantageous to get in. The story was told that every now and then an angel of the Lord would go down to the pool and stir the water, and this is what gave the water its healing properties. Many people apparently came to this pool with hope of being healed.

It’s possible Jesus was just passing through the Sheep Gate when he noticed this particular man in need of healing.

Every healing situation that Jesus finds himself in is unique. Every person is in need of healing in their own special way, and each one Jesus responds to in a different way. There is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to healing. But, still, it does come as a bit of a surprise when Jesus’ first words to this poor man with a debilitating illness are, “Do you want to be made well?”

Why wouldn’t he want to be made well? Here he is at this pool, where the sick and hopeful gather around, waiting for the angel to stir up the waters so they might go in and find relief from whatever has afflicted them. The text says he has been there a long time, and I hear that as saying he has been coming to this pool daily for a long time. He has been ill for 38 years. Perhaps he has been trying that long to be made well.

I don’t know how Jesus knew that this man had been there a long time. But it would not surprise me if this man were very well known at the pool. If he had been there every day for 38 years, he is as much an institution as the pool itself is. Even when he is gone, they would probably still talk about him, possibly even erect a statue of him.

You would not think there would be any question about his desire to be made well; he is there all the time.

Yet, it may be true that the man had some ambivalence about being healed. After all, any kind of change is a hard thing, even a good change, and there are all kinds of roadblocks people put up when it comes to being made well. We want to lose weight, but we don’t want to change our diet. We want to be stronger, but we don’t want to put in the time at the gym. Being made well is often complicated.

This man has found it to be so. He has no one to help him. And with his disability, it is pretty hard to manage it by himself. By the time he gets to the water someone has pushed in front of him. Or by the time he gets there the waters have settled and they are no longer beneficial. So he would have to wait for the next time, whenever that might be.

He is probably frustrated, or maybe he is beyond frustrated. Maybe he is so discouraged by his failure that he has a hard time even trying anymore. And so Jesus brings him back to the fundamental question: Do you want to be made well?

While he doesn’t actually say yes, his explanation does point to his desire. He tries to get to the healing waters, but without help he just can’t make it.

I will admit to you that, in times past, I have pointed an accusing finger at this man. I have suggested that maybe he doesn’t really want to be made well, for he has certainly had enough time to do it. I have been suspicious of his true motivations, hearing in Jesus’ question a sort of accusation. It is easy to see it this way because we know that there are many factors that complicate being made well. There are many ways that we are our worst enemies when it comes to being truly well. We know that, if we are honest with ourselves, there are so many things we could do that would make our lives better, make us more whole in body, mind, and spirit.

But this time I read the passage from the perspective of someone who has a real disability. Someone who cannot see. Someone who cannot walk. Someone who actually does need another person to help.

And this man has no one to help. He is at the margins, unable to make his way to the center of things, whether it is the pool itself or the society in which he lives.

Jesus listens to his explanation for why he has not yet been made well, then he says, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” Which is just what the man does. So, yes, we see he does want to be made well.

But wait, we think, doesn’t this just show he could have done it anytime if he really wanted to? After all, Jesus didn’t do anything other than tell him to get up. He didn’t lay hands on him, he didn’t pray over him, he didn’t make a paste out of spit and mud and rub it on the man’s legs.

But, as I said, every instance of healing is unique. And there are other healing stories in the gospel where Jesus doesn’t do anything special. Sometimes he touches them, sometimes he only speaks to them, and still they are made well.

I don’t doubt that this man, like most of us, had a talent for getting in his own way of healing. But that doesn’t erase the fact that he needed someone to help him. He both needed to affirm his desire to be made well and he needed someone to help him be made well. And on this day, Jesus gave him both.

It was not the end of his troubles, though, because – as the text says – this happened on the Sabbath day. As he is walking away with his mat someone stops him and tells him he is wrong.

Perhaps people would prefer that he remain unwell, helpless by the side of the pool. Rather than celebrate a healing they are there to criticize the way and the day in which it was done. This is another way of keeping this man at the margins. Of keeping him less than whole.

The same people, we might assume, who did not offer any help to this man are now concerned that he might have been healed inappropriately. Yet, we know that, with Jesus, healing is always appropriate.

This act of healing is just one of the many ways Jesus shows us a hint of God’s kingdom, where healing is always appropriate. Where we learn that we are meant to be well, to be whole in body, spirit, and mind.

It’s countercultural – in this world that seems to celebrate its brokenness. A world that glorifies violence, relishes a good fight, enjoys tearing others down more than building them up. Like the Pharisees that stopped the man carrying his mat, we can find fault with anyone and anything.

In a world where people get up every day and look for ways to tear down and sow division, it’s not a wonder we have trouble finding healing. If only we could open our eyes; if we could find our way through the brokenness, pick up the slivers of God’s goodness and use that to help one another – and ourselves. In reality, it is every one of us that needs to affirm our own desire to be made well, and then act accordingly.

We know it is God’s desire. We see it in these last chapters of John’s Revelation, where there is a new heaven and a new earth, with a new Jerusalem coming down out of heaven. And in it there is the river of the waters of life, for the healing of all the nations. The nations that have been so busy tearing down and burning up – God will bring healing.

We know that someday it will come to be. This is God’s desire for all things to be made well. Even in this broken world we still have occasions to see the slivers of God’s goodness – the healing waters of Barton Springs being one of them.

Every day we have the chance to do these things: to affirm our own desire to be made well, to seek out the good things of God that will lead to being made well, and to commit ourselves to one another for the sake of the wellness of the world.

This is God’s desire for us. May it be our desire as well.

Photo: Barton Springs in May 2016

Inestimable Grace

Revelation 21:1-6       

Acts 11:1-18      

I don’t think I have ever read a book that, on page 263 had a red arrow in the margin and the words: here is the climax of the story, right here! Or asterisks that say: take note: this is important! Writers don’t tell you that stuff – not in that way, at least. But there are other ways of discerning what is really important.

One way we understand that something significant is happening is when time slows down. Better than using flashing arrows and lights, the act of slowing the narrative down can communicate in an organic way that this is very important business going on right now.

The story about Peter and the Gentiles is given a solid chapter and a half – 66 verses. This is an episode we should sit up and pay attention to, because something big is happening here.

So let me go back and fill it in.

The story begins at chapter 10 in Caesarea with Cornelius, a centurion of the Roman army. Not a Jew, that is.

Cornelius is, however, a devout man who feared God – this means that he believed in the God of Israel. Even though he would never become a Jew, he followed the Jewish practices of prayer and almsgiving, and he led his household accordingly. And then one day, about three in the afternoon, he had a vision of an angel, who said to him, “Cornelius, God has heard your prayers. Now send some men to Joppa to seek out a man called Peter.” Being a centurion meant that Cornelius had a corps of 100 men under his authority, so he summoned a few of his men and sent them to Joppa. That is how strong his vision was.

Scene Two: we are in Joppa on the following day, about noon. Peter goes up to the roof of the house where he is a guest, to find a quiet place for prayer. He neglected to eat before climbing up on the roof, so in the middle of his prayers he starts thinking about food. You know how that goes, right?

He called down for someone to bring him a meal, and while he was waiting he fell into a trance. Here’s where it gets really weird. He saw the heavens open and large sheet being lowered to the ground by its four corners.

You really must take a minute and think about what this might have looked like. Were there four little birds holding the corners in their beaks, like in an animated Disney movie? Or was it more like Aladdin’s magic carpet, just sort of hovering in the air, waving?

I always picture it to be one of those red and white checked picnic cloths. Because on the cloth are all kinds of animals – mammals, reptiles, birds. Pig, rabbit, shellfish, ostrich, rattlesnake. All the kinds of things that are not kosher, that Peter as a Jew is not permitted to eat.

Weird enough. But then Peter hears a voice, which he knows to be the voice of God, saying, “Get up, Peter. Kill and eat.” But Peter says, “O my goodness, no – I would never do that.” Why? Because it is against the Jewish purity laws. Never in his life has he eaten pork, crab, or anything else on that picnic cloth. It is downright offensive to him. But the voice says to him, “what God has made clean you must not call profane.”

This exchange between Peter and the voice is repeated three times in exactly the same way, while the picnic cloth filed with animals hovers in the air. Then after the third time, the cloth is swept back up into heaven and Peter is left puzzling over this weird vision.

While this is happening up on the roof, Cornelius’ men are walking through the streets of Joppa, heading for this very house. Still thinking about his vision and having no idea what to make of it, Peter’s thoughts are interrupted by the Spirit – again, a kind of vision, we might say – who tells him that there are three men at the door looking for him, and that he should go see them because the Lord wanted Peter to go with them.

Still, Peter didn’t know what was going on, who they were, or where he would be sent. But he followed the Spirit’s leading. So the men at the door told Peter about Cornelius and his vision, in which an angel told him to go get Peter, and here they were. The men were invited in, given food and lodging, and the next day Peter and a few believers from Joppa followed these men back to Caesarea.

Now, just as Peter knew he was not supposed to eat of the unclean animals, he also knew that he was not to have table fellowship with gentiles. These were all new and uncomfortable things, but he did them anyway. Because he was beginning to put the pieces together, seeing that somehow this strange vision was connected to this journey.

When they arrived at the home of Cornelius, he told Peter exactly what had happened to him a few days earlier, the vision of the angel, the order to get Peter and hear what Peter would say to him.

Up until this moment I am sure that Peter had no earthly idea what he would say to Cornelius. Still, he opened his mouth and began to speak, and he said, “I truly understand now that God shows no partiality.” And he spoke about how this was the message God had sent through Jesus Christ, and that the good news had continued to spread throughout the lands, crossing all kinds of borders and boundary lines, and had evidently brought him right here now.

While Peter was in the middle of his speech, the Holy Spirit came down on everyone gathered there. How did they know it was the Spirit? By the ways the people responded to it – they began speaking in tongues and praising God. And it seemed authentic.

But the Jews in the crowd could not believe what was going on. Because this was not the way these things were supposed to happen.

Up until this time, they all understood that the good news of Jesus Christ was for the people of Israel. That one was a Jew first and then could become a follower of Christ. That one was circumcised first, and then could be baptized. That the Holy Spirit might skitter around the room all she liked but skip over the Gentiles and land only on the Jews.

Now Peter says, “Why should I not baptize these Gentiles, for they have received the Spirit of God, as we have all just witnessed.” And that is what he did.

And that is why this is such a big deal.

This was newsworthy and it spread quickly. Pretty soon Peter was in Jerusalem being interrogated by his colleagues. They demanded to know why he did it. So Peter launched into the whole story again. And, once again, the reader has the benefit of hearing it in all of its detail. He describes his vision – what he saw, what he heard – and then his visit from Cornelius’ men and the trip to Caesarea and all that happened there. Finally, Peter said, “Who am I to hinder God?” and at that his audience was silent.

And then they praised God as they celebrated God’s inestimable grace.

So, what does any of this have to do with us?

We don’t always embrace what is different, and we are often skeptical of the new thing. We are reluctant to let go of old ideas and traditions. But if we are open to the guidance of the Spirit, if we are able to shed our egos and put aside the notion that we have a lock on orthodoxy, if we truly believe that God is still at work in the world then we too might be able to discern God’s new thing.

The story isn’t finished, you know. When we profess our faith we do it in the present tense, knowing that God is working, God is forgiving, God is healing, God is leading us every day.

John of Patmos, toward the end of the first century had a vision – a revelation, which he wrote down. He described a series of visions that spoke of the great suffering that exists in this world. But God is not absent from it. And toward the end he wrote this:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them.

God has done a new thing many times and will surely do a new thing many more times. And every new revelation expands God’s love and grace as we know it. It is an extraordinary thing. We don’t always understand it well, but God is always willing to show us. God’s way is a way of inestimable grace. And we are invited to come along. 

Photo: Megapixl

Life Breaks In

 Acts 9:36-43      

Her name was Tabitha. Or maybe it was Dorcas, depending on the language we are speaking, but in both Aramaic and in Greek her name meant gazelle.

A beautiful name, gazelle, an animal that is known to be swift and small, graceful in its movements. Her name may have been chosen for these reasons. Perhaps her parents hoped for her to be lovely and gentle, and bring more beauty to the world. We know that in her heart and soul she was truly lovely; we know that through her care for others she brought beauty to the world; we know that she was deeply loved by many.

Tabitha was quick to serve anyone around her who was in need. She took especially good care of the widows in her community. It might be easy for us to forget, but in that time a widow was an especially vulnerable person. Without any rights of her own, it was the custom for a woman to be shifted from the care of her father to her husband. If her husband died before her, she became the responsibility of her son. But if she had no grown sons to care for her, then she was a widow and in a bad way – utterly alone and defenseless in the world.

This is the reason why the law of Israel spoke clearly about the care of widows, as well as orphans and aliens – or immigrants, as we would say now. These were people who needed someone to care for them. And Tabitha was a woman who committed herself to caring for them.

The women of Joppa loved her. With Tabitha, they didn’t feel like they were a burden, as some others might have made them feel. With Tabitha, they knew themselves to be loved, the most precious thing we can imagine. Tabitha loved these poor women and cared for them with a fierce loyalty. We can tell that the feeling was mutual.

But then she died.

Their grief was palpable. Weeping, they washed and laid out her body. They gathered around her to begin their mourning. They carried in with them the tunics she had made for them.

It was much like the kind of funeral you and I might attend. They gathered together and told about the ways Tabitha had lived and cared for them, they showed the ways she had demonstrated her love, the love of God working in her. They gave thanks for her life at the same time they tearfully mourned her death.

They invited Peter to come. Peter, the rock of Christ’s church, should know this model of discipleship that Tabitha was, even if only after her death. The women gave their testimonies – each of them spoke of how Tabitha’s life force had touched them, even saved them. These widows knew that every day their lives were close to the edge. They knew how vulnerable they were. Tabitha not only pulled them from the edge, she afforded them dignity. They knew that because Tabitha had lived, they lived.

And Peter was deeply moved by this display of love.

He knelt beside her body and prayed. He said to her, Tabitha, get up. Then Tabitha rose.

For people who know the Bible well, this is a familiar story. When we hear it, it takes us back to a story in Mark’s gospel in which Jesus is called to the bedside of a synagogue leader’s daughter. The child was dead and everyone around her was weeping, grieving this loss of life. Jesus said to her, little girl, get up. Then she rose.

But that’s not all. This story of Jesus reminds us of a story from the Old Testament about the prophet Elijah. When he was staying with the widow of Zerephath. This poor woman had a young son; he became ill and died. In grief she called to Elijah. Elijah took the little boy in his arms and carried him up and laid him on his own bed. He stretched out his own body on top of the boy, crying out, praying out loud. And the boy’s breath returned to him. And there is yet another story about the prophet Elisha, who revived the dead son of the Shunamite woman, much like Elijah had done before him.

Story after story in the scriptures tell of God’s capacity to bring life. It goes all the way back to the beginning of Genesis when God speaks life into the world, out of nothing at all. Hard to believe, right?

We live in a world that scarcely thinks about anything beyond ourselves. We busy ourselves with the day-to-day dreariness and challenges, hopes and small pleasures. We fill our days with the mundane, and it may be that we never ever think about God until we suddenly find ourselves standing at the edge of an abyss. Not knowing where to turn, how to take another step. Only when we know that there is no way on earth we can be saved…then we may know the God who is able to break into the world with life.

I cannot explain any of these stories about life restored, but I don’t really want to explain them. We do not explain, but merely witness the divine power of God to reassert, again and again, that God is for life.

And if we, too, are for life as God is for life, then we also will support and care for the vulnerable ones.

In our nation today, to be for life, or pro-life, means only one thing: to be anti-abortion. But the truth is not so simple. To be for life means much, much more. We must care for the lives who have already been born – the children who lack adequate food and housing. The ones whom our society has made to feel less than everyone else. The women who find themselves in a situation in which there are no good options – none – and gently, lovingly give them the space to make the best decisions they can for themselves. To show care and compassion for all of these, as Tabitha did, is to be for life in the ways that God is for life.

And only when we are doing these things, when we are lifting up the downtrodden, seeing their worth as God’s beloved. Only when we are valuing and caring for, affording dignity and respect to, every life at every stage of life, only then can we truly say we are pro-life as God is pro-life.

It does not start with the unborn. It begins with the ones who are already here.

Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/close-up-of-pink-flower-248068/

Grace in Abundance

John 21:1-19

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. This is the greeting Paul liked to use in his letters he sent to churches.

In these weeks since Easter Sunday I have been thinking about the kinds of feelings the disciples of Jesus might have experienced after his resurrection. And, as I said last week, it is possible that fear was one of those feelings. They may have been afraid for a number of reasons. Among other things, they had their own personal guilt to deal with, because they had failed Jesus spectacularly. They let him die.

Not that they could have prevented it, of course. Even though they had tried a few times to stop him from going down the path. He would not be stopped. There wasn’t anything much they could do, other than die with him, and how would that help, they probably wondered.

They weren’t personally responsible for his death. But they could have still felt personally responsible, as we do tend to feel responsible for the ones we love. Perhaps you can identify with that sort of feeling. Because all of us, in various and sundry ways, have failed another. And we feel guilty. Sometimes so guilty that we are surprised to find that the loved ones we have failed still love us.

And there may have been some of that going on for the disciples of Jesus during these post-Easter days. If they were human, and if they loved Jesus, they felt some guilt. So when Jesus appears to them as they are huddled in that locked room and says to them, “Peace be with you,” I don’t doubt they were shocked on more than one level.

They were shocked in the same way any one of us would be if Jesus walked through our locked door and greeted us. It wasn’t one of the things they had been given to expect. But they were also shocked, I think, by his words to them: “Peace be with you.” We didn’t pay much attention to these particular words last Sunday, but let’s think about them now.

What does it mean when you wish someone peace, as Jesus did in these circumstances? It means I forgive you. It means I still love you.

What does it mean when you and I share the peace of Christ with one another on any given Sunday? It means we’re good; nothing stands between us. We’re whole, you and I. It means pretty much the same thing it meant to the disciples back then. But peace was not among the things they were expecting back then.

He said it twice, just to make sure they heard him right, and to assure them he hadn’t misspoken – he really meant it. And then he came back the next week to say it again. Because Thomas hadn’t been there the first time, and Thomas needed to hear it too. Peace, Thomas. Peace to you too.

We use that word all kinds of ways. Now and again, the peace sign becomes a popular fashion statement – on t-shirts, scarves, anything and everything – until it grows boring and people stop buying it. The word peace is used very lightly at times, and other times it is as serious as life and death.

But when Jesus brings greetings of peace to his beloved disciples in that upper room, his disciples who abandoned and betrayed him, he is bringing them so much more than we are inclined to hear. He brings them forgiveness; he restores them to wholeness. Peace.

And he comes to them again at the lakeshore, while they are out fishing. Their lives were in limbo – the past was over, and the future was not at all clear to them yet. So they turn to something familiar – fishing.

It didn’t work out too well for them that night; they caught nothing – a not unfamiliar situation. There had been other nights when they came up empty. And just like that one time, when they first met him, there was Jesus again, telling them, “Try the other side,” and they did. And they hit the motherlode.

They make their way to Jesus on the shore, where he has prepared a meal for them. Take this bread; drink this cup.

After the meal he turns to Peter. Simon, he calls him now – his former name. The name he had before Jesus anointed him as the foundation upon which his church would be built. Simon, he asks, do you love me?

Simon Peter and Jesus begin a little dance. Simon, do you love me? Yes, Lord, I love you. Then feed my sheep. Simon, do you love me? Yes, Lord, I love you. Then feed my sheep. Simon, do you love me? Yes, Lord, I love you. Then feed my sheep.

Three times they repeat this, varying the words slightly. And Peter’s feelings begin to resurface during this dance – his guilt, his love, his shame, his hurt, his sense of helplessness, even hopelessness. Lord, he says, you know everything.

Everything – you know what I did. And you know my shame, too. You know all of it, so you know how much I still do, and always have, loved you.

As painful as this was for Peter, it was necessary. He needed to face all of this – all the ways he failed Jesus – he needed to face it to be fully redeemed. Redemption doesn’t come cheap. It costs something.

Grace, which Jesus brought them in abundance, costs something. We know what it cost Jesus – his suffering and death, a journey through hell and back. We know this grace he brings is not cheap.

But do we know that it costs us something too? Cheap grace is false, it is not worth the little amount of time and effort it requires. The grace of Jesus will cost us something.

Our complacency, for starters. We cannot remain complacent. It is not possible to let Christ into your heart and remain unmoved by the suffering of the world. The cost of grace includes admitting our own complicity in the sin, the brokenness, of the world. We give up the ease of not caring.

When we accept Christ’s grace, we start down a path in which we surrender the privilege of hate. Christ calls us to love our friends and our enemies too. The delicious taste in our mouths when we utter words of contempt, this is a pleasure we must give up. We give these things up for the sake of grace and peace.

Grace and peace, he gives to them – through his broken body and the blood he shed – so that they may have life in abundance. Life in abundance, we will have, when we accept the cost of his grace.

May you know that as much as we bear responsibility for the brokenness and the hurting of this world, we are forgiven.

May you be blessed with the knowledge of your part in all things – the sin and the healing of the world.

May you hear the call of Christ to extend his forgiveness, to love his people, to feed his lambs.

And may grace and peace be yours in abundance.

Photo by Diana Măceşanu on Unsplash