In the Presence of My Enemies

Do you believe peace is possible?

I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. Maybe you’ve seen enough conquest and exploitation and retribution; maybe you’ve seen enough ethnic and religious and political repression; maybe you’ve seen enough careless war to persuade you that bloodshed is the permanent state of human affairs.

The psalmist certainly assumes conflict is our default setting. “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies,” we hear in Psalm 23, “you anoint my head with oil, and my cup is running over.” The psalmist trusts God to provide faithfully despite the threat of violence. But in light of the whole gospel, perhaps this verse takes on a new meaning. What if the table God spreads does not defy the enemy, but includes him? What if God intends to fill all our cups to overflowing, and thereby bring a halt to our hostilities?

Consider, for instance, the message of Ephesians chapter 2: “Now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.” The original context of this passage is the division between Jewish and Gentile members of the ancient church. But if scripture is living and active, then this pronouncement may apply to every rift in human community, past and present: Christ is our peace.

Notice that the author of Ephesians does not heap responsibility for peacemaking onto the followers of Jesus; he doesn’t say, Jesus was nonviolent, so we should be, too. Instead, the claim is that Christ is already the locus of God’s peacemaking activity in the world; Christ has already broken down our dividing walls, and continues to erode the barriers we erect in order to preserve our shared humanity. Christ is our peace.

The question is, do we believe it? Where we see anything resembling peace in our world, it’s likely a truce or ceasefire– temporary, tenuous, not likely to improve the conditions that led to violence in the first place. “Piecemeal peace”– that’s what interpreter Janet Schlichting calls it. She writes, “So often we use the word ‘peace’ to mean lack of visible conflict, where hatred or mistrust simmers beneath the surface.”[1] Ironically, piecemeal peace is often achieved through separation; only when we remove ourselves from one another do we feel a sense of security. So instead of giving ourselves over to the peace of Christ, we rely on border walls and prison fences and gated communities.

Yet, for as cynical as we might be about the possibility of peace in the world as we know it, the promise today is that God is laboring to that end. “You prepare a table before in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil, and my cup is running over.” That is to say, God’s compassion, God’s provision, God’s love flow forth from the scarred and living Christ, drawing us into relationship with God and one another despite our differences. And that promise enables us to continue waging peace in a war-torn world– to stubbornly, even foolishly, practice the shalom of God in the face of seemingly impossible odds.[2]

Christ is our peace, friends, and not the piecemeal peace that we’ve come to expect. As Janet Schlichting explains:

God’s peace is of a different sort. It is that peace which Paul says surpasses all understanding. It is a strange peace, a disruptive peace, a peace that often demands suffering, [nonviolent] conflict, the pouring-out of self, all in the likeness of Jesus, who won our peace by his blood, who gave himself on a cross, uniting us “who were far off,” who was killed for our hostility, who was broken for our wholeness.[3]

I’m sure you’ve noticed the candle and orange parament that usually sit off to the side in the chancel. The parament was designed and crafted by Leigh Ann Mahaffie in memory of untold Indigenous children who lost their lives or their ties to family and community as a result of forced displacement to residential schools across North America. The candle has come to signify our enduring lament at widespread violence in the United States and abroad. Both are front and center today as an emblem of our prayer for peace throughout the world.

As we begin singing the Song of the Day in a few moments, or at another point in the service, you are invited to come forward and light a votive as a sign of your own prayer. It isn’t nearly enough, that is certain, and you are within your rights to wonder if and when true peace will come to Earth. But for now, let your little light shine as a kind of vision, “till [divine] love’s revealing light in [all] its height and depth and greatness dawns upon our quickened sight….”[4]

[1] Sundays and Seasons Day Resources.

[2] See George W. Stroup, in Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 3, 258.

[3] Sundays and Seasons Day Resources.

[4] Albert F. Bayly, “Lord, Whose Love in Humble Service,” Evangelical Lutheran Worship #712.