A Pentecost sermon

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” (John 14:27)

“I do not give to you as the world gives.” This peace, passing understanding, is no temporary ceasefire, no uneasy truce in the shadow of a troubled world. It is the unconditional surrender to Love, the unending mercy of God that endures forever.

How else can we understand Jesus telling his disciples, telling us, “Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid,” when we know what is coming next in the story: the scene in the Garden at night, with torches and weapons; the trumped-up trial; the Cross; wars and rumours of wars.

How else do we make sense of fire falling from the sky upon the people gathered in Jerusalem, of all places, as good news, as the gift of the Holy Spirit?

When Jesus says, “My peace I give to you,” the peace that he will give to his disciples is not the whitewash that paints over problems, nor the paste that papers over cracks. It is not the bliss of ignorance but the grip of truth. It is peace that passes understanding, that finds the restless Spirit of God even in the most troubled times and places, and seizes upon her tailfeathers in order to find the direction in which she is moving, because we cannot lead ourselves, because we cannot find our own way to peace.

When he says, “My peace I give to you,” Jesus is not describing a passive peace. It is the peace not of the grave, where Jesus himself was restless, but of living waters, rolling down like justice, roaring like a vision, aflame with mercy. It is the profound and urgent love that fanned the waters of creation and produced life.

It is a peace that tells the truth. It is a Spirit that tells the truth in the face of sneering and astonishment and disbelief that anyone could dream of something so naïve as the kingdom of God, as the reign of Love, an economy of mercy. It is not a peace that papers over the cracks but that points out the chasms between us, and that points the way to reconciliation. Jesus is promising this Spirit of truth, this Spirit of profound and uncompromising peace right before he is crucified, right before his sacrifice, right before his ultimate and infinite demonstration of God’s love for the world.

The world could not at first see the truth. It thought that it had defeated God, Christ on the Cross. But just as in the days of Babel, the world was deceiving itself.

Just so now, whenever the world considers that it can play God with the lives of those made in the image of God, created and breathed into life by the living God, in whom the Spirit flickers and flares and dreams; well, then the world is deceiving itself.

Where does that leave us, church? We are in the world, not of the world entirely, but certainly with a foot in each camp. We know the burning of the Spirit within us, we know the truth of the peace that comes from forgiveness, from mercy, from letting God be God, and following in Christ’s image. Yet we understand the sneering of the crowd, who consider the disciples to be either drunk or possessed (they were possessed, but by a holier Spirit than the sneerers imagined). We can choose to go quietly back into the house and close the doors, or to proclaim peaceably and persistently the hope that is in us, that comes from Christ and from the Spirit.

There are so many places in the world that are in dire need of a dream, of a vision, of peace; places full already of blood and smoke and fire; places where truth has crumpled with the bombed-out buildings and the collapse of the towers and their children. And how will we preach peace to them?

Jesus said, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

Do not be afraid to be naïve enough to believe that love is stronger than death, stronger than the Cross, stronger than the armies of the world and its powers and principalities. Do not be afraid to be persistent enough to insist that the vision of God has more merit than the ambitions of the princes of men.

We live in the midst of a world crying out for good news. We are in it; we feel its pain, anxiety, its anger. But we are not entirely of it, because we have seen another way.

Yesterday, in Cleveland, I marched with a few thousand people wearing rainbow colours (which is, interestingly enough, the colour of the glory of God, biblically speaking (Ezekiel 1:28)). I marched with dozens, scores of Episcopalians, all proclaiming in one way or another, through their banners and t-shirts and smiles and prayers and presence, that the love of God is for everyone, no exceptions. And I witnessed certain people on the sides of the street brought to wet tears by the affirmation that God loves you. I saw our bishop (wearing her “This Bishop loves you” t-shirt) hugging them, comforting them: God loves you, and if God loves you, we commit to loving you, too.

Do not let your hearts be troubled, therefore, and do not be afraid to stand in the Spirit of truth, in the Spirit of love, to change the world. For there is far too much of trouble in the world, and too much to fear; but the Spirit is still on the move among us, the Spirit of truth, the Spirit ofPeace, the Spirit of Love, which is the Spirit of God; and we fly by the grip and grace of her tailfeathers. 

This Sunday’s Pentecost readings include Genesis 11:1-9, Acts 2:1-21, John 14:8-17, (25-27), Psalm 104:25-35, 37