The cost of peace...

Each week, we begin our service with our collect—that is a prayer—that encompasses the themes of the time of the church year we are in, the readings we hear, the call with which we may leave church this day and travel with out into the world. The Book of Common Prayer are the typical ones I use, but sometimes, I chose ones from other sources that align with our lectionary. This is a week that I chose one from Prayers for and Inclusive Church, an Anglican resource that offers its own collects for each Sunday in the church year. I want to read it again, as I find that it encompasses our complicated scripture so well, and offers us a framing that might help us move through the things we receive this week.

Crossbound God, nothing protects you from open sky and beckoning grave: teach us to leavebehind the fear that kills what is different, our love for what is dead and safe; may we set our face like you to find our true home, our unexpected city of peace, your fearless life; through Jesus Christ who will not turn back.

Crossbound God. We hear at the opening of this scripture that Jesus has set his face to go to Jerusalem. This is a turning point for Jesus’ ministry. He is headed towards Jerusalem, where he knows he will be persecuted, he knows this journey will lead to his crucifixion. But, in imagery that is tied to Elijah and Moses, clearly prophetic in nature, his determination is clear, his face is set to journey towards Jerusalem, our crossbound savior.

Now, for sake of clarity, I’m going to jump us ahead one phrase in the prayer. The next petition or ask in the prayer is “teach us to leave behind the fear that kills what is different”

Now as Jesus is setting his face towards Jerusalem, he and his followers must travel from Galilee through Samaritan land towards Jerusalem. They could take a long detour, avoiding the Samaritans with whom, as we may remember, they did not get along. But they don’t. Jesus sends a few messengers ahead of him, to see if they could stay, to make ready the preparations. But, we hear, the Samaritans do not receive them. They don’t want Jesus, and his followers to stay there, they are not welcome. There is nothing new in this rejection. Jews and Samaritans had been at odds for centuries—different interpretations of Scripture, different holy sites, different histories of exile and return. The air between them was thick with old wounds.

Two of the disciples, James and John, are furious at this answer from the Samaritans. In language that echoes Elijah’s response to those he saw as the enemies of Israel, the ask Jesus if they want him to command fire down from heaven to consume them…These follower of Jesus, who have been walking with him, eating with him, learning from him, offer up this somewhat horrible suggestion of extreme vengeance for those who do not welcome Jesus openly. And Jesus rebukes them.

Now there are a few times in Scripture that Jesus rebukes his disciples that seem out of the blue, or perhaps an overly frustrated response to a disciple’s less than brilliant wondering. But this rebuke feels warranted. As one commentary states: “James and John are understandably disturbed, but their violent solution shows that they have not understood or have forgotten Jesus’s previous teaching to simply shake the dust from their feet if any town would not welcome them and to love their enemies.” To command fire to come down and consume them, as James and John have asked would be against everything Jesus has begun to teach them. To essentially kill the Samaritans for their different beliefs about Jesus, to bomb their way to a place to stay for the night, rain fire down for a place to rest for an evening or a few days, is against all that Jesus has taught them. This journey to Jerusalem is a call to peace, a call to leave behind the fear that would use violence to find this peace.

Our Gospel reading and our collect now continue with two individuals who volunteer to follow Jesus, and one who receives an invitation to follow.

To the first volunteer, Jesus responds with the reality that the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head. The work of being Jesus and following Jesus is not easy work. It is not safe, secure, comfy, cozy, work. As much as we might try, we cannot fully soften this truth. As we hear in the collect, nothing protects from open sky and beckoning grave. To follow Jesus is to follow someone who left behind comfort and status and certainty. Someone who was always on the move, always reaching toward the marginalized, always seeking to break down walls.

The next individual when asked to follow, responds first with, let me first go bury my father. This is an understandable ask, a holy request, even. And yet, the response from Jesus likely causes us discomfort. He says, Let the dead bury their own dead. The third individual offers to follow but asks first to say farewell to those at home. Jesus responds with farming imagery, that no one pushing a plow can look back if they hope to be fit for the kingdom of God.

I want us to understand that these responses from Jesus are not because he lacks compassion—we see him many times care for people who are dead or near death, he is rarely one to cheat a laborer. But in this moment, Jesus is speaking with urgency, and perhaps with some metaphor. He is encouraging us to move towards what he knows will eventually be resurrection, to trust him enough to leave ways of life, ways of being, that are dead behind. He is encouraging his disciples to also turn their face towards Jerusalem, towards what is coming, toward faith in what can be and what will be.

Jesus is not rejecting love for family or grieving the dead. He is naming the all-consuming call of discipleship. A call that asks for our whole hearts. A call that may cost us relationships, comfort, and the approval of those we love. He wants his followers to understand that the kingdom of God—a new way, a way of peace and love and discipleship— is not a future idea, but is breaking in now.  We are being invited to it now. We could put it off, and many of us likely have, likely are, and likely will in the future, but he encourages us not to.

The end of our collect calls us to this: may we set our face like you to find our true home, our unexpected city of peace…This passage, difficult as it is, offers us a glimpse into the real cost of peace.

We often speak of peace as the absence of violence. But Jesus shows us that peace is active. It requires choosing not to retaliate when we are rejected. It demands letting go of comforts and obligations when the Spirit calls us forward. It means holding fast to the ways of mercy even when anger feels more satisfying.

Peace is not passivity. It is not politeness. It is the fierce decision, again and again, to love when we are hurt. To remain tender in a world that rewards hard-heartedness. To build communities rooted not in sameness, but in the relentless grace of God.

As Jesus turns toward Jerusalem, he invites us to turn too. Toward the place of betrayal and crucifixion. But also toward the place of resurrection. He walked the road knowing that love would cost him everything. And still, he chose it.

And he invites us to choose it too.

To set our face toward the places in our lives where fear tempts us to shut down. To set our face toward the people who wound us—and to learn to love them anyway. To set our face toward the hard conversations, the uncomfortable reckonings, the bold and risky peacemaking that discipleship demands.

Crossbound God, nothing protects you from open sky and beckoning grave: teach us to leavebehind the fear that kills what is different, our love for what is dead and safe; may we set our face like you to find our true home, our unexpected city of peace, your fearless life; through Jesus Christ who will not turn back. Amen.