“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”
– Jesus, speaking to his disciples just before his crucifixion (John 14:27)
Peace seems to be in such scant supply these days – globally, nationally, in our city, our neighbourhood, in my own life – that I’m not sure I’d recognize her if she cradled me in her arms.
Recently I had to tell a friend of mine that his third assault meant we would have to deny him entry to Sanctuary drop-ins until we could be reasonably sure it wouldn’t happen again.
“The other guy hit me first,” he said – a typical reply that may well be true. What he didn’t say was that his attack was prompted by the kind of nasty relationship compost that piles up when you mix homelessness and addiction over a long time. Yesterday, I saw him with a young woman. She had delivered her fifth child a few days earlier and was now back out on the street. Homeless.
This afternoon, another friend stopped by for a visit – quick and unannounced, because the police are hunting him. He lasted four hours after his release from penitentiary before skipping parole. He was doing so well when he was inside… He’s been drunk and sleeping rough ever since, but the thought of enduring the soul-deadening round of police cells and courtrooms means he’s not ready to turn himself in.
So I wonder, where is that peace Jesus was supposed to leave behind?
And it’s not just “my people” who are asking the question. A friend, a successful businessman, described the hurdle he faces every morning: on the elevator to his office, he prepares for the moment when he will step off with the eyes of the company on him. Regardless of what’s going on inside, his surface has to be calm, authoritative, impenetrable.
Is that peace? My friend would say, I think, that the necessity of projecting the appearance of peace actually robs him of it.
When the Sanctuary staff meets, we start by “checking in” – simply asking everyone, “How are you?” We, too, are intent on following this Jesus who offers peace; most have made sacrifices for the privilege of doing so and are convinced they are exactly where they should be. But our check-ins often sound like reports from an emotional MASH unit. Is this because our staff is very fragile or because we are working in extreme circumstances? I don’t think so. The only unusual thing is that we have permission to tell it like it really is.
My friend “Albert,” in his mid-fifties, has a luxurious mustache, quiet brown eyes, and a CBC classical music announcer’s voice and vocabulary. He’s homeless, too, and lives in a world taut with danger, surrounded by people afflicted with addictions, mental illness, lengthy criminal records. Consequently, he’s learned to make himself invisible. I’ve seen him standing on a cold winter day in a city park, bags at his feet, head down, utterly motionless for an hour at a time. As if somebody had switched him off. He has learned stillness, but I wonder – is that peace?
I’ve learned some of that stillness, too – moments when I can shut the door on the world. I pray, and meditate on the Bible. I go sailing in warm weather: that moment when the land drops away and there is only water and sky ahead is bliss. I try, with limited success, to be still and listen for the quiet voice of God.
These moments are needed, but I don’t think stillness, the mere cessation of conflict, is what Jesus meant by peace. “I do not give to you as the world gives,” he said. Maybe he meant, “I’m not talking about brief moments when you can escape the bullets and bruisings, the accusations, tensions and threats that whirl around you like a prairie wind.” Maybe he meant, “The peace I leave with you is not the absence of conflict, but the presence of shalom.”
The Greek word used to record Jesus’ words is closest in meaning to that ancient Hebrew term. Shalom is often translated peace, but has rich shades of meaning: health, wholeness, prosperity, justice; a return from fractured isolation to vibrant oneness. Shalom is not just personal, but also societal and even cosmological.
Shalom is what God intended by sending Jesus. Not only do I have the confidence that forgiveness, healing and redemption are possible for me personally, but justice – in the very broadest, most constructive sense – is fulfilled in that incredible gift. Even when my heart is troubled and my head is afraid of what’s coming next, this kind of peace grounds me and gives me hope.
I’m leaving my shalom with you, Jesus says. It’s yours to apply – justice for those who are oppressed; health and wholeness for those who are sick in body, mind or soul; prosperity for those who are poor. Take it; make it work. Announce this peace and grow it in others. Step out from behind the facades you have created to disguise your anxieties and into joyous, fecund unity with me and my amazing, beautiful, broken, creative, resilient, beloved people.
The Catalyst, autumn 2007, Volume 30 / Number 4
