Peace

Peace

Luke 1:67-80

December 22, 2019 • Mount Pleasant UMC

When I was a kid, my grandparents lived for a number of years near Colorado Springs. So, every summer, we knew where we were headed for vacation. But my parents did this great thing in that we never took the same route to get there. We usually had two weeks, part of which we would spend seeing so many things along the way. We visited the Grand Canyon, the Four Corners, Yellowstone and many other places. But the day would come when we would turn toward Grandma and Grandpa’s home and in the back seat I would watch the road signs. Two hundred miles to Colorado Springs. Then a hundred. Then fifty. Especially in those long-ago fabled days before GPS, the road signs helped my brother and I, in the back of that 1977 Chevette (with no air conditioning), have patience as we got ever closer to our destination.

But those road signs also reminded us we weren’t there yet. Every mile got us closer, but we still had a ways to go. Sometimes the road seemed to be longer than we had patience for—and, of course, as all parents know, that’s when the game of “Are We There Yet?” begins. As a young parent, I learned from a school bus driver that the answer to that question is always “twenty more minutes.” No matter how much further you have to go, it’s always twenty more minutes.

So here we are, the fourth Sunday in Advent, and we’re kind of at that impatient “twenty more minutes” point. It’s almost Christmas, but not quite yet. We know the destination; for most of us, we’ve been down this road before. But we’re at the point where it seems like it just might never get here—and by “it” I don’t mean the actual day of Christmas, but all that Christmas means. When we think back over these gifts of Christmas we’ve been focused on this year: Hope, Joy, Love…sometimes, in such a divided and difficult world, it seems like these promised gifts might never arrive. And if they do, will we know what to do with them, how to handle them? We know the destination, but boy, do we have a long way to go. And that seems especially true when we turn to the fourth gift of Christmas: peace.

We know that on Tuesday night, as we gather in worship here, we’re going to hear again the song of the angels: “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests” (Luke 2:14). It’s a millennia-old wish that seems no closer to coming to pass now than it did then. Jesus was born into a world that did not know peace, not really. Of course, the famous pax Romana or “the peace of Rome” had come about some thirty years before, but it was an absence of conflict that only existed because Rome beat down everyone else. Peace through superior strength—where have we heard that before? “It was a peace that was forged by the oppression of all who would rise up against imperial Rome” (deVega, Almost Christmas, pg. 35 Apple Books edition). Peace, for Rome, came through power. But those involved in the story of Jesus knew that wasn’t true peace.

The story of Zechariah actually begins way back at the beginning of Luke’s Gospel. Zechariah, you may remember, was a priest, and he was chosen, as very few were, to actually offer the incense inside the Holy of Holies. This was the innermost part of the sanctuary, the place it was believed God lived. To this day, even though there is no longer a Temple on the Temple Mount, the place where it is believed the Holy of Holies once was is marked off so that you don’t accidentally step in it because it is believed that if you enter that area without proper preparation and right ritual, you will find yourself dead. In Zechariah’s day, that meant that if the priest who was chosen to enter this place did anything wrong, God would strike him dead, or at least that’s what was believed. So for Zechariah, this has to be the best and the scariest day of his life all wrapped up together! But there’s something else going on here. Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth had always wanted to have a baby, but they’re now at the age where it’s pretty apparent that’s not going to happen. Elizabeth, it is assumed, is barren. But God always shows up just when things seem impossible, and that’s what happens in the Temple that day. Actually, the angel Gabriel shows up, in the Holy of Holies, and he tells Zechariah that he and Elizabeth are going to have a baby, and that baby will prepare the way for the Savior, the Messiah. What’s interesting is that it isn’t until the angel shows up that we’re told Zechariah is fearful. He is “gripped with fear” (1:12). He wasn’t afraid while he was performing the ritual; he had practiced all his life for that. But an angel showing up, interrupting things and telling him everything is going to change—that was fear-producing! I honestly think Zechariah isn’t all that different from you or me. As long as we can manage things on our own, we’re fine. But when God shows up and starts doing things in our lives, things we can’t control, then it’s fear time!

For Zechariah, fear leads to doubt which then leads to a punishment of sorts. Gabriel tells him he will not be able to talk until the baby is born because he doubted God. I always wonder what he must have thought about during those nine months or so. Perhaps he worried about becoming a new father at an advanced age, or whether Medicare would pay the bill in the maternity ward. Maybe he thought about the state of his village, or his health, or local crop forecasts. Nine months at least, two hundred and seventy days or so of silence. Did he also think about the desperate state of the world around him? After all, they were not free people. They were subjects to Rome, somewhat free to practice their faith but not much else. Darkness and death were all around; Rome may have been stable but it was at the point of a sword (cf. Wright, Luke for Everyone, pg. 18). Did the fear Zechariah felt in the Temple increase or decrease during those nine months?

We have something of an answer in the song he sings upon the birth of his son. First of all, there’s a bit of a kerfuffle when it comes to naming the baby; everyone assumes the son will be named after his father, but both Elizabeth and Zechariah insist the baby is to be named John, in agreement with what Gabriel told Zechariah. And as soon as the name is announced by Zechariah, his tongue is set free and he can talk again. So what is the first thing you would say about nine months of silence? Zechariah’s first words are, “Praise be to the Lord” (1:68; cf. Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 43). Then he sings about God’s goodness, God’s work in bringing salvation to his people, God’s mercy and holiness. And the song ends celebrating what is to come from this baby: “You, my child, will be called a prophet of the Most High” (1:76). The one that this baby is going to prepare the way for will, Zechariah sings, “guide our feet into the path of peace” (1:79). Something that began in fear ends in peace; peace is the antidote to fear, and it just may be our most-needed Christmas gift this year.

Though the New Testament is written in Greek, the people in the story would have spoken Aramaic, so laying behind the word translated “peace” is the Aramaic word shalom. Shalom is a much broader word than just the absence of conflict. We think it’s peaceful if no one is fighting, but that’s only one small part of what true, Biblical peace is. That’s only one small part of the antidote to fear. The root word not only refers to peace, or keeping peace, but it also refers to wholeness, completeness, being healthy or uninjured. When you look at the way the word is used all throughout the Scriptures, it’s a word that dreams of the “whole and complete restoration of creation” (deVega 37). So when we’re talking about shalom, we’re talking first of all about being whole persons ourselves, which is something we believe as Christians comes as we put our trust in Jesus. We cannot fully be who God made us to be until we allow him to complete us, to fix the broken places and to shape us into the people he dreamed for us to be. Shalom also dreams of wholeness in our relationships with others, which is why Jesus constantly called people to be repairers of relationships. He even told us once that if we come to worship and realize we have a broken relationship, we should go immediately to make it right, then come back to worship (cf. Matthew 5:23-24). Broken relationships hinder having a strong relationship with God. Paul put it this way: “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” (Romans 12:18). As relationships are restored, then communities and the world can be restored, healed. This is the dream of shalom: individuals, then communities, then the world, healed. This is the call of the one who made the world: for us to be people of peace, to be those who spread shalom. This is the angel’s promise and the hope of Zechariah: the path of peace on earth and goodwill to all.

So how do we pursue shalom? How do we become those whom Jesus calls “peacemakers” (cf. Matthew 5:9), “children of God”? I want to give you three words, not necessarily a process but pieces of working toward becoming peacemakers, and in good preacher fashion, they all begin with the letter “A.” The first word is “awareness.” Sometimes we just need to realize that there is brokenness. It’s often like the way we treat our home, that we stop seeing the broken thing just because it’s always there. We get used to it being broken. A couple of weeks ago, Cathy came downstairs and told me the toilet was running in our bathroom, and my response was, “Yeah, it’s been doing that. You just have to know how to jiggle the handle.” It had, actually, been broken for weeks, but rather than responding to it, I had just gotten used to it. Until I got my water bill. And the size of that bill indicated it had been running a lot more than I was aware of. The size of the bill gave me enough pain to go get a new flapper for a few dollars and actually fix the thing. No more leaking, no more running. Awareness was the first step. Sometimes it takes (painful) awareness. We have to become uncomfortable with the status quo. It’s not okay that the argument goes on for years, that the relationship remains broken. But until we become uncomfortably, maybe painfully, aware of it, we won’t attempt to be peacemakers.

The second word, then, is “acceptance.” And by that I don’t mean, “Oh, well, that’s just the way it is. Let’s move on.” Not at all. This is recognizing what has happened. That brokenness, that breach in a relationship—what caused it? And, I think, the more important question, especially in line with what Paul said, what was your part in the brokenness? We can’t move forward in peacemaking until we accept and acknowledge what went wrong and our part in it. I’m thinking right now of a broken friendship that may never be repaired, and how after the break, I experienced that fear we talked about a few moments ago. I didn’t even want to see that person and was constantly afraid I would run into them in a store or out in public. Slowly, though, I had to come to terms with what I had done and the words I had spoken that helped bring about the break. That’s not to downplay the other person’s part in it, but remember what Paul said? “As far as it depends on you, live at peace…” Acceptance of our own actions (and prayer for the other person) begins to move us away from fear and toward peace.

And that, then, takes us to the third word: “action.” Being peacemakers is not a matter of just hoping things will get better. Moving from fear to peace isn’t a matter of wishful thinking. Healing requires action. In such a divided world, it might be likely you’re going to find yourself at Christmas gatherings with family members or with friends who upset you or hurt you, maybe even with people you are estranged from. Maybe you will end up in the same room with family members you can’t stand. Just seeing them makes you angry, and you believe there is nothing you can do to make things better. That last part—that’s the devil talking to you. Jesus calls us to be peacemakers. Jesus came to be the prince of peace. The angels proclaimed peace on earth and Zechariah promised that the Messiah would lead us toward shalom. So any path that does not head toward peace and wholeness is not the path Jesus wants us on. John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist movement, was quite clear on what path a peacemaker should take. He wrote this: “In the fullest extent of the word, as opportunities arise, peacemakers ‘work for the good of all.’ Those who are filled with the love of God and of all humankind cannot confine their expressions of love just to family, friends, acquaintance, ethnic groups, or those who hold their own beliefs…Peacemakers step over all these narrow bounds in order to do good to everyone. They strive in some way or other to express love to neighbors, strangers, friends and enemies” (Kinghorn, John Wesley on the Sermon on the Mount, pg. 88; original text qtd. in deVega 31). Peacemakers do good to all, as any opportunity arises, in the hopes of pointing some toward a life of shalom.

One my favorite stories from this time of year has been retold in magazine articles and books and even in song, so you may have heard it before. But it centers around a Christmas carol I can’t imagine going through this season without. We sing it every year at Candlelight services. However, in this particular story, this carol was sung in an unlikely place. It was in the midst of World War I, 1914, on the battlefields of Northern France. British troops were lined up in trenches against the Germans, and by Christmas Eve, they had been fighting for five months. A million lives had already been taken, and there was no end to the war in sight. Nineteen-year-old Charles Brewer, a British lieutenant, stood shivering in the cold with his fellow soldiers when suddenly a sentry spotted something. There, across the battlefield, about a hundred yards away, the Germans had put up a sparkling Christmas tree. And then Brewer heard the sound of singing. He couldn’t recognize the words, but he knew the tune. “Stille Nacht,” better known to those British soldiers (and to us) as “Silent Night.” When the Germans finished singing, the Brits erupted with applause, then sang out the English version of the song. Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.

The next morning, Christmas morning, in the light of the traditional Christmas truce, soldiers emerged from the trenches on both sides all along the five-hundred mile Western Front. They came without weapons; instead, they carried small gifts and wished each other a Merry Christmas. There are stories of soccer games breaking out in various places along the front. British Corporal John Ferguson said, “We shook hands, wished each other a Merry Christmas and were soon conversing as if we had known each other for years…Here we were laughing and chatting to men whom only a few hours before we were trying to kill.” Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright indeed (deVega 49-51). Such acts of kindness did not end the war, but it brought a dose of humanity to an insane and inhumane situation.

This one born on that so-called silent night, this one who said peacemaking makes us children of God, used his last night to give his disciples one last gift (cf. deVega 34). Do you remember what it was? On that long, final walk Jesus took with his disciples, Jesus said words that I often use during funerals, but he had a much broader meaning in mind: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid” (John 14:27). We know what kind of “peace” the world gives; the disciples knew. It was that “Peace of Rome,” enforced by violence. It was the “peace” where you never knew when the soldiers might come and take you away. It was the “peace” paid for in blood and taxes. The world would give them and us fake peace. Jesus came to give us more. Behind his promise is not just an absence of conflict or quiet at the Christmas dinner table. Jesus came to bring an everlasting peace. Jesus came to bring shalom, wholeness, healing, and freedom from fear. That peace comes as we allow him to live in our lives, to guide our lives, to not only be our savior but also our Lord. Jesus comes to save us from hell, death and the grave but he wants to do more than that. He wants to give us life abundant (cf. John 10:10): more hope, more joy, more love and more peace than we could have possibly imagined. That only comes when we allow him into our lives.

I’m going to be very honest: this Advent has been one of the most difficult emotionally and spiritually that I can remember. We began Advent with the death of Cathy’s mother, and then a week or so later, an Aunt of mine died. Shortly after that, we had a week around here where several folks had difficult and tragic circumstances, and that was complicated in our lives by the death of the husband of one of my former youth group members. He was in his thirties and died of lymphoma less than six months after he was diagnosed. He leaves behind a 32-year-old wife and a young son. I can’t make sense of that, and then there was Annie Swan’s death shortly after that, along with another funeral I did during that time. And I remember telling Cathy at one point during Advent that I’m really tired of death. I’m over December 2019. But, friends, this I know: the only way to get through all of this is by walking in the presence of Jesus. He gives us the peace we have needed to walk through these dark and difficult days. His presence is the source of peace, just as he promised. Imagine that—he was right! We have walked through this season not just because we have to but because we know beyond the shadow of a doubt that the worst thing is never the last thing. I have peace because I know in the end, Jesus conquers all. Death will not win because Jesus has already won—and living into that truth, you too can experience shalom.

No wonder he is called the Prince of Peace! Peace is one of the gifts of Christmas that will not break or wear out, and Jesus longs to give you his peace this Christmas. Let’s pray.