⚓ Peace That Passes Understanding

It's evening on that first Easter Sunday. The disciples are huddled together behind locked doors. Fear has them in its grip. The authorities who executed Jesus might come for them next. Their world has collapsed. Death, it seems, still has the final word despite the strange rumors some of the women have shared.

And then – Jesus is there, standing among them. No unlocking of doors. No dramatic entrance. Simply present. And his first words? "Peace be with you."

Not "Why did you abandon me?" Not "I told you so." Not even "Don't be afraid." But "Peace be with you."

This peace Jesus offers isn't merely an absence of conflict. The Greek word here, *eirene*, carries the full weight of the Hebrew *shalom* – wholeness, flourishing, right relationship. This is peace that passes understanding, peace the world cannot give.

Notice where this peace emerges. Not in a palace. Not in a position of dominance. But in a locked room among the fearful and the broken. This pattern of divine presence in lowly places should be familiar to us by now. The God who chose a feeding trough over a palace for his birth now appears not to the powerful but to the frightened. Not to those who have it all together, but to those falling apart.

And after offering peace, what does Jesus do? He shows them his wounds. The marks of violence remain even in his resurrected body. This is crucial. Resurrection doesn't erase the wounds; it transforms them into something new. The scars remain, but they no longer have the power to destroy. They've become signs of love's triumph over death.

Thomas, who wasn't present for this first appearance, gives voice to what many of us feel: "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." Thomas isn't demanding proof so much as relationship. He wants the same encounter the others had. He wants to know this isn't just wishful thinking.

And Jesus meets Thomas exactly where he is. "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side." Jesus doesn't scold Thomas for doubting. He offers himself – wounds and all – to Thomas's touch.

This is eucharistic. Jesus gives his body to be touched, to be known. Just as at this table, he will give himself to be tasted, to become part of us. The God who refuses to abandon us becomes accessible in the most intimate ways – through touch, through taste, through communion.

And when does Jesus appear again? When the doors are still locked. When fear remains. Perfect faith isn't required for Christ's presence. He comes to us not because we have conquered our fears, but because he is faithful even when we are faithless.

So what does this mean for us, gathered around this table today?

First, it means peace begins where we are, not where we think we should be. Jesus didn't wait for the disciples to get their act together before offering peace. He came to them in their fear, their failure, their locked rooms.

Second, it means our wounds need not disqualify us from resurrection life. Jesus's scars became not badges of shame but signs of love. Our failures, our pain, our mistakes – all can be taken up into his healing work.

Finally, it means we become messengers of this same peace. "As the Father has sent me, so I send you," Jesus says. We are sent not with dominating power but with the power of servant-love. Not to force others into submission but to offer them the same peace we have received.

As we take the bread and wine today, we participate in the risen Christ's life among us. We touch his wounds. We offer our own. We receive his peace and become carriers of that peace into a wounded and wounding world.

Peace be with you. Receive the gift. Become the gift for others. Amen.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​