Acts 1:6-1Acts 2:1-21; Psalm 104:25-35, 37; I Corinthians 12:3b-13; John 20:19-23
The Rev. Candice B. Frazer
Growing up, my sister and I had plenty of fights. When we were little, they were typically over toys. As we grew older, they became about clothes, using the phone, who was right and who was wrong—just about anything. But the number one thing we fought about was space in the backseat of the car, especially on long road trips. Invariably, one of us would accidentally touch the other, which would prompt the offended party to complain, “Stop touching me.” This typically led to the other person holding a finger inches from the complainer’s face and chanting, “I’m not touching you,” over and over again until my father would threaten to pull the car over and “wear us out,” or declare that there would be “no more touching of another human being ever again in our whole lives.”
Whenever my sister and I fought, my mother immediately assumed the role of UN peacekeeper. She would make us sit down and talk through whatever the disagreement was about and then force us to apologize to one another and give each other a hug. As a child—and later as a teenager—this was always a traumatizing experience for me. I no more wanted to hug my sister than I wanted to hug a porcupine.
My mother would often make us repeat the apology or hug until we actually meant it. Rarely did we mean it, but we became excellent actors, pretending sincerity while muttering nasty things into each other’s ears that my mother could not hear.
My mother’s strategy did achieve a certain amount of peace in the household—if only temporarily. But it was a shallow peace, not a real peace or even a meaningful one, in part because we were still retaining the sins of the other.
My sister and I fought like cats and dogs growing up. Peace never lasted long in our household. It was not until we were both in college that we began to discover a peace between us that slowly developed into friendship. Maybe my mother was onto something after all.
In the Gospel of John, Jesus appears to the disciples in Jerusalem. They are in a locked room—afraid and confused—having heard reports that Jesus has been seen alive even though they last saw him crucified on the cross. This the first time they have seen him since his death and the report of his resurrection. He comes and stands among them and his first words to them are simply words of peace: “Peace be with you.”
These words are meant to calm the disciples, and to further prove it is really him, Jesus shows them his hands and his side—the places where nails and a spear had been violently driven into him. The marks he bears on his body reveal the stark contrast between the way of the world and the peace of Christ.
When the world is afraid, feels out of control, or descends into turmoil, it responds through violence, power, and might. We see this clearly today. Wars are fought, bombs are dropped, control is tightened. This is humanity’s greatest delusion: the belief that force can achieve peace.
We bear some responsibility for that delusion. We cry out for peace and security to leaders who feel pressure to deliver them. Those leaders respond in the only ways the world often recognizes—with power, coercion, and domination. We place our faith in might and control and then shake the dust from our feet when we dislike the outcome. We are not merely witnesses to the brokenness of the world; we are culpable for the crucifixion of this world because we, ourselves, do not fully know the peace of Christ.
Every beauty pageant contestant knows the correct answer to the interview question about what they want most: “world peace.” Yet even as we acknowledge that none of us can achieve world peace alone, we often forget the importance of inner peace as the beginning of peace in the world.
Inner peace is emotional and spiritual wholeness. Episcopalians often describe it as “the peace beyond all understanding.” That kind of peace is not merely the absence of conflict. It is the presence of understanding, compassion, balance, and mercy where fear, violence, and turmoil reign. The peace beyond all understanding is not simply a feeling of tranquility or the absence of hardship. It is the deep assurance of God’s love even when life is painful, uncertain, or frightening. It does not make sense either to the person experiencing it or to those witnessing it. It does not erase grief or suffering, and yet somehow, even in the midst of those things, a person can remain grounded, hopeful, and held.
Years ago, when I was a hospice social worker, I worked with a young woman in her early thirties who was dying of cancer. She had been exposed to chemical agents while serving as a soldier during the first Iraq War. She was married, had two little girls, and she was Muslim. Several times a week I would visit with her while the children were at school. She would ask me to read from the Koran—which she took great comfort and solace from. We would talk about what we had read, our faith traditions, life, and her hopes for her children.
She died within a few months. In all that time, she never blamed anyone for her illness—not God, not the military, not the war, not Iraq. Her deepest grief was simply that she would not be there to raise her daughters and watch them become young women. Even in her sadness, she carried herself with a calm presence and deep faith. She would tell me that she knew God was with her and her family, and she trusted in that even though she did not fully understand it. Though she regretted her circumstances, she never lost her faith in God. She knew that peace beyond all understanding.
A second time Jesus says to the disciples, “Peace be with you.” And then “he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’” Jesus ties peace to forgiveness through the gift of the Holy Spirit. In this moment, Jesus clarifies what divine peace actually means. It is fullness. It is restoration. It is right relationship with God, with ourselves, and with one another. No longer must we live trapped by judgment, resentment, or the endless need to be right. To carry the peace of Christ is to live beyond certainty and beyond the illusion of control. It is to trust in the reconciling work of God.
And peace is more than forgiveness; it is also evangelism.
Evangelism is not simply about bringing people to church or persuading them to believe certain things. It is about sharing the Good News that there is more to this world than what we can see or know—and that what lies beyond us is ultimately good. But we cannot share that Good News if we remain imprisoned by bitterness, shame, fear, or hatred. To evangelize is to share peace, though it is never an easy peace.
On the day of Pentecost, when the disciples received the Holy Spirit, the book of Acts of the Apostles describes it as sounding like the rush of a violent wind with divided tongues of fire resting upon them. The Spirit of peace sounds like a hurricane and looks like fire. It is not sentimental or simplistic. The peace of God does not ask, “Why can’t everyone just get along?” It does not deny division or suffering. Instead, it creates unity in the midst of division. It offers trust rather than certainty. Presence rather than escape. Reconciliation rather than victory. Peace is wholeness in the midst of the world’s brokenness.
In some ways, that is exactly what my mother was trying to engineer all those years ago when she forced my sister and me to hug one another like we meant it. It was never really about determining which one of us was right and which one was wrong. It was always about forgiveness and hope—the only true path toward reconciliation.
We can continue denouncing the other party, a different loyalty, or a divergent belief. Or we can work toward that peace beyond all understanding that trusts in God and keeps us present to one another without demanding that others become reflections of ourselves. Maybe we stop trying so hard to win. Maybe we stop shouting long enough to listen. Maybe we stop weaponizing our words and, instead, start giving hugs.
Amen