Peace - December 8th, 2024

Malachi 3:1-4 (CEB)

Look, I am sending my messenger who will clear the path before me;

suddenly the Lord whom you are seeking will come to his temple.

The messenger of the covenant in whom you take delight is coming, says the Lord of heavenly forces.

Who can endure the day of his coming? Who can withstand his appearance?

He is like the refiner’s fire or the cleaner’s soap.

He will sit as a refiner and a purifier of silver.

He will purify the Levites and refine them like gold and silver.

They will belong to the Lord, presenting a righteous offering.

The offering of Judah and Jerusalem will be pleasing to the Lord

as in ancient days and in former years.

Luke 3:1-6 (CEB)

In the fifteenth year of the rule of the emperor Tiberius—when Pontius Pilate was governor over Judea and Herod was ruler over Galilee, his brother Philip was ruler over Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias was ruler over Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas—God’s word came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.

John went throughout the region of the Jordan River, calling for people to be baptized to show that they were changing their hearts and lives and wanted God to forgive their sins. This is just as it was written in the scroll of the words of Isaiah the prophet:

A voice crying out in the wilderness:

“Prepare the way for the Lord; make his paths straight.

Every valley will be filled, and every mountain and hill will be leveled.

The crooked will be made straight, and the rough places made smooth.

All humanity will see God’s salvation.”

Narrative

It was dark. No streetlights. No sidewalks. Just the glow of headlights as people parked along the side of the street. Quietly, they got out of their cars — one, then two, then twenty, until about forty-five people gathered, holding bundles of purple tulips and one large wooden cross.

They walked together, slowly, to the site of an unspeakable tragedy — the home where a mother had taken the lives of her children and herself. The house loomed in the shadows. The air felt heavier there. The ground itself seemed burdened. It was hard to breathe.

And then came the dogs.

You couldn’t see them, but you could hear them. Snarling, barking, straining against chain-link fences. Their barking wasn’t steady; it was frantic, like something wild had been disturbed. The people held their tulips a little tighter, glanced at each other nervously, and kept walking.

When they reached the spot where blood had been spilled and hope had been lost, they formed a loose circle. Alex, one of the parishioners, lifted up the large cross, arms straining to keep it steady. The people held their tulips. They prayed. They sang. Their voices trembled as they sang, “Holy God, holy and mighty, holy and immortal, have mercy upon us.”

One by one, they placed tulips on the ground. One by one, they named the suffering. One by one, they honored the lives lost.

And then something strange happened.

The dogs stopped barking.

As if the dogs, too, were exhausted by the sorrow. As if their howls were a kind of prayer, and the people had come to finish what the dogs had started. It was quiet. It was still. It was holy.

When the prayers ended, they walked away. No speeches. No applause. They left behind the cross and the tulips.

It wasn’t until a week later that they learned that people in the neighborhood had been watching. Someone called to say, “We saw you. We saw what you did. And it meant something.”

And that’s when they realized: “It was so dark. We had no idea anyone was watching.”*

[*The focal narrative of the sermon is a story from Rev. Nadia Bolz-Weber’s book Accidental Saints Chapter 14: The Dogs of Good Friday]

Connection to Scripture: Malachi 3:1-4 and Luke 3:1-6

That story from Denver calls to mind the words of Malachi 3:1-4 and Luke 3:1-6. Both passages talk about the unseen, hard work of preparation. Both call us to trust that something holy is happening, even when we can’t see it.

Malachi 3:1-4 says, “See, I am sending my messenger to prepare the way before me.” But notice how this preparation happens. It’s not gentle. It’s not calm. It’s not even visible. It’s a refiner’s fire and fuller’s soap. Refining silver involves heat so intense that impurities are burned away. Fuller’s soap isn’t for gentle hand-washing — it’s for scouring fabric clean. Both images involve hidden transformation. You don’t see the change while it’s happening, but afterward, the difference is clear.

Then, in Luke 3:1-6, we hear John the Baptist calling people to “prepare the way of the Lord.” But he’s not in the city where people can see him. He’s in the wilderness. He’s calling for valleys to be lifted, mountains to be made low, and rough places to be smoothed. It’s construction work. It’s loud, messy, and ongoing. It’s also unseen by the people it benefits. The valley doesn’t know it’s being lifted. The mountain doesn’t know it’s being leveled. But God is at work.

Both passages remind us that sometimes, the most powerful work of peace happens in places where no one sees it. It happens in the wilderness, in the fire, in the darkness.

Expansion

When the people of House for All Sinners and Saints walked through that Denver neighborhood carrying a cross, they bore witness to one form of violence — the kind of violence that makes headlines, the kind that leaves blood on the ground.

But that’s not the only kind of violence.

There are other forms of violence that don’t make the news. The kind that doesn’t leave blood on the ground but leaves it in hospital rooms and hospice beds. The kind that comes with contracts, policies, and bottom lines. The kind that tells a person, ‘Your life isn’t worth saving unless you can afford it.’

It’s quieter, but it’s often far deadlier, because it looks acceptable.

And here’s where it gets uncomfortable.

We live in a world that teaches us to be self-righteous about violence. We’re really good at pointing to the violence of the gunman, the shooter, the person who “snaps.” We know how to condemn that violence.

But we’re not as quick to condemn the other kind. We’re not as quick to call it violence when a child dies because their parents couldn’t afford their medication. We’re not as quick to call it violence when people ration insulin until it kills them. We’re not as quick to call it violence when a CEO makes decisions that maximize profit at the cost of human lives.

When people say “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people” I am always quick to say “Yes, but the gun helped.” Yet, it’s important to remember that violence rarely *starts* with the gun. When we say violence begets violence, we often mean the violent act of this moment will lead to future violence. We rarely ask what previous act of violence led to this one. Perhaps because we don’t see it as violent, when it is cloaked in legality.

But it is. It is violence. It is always violence. 

It’s just harder to see because it hides behind respectability. It hides behind financial reports, corporate strategies, and public statements that say, ‘We’re just following the policy.’ It hides behind the myth that if something is legal, it must be moral.

But here’s the truth: Legality has never been a good measure of morality.

The world says, 'This kind of violence is justified, but this kind is evil.' But that’s not the way of Jesus. Jesus doesn’t let us divide violence into "good" and "bad." Jesus doesn’t let us believe that the only real violence happens in dark alleys or on street corners. He calls it all out.

Jesus said, “You have heard it said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:43-44). He doesn’t say it’s easy. He doesn’t say it’s fair. But he does say it’s necessary. Because the kingdom of God doesn’t have room for the violence of guns or greed. It doesn’t have room for vengeance or indifference. It only has room for shalom — wholeness for everyone.

So, what do we do with all of this?

I think we start by being honest. Honest about the way we like to feel righteous when we’re "against violence" — but only certain kinds of it. Honest about the systems we participate in that tell us some lives are worth saving and some aren’t. But that’s not the gospel.

The gospel is this: No life is expendable. Not the poor. Not the powerful. Not the person on the corner. Not the CEO in a penthouse.

The world will tell you that some people deserve to die. But Jesus says, 'I have come that they may have life, and have it abundantly' (John 10:10). And that’s for everyone. The righteous and the unrighteous. The just and the unjust. The innocent and the guilty.

If that sounds unfair, it’s because it is.

But shalom isn’t fair. It’s just.

And justice doesn’t rank people by worthiness. It sees all of them as worthy.

We’re called to walk in that kind of shalom. To walk into places of suffering and leave behind tulips. To refuse to justify any kind of violence — not the violence of bullets, not the violence of policies, and not the violence of indifference. Because in God’s world, no violence is acceptable. None of it.

So, I’m asking you to do something hard this week. I’m asking you to sit with that. Sit with the part of you that feels righteous because you know you’re "against violence." Sit with it, and ask God to show you the quieter forms of violence you might be overlooking. Sit with the part of you that trusts the legality of something as proof of its morality, and ask God to break it down.

And then, when you’re done sitting, get up and walk. Walk into the world and practice shalom. Even in the places where it’s hard. Even when the dogs are barking. Even when you think no one’s watching. Because someone is.

Conclusion

Let’s go back to that Good Friday walk. They didn’t know people were watching. They thought the only witnesses were the dogs. But a week later, they learned that the whole neighborhood had seen them. And somehow, that small act of faithfulness — the cross, the tulips, the singing — had brought healing.

This is how God works. God works in the wilderness. God works in the fire. God works in the darkness. And God works in you, even when you can’t see it.

You might be carrying a cross right now. You might feel like no one sees you. But here’s the truth: it was so dark, but someone is watching. Someone sees you carrying that cross. Someone sees you showing up when you don’t have to. Someone sees you placing tulips on the ground of a broken world.

And even if no one else sees you, God sees you. And in the end, that’s enough.

So keep walking. Keep singing. Keep carrying the cross. Someone is watching. And you are not alone.